illustration: muckross bay, killybegs, donegal] ulster described by stephen gwynn pictured by alexander williams [illustration] blackie and son limited london glasgow and bombay 1911 beautiful ireland leinster ulster munster connaught _uniform with this series_ beautiful england oxford the english lakes canterbury shakespeare-land the thames windsor castle cambridge norwich and the broads the heart of wessex the peak district the cornish riviera dickens-land winchester the isle of wight chester and the dee york table of contents page at the gap of the north 5 "the black north" 13 the maiden city 28 tirconnell 37 list of illustrations page muckross bay, killybegs, donegal _frontispiece_ narrow water castle, carlingford lough 8 cave hill, belfast 14 carrickfergus castle, belfast lough 20 the giants' causeway 26 fair head, co. antrim 32 londonderry from the waterside 36 tory island from falcarragh hill, donegal 42 muckish and ards from rosapenna, sheephaven, donegal 46 mount errigal from the gweedore river, donegal 50 glenveagh, donegal 54 the entrance to mulroy bay, donegal 58 [illustration: ulster] at the gap of the north ulster is a province much talked of and little understood--a name about which controversy rages. but to those who know it and who love it, one thing is clear--ulster is no less ireland than connaught itself. no better song has been written in our days than that which tells of an irishman's longing in london to be back "where the mountains of mourne sweep down to the sea"; nor indeed is the whole frame of mind which that song dramatises, with so pleasant a blending of humour and pathos, better expressed in any single way than in the phrase "thinking long"--an idiom common to all ulster talk, whether in down or donegal. and when i who write these lines "think long" for ireland, it is to ulster that my thought goes back, back to the homely ways and the quaint speech of northern folk, hard yet kindly, with the genial welcome readier even in their rough accent than in smoothest munster: for these things there rises in my mind the vague aching, half-remembrance, half-desire, which we call "thinking long". it is a far cry from belfast, with its clang of riveters, to the vast loneliness of slieve league or dunlewy; and yet the great captain of industry, nurtured and proven in the keenest commerce, has upon his tongue, in his features, in the whole cast of his nature, these very traits which endear themselves to me in some irish-speaking schoolmaster of western donegal. soil, climate, and common memories--these are what identify and what bind. no man gets his living too easily in ulster, and need makes neighbourly. protestant and catholic have to fight the same battle with hard weather--of which perhaps even the summer traveller may form some judgment; they are rewarded by the same loveliness which makes a fine day in ulster the most enchanting upon earth; and they fend against the stress of storm by the same warm shelter, the same glow of the turf-piled hearth. the ulster of which i shall write in these few pages is the ulster of four sea-bordering counties only, donegal, derry, antrim, and down, since beyond doubt these exceed the other five in attractions. only let a word be said of two great lakes. lough erne, which belongs mainly to fermanagh, though bordering donegal in part, is to its champions the cinderella of irish waters, and some day it will come into its inheritance of fame. lough neagh, with its eighty miles of shore, divided among five counties, has never been seen by me but in tranquil loveliness, one vast sheet of shimmering blue; and whether at antrim, where many memories have their monuments, or at toomebridge, where the bann flows out majestically, has seemed well worth a day's journey--the more because its beauty is set among lands not fertile, yet prosperously tilled and inhabited by people, not rich indeed, yet safely removed from the stress of poverty. not far from it is armagh, a cathedral city, richer in associations than any in ireland. if i do not write of armagh, it is because the oldest of these associations has its monument also at the southern gate of ulster, where the division of the province is best marked. carlingford lough, according to modern geography, marks that division, but in truth the lough's southern shore, the rocky promontory of cooley, belongs to ulster by all titles, though it be included in the modern county of louth. a steamer will carry you from holyhead to greenore (where is a hotel with the inevitable golf links) and land you nominally in leinster. but all that mountainous headland is inhabited by folk who still keep the gaelic speech alive among them, and whose remote forbears owned in far distant times the overlordship of ireland's most famous champion, when ulster had a pagan chivalry, the red branch circle, which is to irish legend what the story of arthur's knighthood is to british romance, or the tale of the nibelungs to germany. cooley (in irish, _cuailgne_) was the fief of cuchulain; and the brown bull of cooley was the object of that great foray made by the rest of ireland upon ulster, which is related in the oldest and finest of all celtic hero tales. cuchulain's dwelling was outside cooley, outside ulster proper; his stronghold was dundealgan, the "thorn fort" which gives its name to dundalk. it was an outpost guarding that pass in the hills, the gap of the north, through which the railway, leaving the plains of leinster, winds into the mountainous and threatening regions of armagh and down. [illustration: narrow water castle, carlingford lough] all the story of cuchulain's hero-feats can be read in lady gregory's admirable version, _cuchulain of muirthemne_; but cuchulain's fort you can see for yourself. it stands close to the town of dundalk, visible from the railway, a flat-topped mount, surrounded by a trench some thirty feet deep, with a steep outer rampart surrounding this in its turn. the whole is now tree-covered. mr. tempest, an antiquary of dundalk, whose exertions have saved this monument from the spade and plough, thinks that he has identified, a couple of miles south of dundalk, the place where cuchulain died. cloghafarmore, the "big man's stone", at ratheddy is one of the "standing stones" found through ireland, as through other celtic countries, and tradition identifies it with the pillar to which cuchulain made his way from his last fight. for ninety days, he and his charioteer laeg, and his pair of horses, black sanglain and the grey of macha, had harassed and held back the host of ireland, destroying champion after champion, singly or by groups, in fights at each ford, and raining missiles upon the main body with marvellous sling-throwing; but at last, encompassed and at bay, he had got his death-wound with his own charmed spear, which passed through the bodies of nine men in its last flight from his hand. when, flung back at him by lugaidh, last survivor of the sons whose father cuchulain had slain, it had ripped his body open, the wounded warrior, holding his bowels together with one hand, staggered to this pillar stone, and bound himself to it by his scarf, so that even in death and defeat he might still stand upright. so he stood propped, while the grey of macha, loosed from its harness, defended him with teeth and hoof, letting none approach, till men saw that on the hero's shoulder a raven had lighted. "it is not on that pillar birds were used to settle", said one of his foemen. then the grey horse knew that life had ebbed away, and she left the body to its despoilers. but the man who struck off cuchulain's head, and took it with him, had his own head struck off by a comrade of the red branch before he reached the plains of liffey. such is the fierce temper of that old hero-cycle; but if its heroes are not to be outdone in fierceness neither are they in generosity. how much is legend, sheer invention, none can say: the great earthworks at armagh, cuchulain's fort at dundealgan, and a hundred other things testify to a truth behind the tale. and it is fairly well established that the race which had its centre at armagh was not the race which governed from tara: the red branch was pictish, tara was milesian. how distinct the racial types show where they have survived tolerably pure is hardly realized, save by some such chance as befell me, when, at an exhibition in limerick, i was summoned to look at a strange foreign folk from the north. they were girls from an irish-speaking district in donegal--not far from rosapenna--pretty girls, too, but among the big, buxom, oval-faced, soft-bodied southerners their short profiles, their high cheek bones, and hard, bright colour showed as strange as if they had been from another quarter of the world. all the subsequent stages in irish history meet you about the shores of carlingford--carline-fiord; its name tells of danish settlements. the old castle in carlingford town was erected by de courcy at king john's bidding; the monastery was norman built too, by richard de burgo, earl of ulster, but the norman rule in ulster was closely limited to a few strongholds on the coast. the narrow water castle, which mr. williams has drawn against its background of the steep richly wooded slopes which make the chief beauty of this beautiful lough, is on the site of a thirteenth-century fortress, but that was destroyed in the great war of 1641, and this building dates from charles ii's reign. at warrenpoint a tall obelisk records the name of ross of bladensburg, one of the many brilliant officers whom ireland gave to wellington's armies--with how many thousands of the unnamed peasants to fill the ranks that they led! all those wooded hills behind rostrevor, the little watering-place that nestles snug among them, looking south to the sun and the hills of cooley, speak of comfortable days and territorial dominion. behind those same wooded hills lies the southernmost point of industrial ulster, newry town, with its whirring looms. these are some of the stepping-stones to guide one through irish history; yet how many more might be added! where the road and rail strike north from dundalk, as they rise to that pass which is the famous gap, you reach faughart, scene of the battle where edward bruce ended his disastrous adventure of conquest in ireland. and on the plain below, william and schomberg had their camp and mustered their army before it set out to march upon the boyne. memories of war--pict and connachtman contending for cuchulain's head; the dane plundering and trading; the norman building his strongholds; the scot heading ireland's endeavour to shake off the norman yoke; that other convulsion in 1641, and then new castles built; the dutchman landing, and his triumphant march; and from the subdued ireland, thousands, tens of thousands, of soldiers, gentle and simple, issuing forth to uphold the english name. yes, but other memories are there too. some maintain that here patrick landed on his mission. but at all events at faughart, in the fifth century, brigid was born, the "mary of the gael", "mother of all the saints of ireland". her work was done in leinster, but surely her birthplace here on the threshold of ulster should not be overlooked. "the black north" i shall assume that from dundalk and its neighbouring beauty, that narrow lough winding among the hills, you go straight to belfast, with the glorious range of mourne mountains on your right hand to make the journey attractive. at "portadown upon the bann", where the pope has a bad name, you are not far from the focus of the industrial north--at all events of the great linen industry. from the train you will see fields white as snow with bleaching webs; and it is said that one cause of this trade's localization is a special suitability of climate, like that which makes lancashire head of the world for cotton-spinning. belgium can beat ireland in producing flax--can get 50 per cent more for the same weight of finished fibre--but in the spinning and weaving ulster is unapproachable. unhappily, as in all textile trades, the individual withers and the machine grows more and more: hand-loom damask weavers, who can still make a product marvellous for craftsmanship, find their occupation gone--the machine runs them too close. what the linen trade has been worth to ulster can never be counted. it was the one industry which england's jealousy spared, and even (after long refusal) grudgingly fostered, in those very decades when her manufacturers were urging parliament to stamp out and destroy the woollen trade. its existence preserved in this corner of the country that industrial habit which means not only an inherited skill but the transmitted aptitude for factory work, with its regular hours and mechanical routine, so unlike the conditions of labour on the land, in which all the rest of ireland has found--since 1800--its only resource. even agriculture has been helped by the proximity of towns where all, down to the labouring classes, have money to buy with. the district which centres about portadown is to-day foremost of all ireland for the culture of fruit and flowers, though neither climate nor soil specially favours it. one beauty that ulster has far more generally than any other province is the flower-bordered cottage. they grow orange lilies in fine profusion, but they grow other and less emblematic blossoms as well. [illustration: cave hill, belfast] belfast--when you reach it--is not calculated to charm the eye. it has the features of any english manufacturing town so far as its buildings are concerned, and the finest structures it can show (without disparaging its handsome town hall) are the vast fabrics which rise in the dockyards, such ships as have never been built in the world before--marvels of symmetry and strength. to see them in the building up is to watch, perhaps, the most impressive exhibition of human skill and energy. ireland, for all its defective development, can boast of heading the world in certain enterprises: guinness's brewery, harland and wolff's engineering works, and barbour's great net and rope factory at lisburn are, each in its kind, the biggest and best in europe, or out of it. once you get down to the water in belfast, beauty is abundant, and for my part i like best the view from the docks. but mr. williams has chosen a distant indication of the town under the bold headland, at whose foot it lies so well. this aspect of cave hill does not show its strange feature--the vast napoleonic profile flung up against an eastern sky. time was when belfast must have been curiously divided about that portent; for in the revolution period northern ireland was fiercely republican. it was on cave hill that wolfe tone, most formidable of all irish rebels, with a group of young ulster democrats, founded the society of united irishmen. belfast does not dwell much on these memories to-day, nor indeed on any memories; her interest is in the prosperous present, the growing future. and although it has its absurdities, notably in the claim to be more populous than dublin (a result achieved by omitting rathmines and pembroke, townships separately governed, but as much part of dublin as kensington and chelsea are of london), the strong pride of belfast is amply justified. it is not its proximity to scotch coalfields nor its moist climate (dear to spinners) which really makes its fortune, it is the hard-bitten, restless, courageous spirit of its people. like dublin, it has close access to places of great natural charm. just beyond cave hill, on the north shore of the lough, is carrickfergus castle, whose grim strength mr. williams has excellently suggested. it was built within six years of the norman invasion, by de courcy, first grantee of ulster; and here, as at carlingford, the invaders managed to retain their grip. the bruces wrested it, after a fierce siege, from de lacy, who then held it, robert bruce aiding his brother; but on edward brace's defeat it fell back to the english. in the ultimate conquest of ireland it marked a great moment, for here william of orange landed, and pious care has recorded the flagstone on which he first set his foot. at carrickfergus you are already well advanced on the prettiest road in all ireland--that which skirts the northern shore of belfast lough, then, crossing the neck of island magee peninsula, carries you past larne's inland water, and from larne follows the cliffy shoreline up to where fair head marks the northern limit of antrim's eastward-looking coast. then, cutting in behind the head, it emerges on the pleasant town of ballycastle, sheltered in its bay, and so follows the coast again past the castles of dunseverick and dunluce, famous ruins, and past the giant's causeway, that still more famous piece of an older and more majestic architecture. portrush ends your journey if you be a golfer; but dearer to me than the links at portrush are the sandhills beyond portstewart and the long strand at the entrance to lough foyle--ten miles of a stretch, but the bann's outflow divides it. no other beach that i have known is rich in such a variety of shells; on no other sandhills do the little delicate sandflowers, ladies'-slipper, thyme, ladies'-bedstraw, and the rest, grow so charmingly. now, in all that long coastline what to write about? first, perhaps, its geography. a line of high hills, or low mountains, runs north from belfast, and beyond larne they approach close to the sea. westward of them is prosperous industrial country, draining into lough neagh or the bann--a country of thriving towns, ballymena and ballymoney, with many factories. but east of this is the marginal land, running steeply down with short watercourses to the sea, and this is the country of the glens of antrim; lordship of the macdonnells, who were also lords of the isles. the sea here--_sruth na maoile_, the stream of the moyle, is a link rather than a barrier; you could row across with no great danger in a skin-covered boat; and at this point the gael of alba and the gael of eire have been always one race. the irish that i heard spoken by old men whom a feis of the glens had gathered together in glen ariff was few removes in sound and even in idiom from the highland speech; and all tradition, whether ossianic, in the stories of finn and his companions, or that older cycle of the red branch, brings the scotch islands and west coast into full touch with irish legend. it was to the isle of skye that cuchulain went for his training, to be taught by a woman warrior--whose name that island keeps as the coolin hills preserve his name; it was from the scottish shore that cuchulain's son by the daughter of this warrior-queen came over to contend with the red branch heroes, refusing his name in order--so the deserted witch designed it--that his father, the one man able to master him, might unknowingly slay his own son. i took down from the lips of an ulster peasant, not able to read or write, and perhaps with ten generations behind him of folk who never used the pen, the carefully guarded text of a poem framed not later (from its language) than the fifteenth century, which told the tragedy of that slaying. there is a touch in that ballad fine as any i know, when the dying lad says to his vanquisher: "cuchulain, beloved father, how is it you did not know me when i flung my spear so sluggishly against your bristling blade?" that was the only sign he could give. knowing himself, knowing his antagonist, yet sworn not to reveal the secret, he could only make a cast so half-hearted that surely cuchulain might pause to wonder whether it was indeed an enemy who threw the spear. these legends linking the coasts together suggest the charm of that eastern shore; not the magic of infinite distance, not the atlantic's illimitable blue, but a continual tempting of the eye with that shore beyond the sea, sometimes not visible at all, often faint, an exquisite mirage, yet sometimes so vivid and distinct that you can discern even the whitewashed cabins on the farther side. the mountains of the glens have no marvel of beauty. slemish, lying back from the rest, is best marked, with its flat top, which is indeed evidently the crater of some volcano, forced up in the wild convulsion that has left its other traces in the basalt of fair head and the causeway. marked, too, it is in history; for on its slopes patrick in captivity herded his master dichu's swine. yet this was on the landward of the hills, in the valley of the braid, which drains west into lough neagh, and stands outside the grouping of the glens. tibullia, another peak easily discerned, is distinguished by having on its summit a formation of flints where man of the stone age had a regular factory; chipped and flaked implements, marred in the making, can be found there (by the knowing) in basketfuls. but the true distinction of these hills is that they have found their poet. samuel ferguson first in his ballad of "willy gilliland" (which has its climax by the walls of carrickfergus) celebrated the stretch of green "from slemish foot to collon top". but it is a later singer, the poetess, "moira o'neill", who in her _songs of the glens of antrim_, has made all their names resound: from "slemish and trostan, dark with heather", to "ould lurgethan" where it "rises green by the sea". and not the hills only but the glens--glenann, for which the emigrant "does be thinking long"; "lone glen dun and the wild glen flowers", with the little town at the outflow of its river, cushendun, _cois-an-duin_, dun-foot. her volume should be in the hands of every traveller in the glens, unless its verses are already written in his memory. [illustration: carrickfergus castle, belfast lough] this antrim coast has one charm distinguishing it above the rest of ireland--its variety of geological formation. at the foot of glen ariff, red bay is called after the sandstone cliffs past which the road is cut, and in one place the rock makes an arch near an old castle. there is a cave, too, at various times inhabited. at fair head one reaches the basalt, and this huge promontory faces the sea with cliffs whose columnar formation gives that odd suggestion of human workmanship which reaches its climax at the causeway. this black basalt with the numberless fissures is a good rock for birds to build in, but a very bad and treacherous dependence for those who climb to pry after their nests. beyond the causeway comes a line of white chalk cliff, such as is familiar to all in the south of england, but very strange to us in ireland; though the sea off the antrim coast is too deep to have that opaline appearance--as though milk were spilt into it--which the margate tripper knows. i have never yet been able to bring myself to write about the causeway, which is a geological freak very curious to look at, and quite worth the sixpence you have to pay for admission, since a company enclosed it some years ago. but in ireland we expect to have our cliff scenery free. the guides there will tell visitors plenty of comic stories about finn maccool. but finn, in authentic irish legend, is not a comic figure: he is the centre of the ossianic tales. that country north of the glens--which stop at ballycastle, where glen shesk and glen tow have their meeting--is called the route, and so keeps alive a memory of a period older than the ossianic legends. dal riada, or dal reuda, that is, the "portion of reuda", was the name given to a principality established by one reuda, who about the second century broke off with a body of followers from the kingdom of ulster, and established rule on both sides of the narrow seas. reuda was of the pictish race, probably; and here in the north the picts held out longest against the invading milesians, who came (according to modern theories) drilled foot soldiers, to defeat the earlier chariot-fighting warriors. but the milesians pushed their conquest here also in about the sixth century, and fergus, an offshoot of the northern hy-neill (sons of niall), the dominant milesian house, made a petty kingdom for himself on both shores; and from him the kings of scotland traced their descent. this prince, fergus mac erc, has left his name on the irish coast, for carrickfergus is shown as the rock on which he came to wreck, when sent adrift by tempest in one of his crossings between the two portions of his kingdom. shortly after its establishment, this kingship, or chieftainship, lost its irish character and centred in scotland. but relations were constant--though by no means constantly friendly--and the lords of the isles held rathlin island for many centuries. however near the irish coast this island lies--only divided by some five miles from the base of fair head--the sound between it and the mainland is so dangerous, with its racing tides, as to be an effectual barrier; and very often passage may be easier made from the scotch coast than from the bay of ballycastle. at all events, the mac donnells owned rathlin when robert bruce needed a refuge, and the castle is still there in which the bruce sheltered for seven years--and in which it was that he watched the spider's patience and drew the moral for his own far-off designs. the mac donnells were one of three great clans who divided a disputed lordship in ulster before ulster (last of the provinces) was finally subdued. the mac donnell lordship was the least authoritative and (although it traced descent to the sixth century) the latest in date. o'neill and o'donnell, the true gaelic overlords of ulster, sprang from two sons of niall of the nine hostages, high king of ireland from 379 to 405. of their sons, conall settled himself on donegal bay, and eoghan (or owen) on the inishowen hills. tyrconnell--_tir chonaill_--takes its name from the one son; tyrone--_tir eoghain_--from the other. about these centres power grouped itself, each chief having sub-chiefs or _urraghts_ under him, each with his own sept. it was only in the tenth century when brian boru was high king that the hereditary surnames came to be adopted--o'neill for the lord of tyrone, o'donnell for the princes of tyrconnell. their country was remote of access, difficult of passage for troops; their people were hardy; and so it happened that in the reign of henry viii, and even of elizabeth, when all else in ireland had been fairly brought within british sovereignty (even the o'briens of thomond submitting) o'neill and o'donnell could still hold their own. but mutual jealousies and border feuds weakened the gael; the o'neills were the strongest people, yet the o'donnells on one flank and the mac donnells on the other often sought advantage by english alliance. shane o'neill, perhaps the most dangerous foe that elizabeth had to meet in ireland, of whom sir henry sidney wrote that "this man could burn, if he liked, up to the gates of dublin, and go away unfought", met his crushing defeat at the hand of irish enemies, the o'donnells, who routed him on the swilly river near letterkenny; and in his trouble he fled to unfriends on the other side, the mac donnells, in whose camp at cushendun he was poniarded, and his head sold to the english. yet after his day another o'neill, hugh the great earl of tyrone, levied desperate war on the english, in close league with a successor of the o'donnell who defeated shane; and though the mac donnells gave them no direct assistance, they also made an effort at that time to throw off the invader's yoke. the history of ireland under elizabeth is largely the history of war with these three clans--and a shameful history it is, full of horrible records of treachery and cruelty. each of the three peoples threw up remarkable leaders in the final struggles under the tudors, and no figure of those days is more notable than the macdonnell chief, somhairle buidhe, "yellow charles", sorley boy, as the english wrote him: and often the state papers had occasion to write his name between 1558, when he came to lordship of the north, and 1590, when he died (singularly enough) a natural death in his own castle of duneynie and was buried among all the mac donnells in the abbey at bonamargy near ballycastle. two sayings of his are memorable. they showed him the head of his son impaled above the gate of dublin castle. "my son," he retorted, "has many heads." and in truth that stock sprung up like nettles after cutting.--elizabeth, in one of the phases of her diplomacy, sought to enlist this warrior on her side, and sent him a patent for his estates and chieftaincy as lord of the pale, engrossed on parchment. they brought him the writing to his castle of dunluce, and he hacked the scroll to shreds. "with the sword i won it," he said; "i will never keep it with the sheepskin." nevertheless, time brought him counsel, and when sir john perrot, henry viii's bastard, came and battered dunluce with cannon, sorley, now eighty years of age, made his submission and travelled to dublin, to pay his homage to the queen's picture, going on his knees to kiss the embroidered pantoufle on the royal foot. after his death, his son randal joined the rising of hugh o'neill and hugh o'donnell; but when that last great effort to throw off england's power was foiled by the defeat at kinsale, the mac donnell made submission, and elizabeth's successor, james, who after all had a natural kindness for the mac donnells (seeing that they were to the last scotch rather than irish) accepted his submission and endowed him with the whole territory from the cutts of coleraine to the curran of larne. dunluce, which stands on a projecting rock, approached only by a narrow footway over a very deep natural trench, has to stand a battery more continuous than perrot's cannon could bring to bear. the sea is under it, for a cave pierces the rock, and wind and wave are for ever straining at the old fortress. part of it fell in 1639, and to-day they say the whole ruin is menaced with collapse; and, since it stands in private grounds, no public authority can intervene to save it. [illustration: the giants' causeway] for some heads the crossing of that wall into dunluce has a danger; and a fall would be serious. but the real test of resistance to giddiness can be made at the famous hanging bridge which joins the mainland with the island rock of carrickarede, near port ballintoy. the bridge consists of planks laid two abreast, and lashed to ropes; a single rope is the only handrail. the people use it to get out to their nets and boats for the salmon fishing, which are kept out here, and also, since there is grass on the island, for carrying sheep across on their backs. for my own part i stepped on to it readily enough; but when it bent down steeply under me, and inclined to swing, the surprise was not pleasant. and though i forced myself to cross it a second time, back and forward, to convince myself that there was no necessity for qualms, i cannot say that the qualms wholly disappeared. as for carrying a sheep over, or a bale of nets, heaven defend me! but i never heard that anyone, native or tourist, drunk or sober, came to grief there! the drop is about eighty feet into deep water between cliffs. the maiden city adjoining the route, and divided from it by the river bann, is county derry, which was once the territory of the o'cahans, chief _urraghts_ or sub-chiefs of the o'neills. when the o'neill was by adoption of the clans installed after the irish usage at tullaghogue in county tyrone, it was the o'cahan who performed the ceremony of inauguration. with these facts two memories connect themselves for me. the first is that when the gaelic league was established, to save the language of ireland from oblivion and decay, amongst those who joined it was the reverend dr. kane, a mighty orator on every twelfth of july, when the anniversary of the boyne is celebrated. "i may be an orangeman," he wrote, "but i do not forget that i am an o'cahan." many of us who did not share his politics cherish his memory for that saying. the other associated idea for me is that, once setting out with other nationalist speakers, i was followed by a strong body of police. asking why, i was told they were to prevent an attack on us in tullaghogue, which is now a strong orange centre! coleraine is where you join the train to get to derry, and the rail skirts the shore of lough foyle--easternmost of the great succession of sea loughs which make the distinctive beauty of donegal. inishowen, its western shore, is included in that county by english geography, though this peninsula never formed part of tyrconnell. its lordship was always disputed between o'neill and o'donnell, and the best evidence of its separateness is given by the ecclesiastical boundary, which here, as always, follows the old tribal demarcation. all the rest of donegal is comprised in the diocese of raphoe, but inishowen falls under the see of derry. one result of that was traceable in the fact that _poteen_ (illicit whisky) was freely procurable in inishowen long after its manufacture had ceased in any other part of donegal; for the austere decree which the present bishop of raphoe--an o'donnell and a ruler of men--proclaimed against this "smuggling" had no effect east of the swilly, though throughout tyrconnel it was heard and obeyed, to the great advantage of his people, whom the old traffic (which i remember flourishing in spite of law and police, fines, seizures, and imprisonments) had seriously demoralized. derry and raphoe have for a century been in the protestant church one united see, and in the days before disestablishments, made a princely preferment. you can see the proof of it at castlerock, where the line from coleraine strikes out on the shore of lough foyle by the long magilligan strand. here is downhill, the seat built in the eighteenth century by that amazing prelate lord augustus adolphus hervey, earl of bristol and bishop of derry, who took a leading and not a very pacific part in organizing the volunteers and in winning ireland's legislative independence. "he appeared always", says sir jonah barrington, "dressed with peculiar care and neatness, generally entirely in purple, and he wore diamond knee and shoe buckles; but what i most observed was that he wore white gloves with gold fringe round the wrists and large gold tassels hanging from them." a troop of horse headed by his nephew used to escort him everywhere and to mount guard at his door. later, growing tired of ireland, he migrated to italy on the plea of ill health; and though many of his costly purchases were sent home to downhill, where unhappily a fire destroyed the most valuable, he never came back, but remained abroad (says the austere lecky, himself born on the shore of lough foyle), "adopting the lax moral habits of neapolitan society", and in extreme old age writing letters to emma, lady hamilton, "in a strain of most unepiscopal fervour". there are no such bishops nowadays, but my childhood was familiar with the last of lord bristol's successors under the old order--the late bishop alexander, most eloquent of divines, afterwards primate of ireland. his talents brought him to the episcopate, while still a young man, only a year or two before disestablishment, and the life-interest in his â£12,000 a year came to be compounded, not only for his own benefit, but for that of the church. while the financial negotiation was still in progress, my father, then rector of a parish in donegal, and financier-in-chief to the diocese, sent his bishop out for a day's driving in charge of a young curate, and trysted to meet them on mulroy bay. arrived there, he saw with dismay the bishop, not on land but afloat, being sculled by the curate through the numberless rocks and swirling currents of mulroy in a battered curragh--a hundred thousand pounds of ecclesiastical capital divided from submersion by a piece of tarred calico. and the famous orator, even at that period of his life, could not have weighed less than eighteen stone. long years after, the curate, become venerable in his turn, remembered and recalled for me the rating which he received when at last he landed his passenger. another memory from the same source may be worth recalling. downhill is the house which charles lever describes in his novel, _the bramleighs of bishop's folly_, though the story has no historic connection with the house or any of its inmates. but lever knew this "bishop's folly" in the days when he was a dispensary doctor at portstewart, and my father remembers well how _harry lorrequer_ came out by instalments in the _dublin morning magazine_, with what delight he heard them read aloud, and how sudden was the addition of interest when one day the news came in that the anonymous author was no other than their own dispensary doctor--the brilliant young collegian for whom a place had been suddenly created in this outlying village during one of the visitations of cholera. after that, whenever the doctor came to call, a shy boy used to creep into the drawing-room and ensconce himself, apparently with a book, out of sight behind a sofa, where, undisturbed by apprehensions, he could be all ears for the rattling talk of that wonderful tale-teller. lever learnt a good deal in portstewart from a neighbour, w. h. maxwell, author of _wild sport of the west_, who lived in those days at portrush. but it was the west and south of ireland that always drew lever--his florid taste in incident and humour found its choice elsewhere than in the discreet greys and browns of ulster character. and east of lough foyle he was still in the ulster which politicians mean--the country of the plantations. derry is in reality its frontier town, though the scotch strain and the protestant element ramify out from derry a certain distance into donegal. [illustration: fair head, co. antrim] but the frontier town, like all frontier towns in a country that has been much fought over, keeps an intense, militant, and aggressive character. derry stands for the extreme type of protestant assertion--oddly enough, for in the beginning of its history, it was the monastic seat, doire coluimchille, "columba's oakgrove", to which that great apostle of christianity looked back from his mission overseas--"thinking long" in iona for- "derry mine, my own oakgrove, little cell, my home, my love". there is no reason to doubt the authenticity of that irish poem, transmitted in ancient manuscript, which a scholar has thus translated--columba's lyric cry towards the ireland which he had left. yet, after all, the new is more to us than the old, and derrymen have good right to be proud of derry walls. the famous siege was a great event, the resistance was indeed heroic, though i think that popular fame has selected the wrong man to be the centre of hero-worship. a tall column which rises from the walls behind the bishop's palace is walker's monument, and walker was no soldier but an elderly, loquacious, and somewhat vain, preacher. if contemporary records are any safe guide, the true organizer and inspirer of that long resistance was murray--whose fame, i am glad to say, is kept alive by a murray club. yet the man who best of all, perhaps, deserves commemoration has no memorial in derry. the siege had lasted from april 18, and on june 13 the town was already starving when a fleet was sighted in lough foyle. kirke, who commanded it, lay outside, intimidated by the defences of the narrow channel. so it went on for six weeks; but there was at least one derry man with the fleet who could brook the delay no longer. this was captain browning, of the _mountjoy_, and he insisted that attempts should be made to run the batteries and to break the boom, whose site is still preserved in the name "boom hall". the _mountjoy_ was a merchant-man, and another, the _phoenix_, of coleraine, joined the venture, and a frigate was sent with them to help in drawing the enemy's fire. the _mountjoy_, with browning himself at the helm, headed straight for the boom under full sail, struck it, and with the impact the boom gave. but the shock caused a rebound which flung the ship back on a mudbank, and at the same moment browning was shot down at his post. the _phoenix_ had slipped already through the gap and was away with her full cargo of meal. boats were out from the forts to seize the _mountjoy_; but she fired a broadside, and the recoil lifted her off the bank, and she too slipped through, carrying the body of her dying skipper to the wharf of the city which his courage and determination had rescued from famine and from enforced surrender. life stayed in him long enough to let him hear the cries of welcome, to know that the goal was reached, the blockade broken, and his city saved, before the rush of blood from his pierced lungs finally choked him: and surely no man ever died a more enviable death. yet in truth it was the people who had rescued themselves. in the previous month of december, before hostilities were really declared, king james had been imbecile enough to withdraw the troops which held the city. a fresh garrison under lord antrim was marching in, and was seen actually outside the walls. the city fathers deliberated; it was thirteen prentice boys of the town who armed themselves, rushed to the ferryquay gate, seized the keys, and locked it in the teeth of antrim's men, when they were within sixty yards of the entrance. this deed is commemorated annually on december 18th, when lundy, the officer who commanded in james's interest, is duly burnt in effigy--or used to be. nowadays catholic and protestant are so evenly balanced in the "maiden city" that such demonstrations risk a formidable riot, and are accordingly kept in check. but the embers are always hot, and crave wary walking. once a concert was being held, "strictly non-sectarian", and it had been decided to omit "god save the king", which in ireland is made into a party tune. all went off smoothly, and the building was being emptied, when suddenly war rose. the organist, a stranger, had thought it would be proper to play the people out with "auld lang syne"--not knowing that to this tune is sung "derry walls", most aggressive of protestant melodies. derry walls are there, broad and solid--you can drive a coach on them. but, what is more important, you can there find the best entertainment that i know in ireland. a little hotel, whose doorway gives on to the east wall, is kept by mrs. macmahon, and all persons of understanding go there to get the kind of meal which you may hope for in the pleasantest north of ireland country home: the fruits of the earth, the fowl of the air, the fish of the sea, each according to his kind (not omitting lough swilly oysters), with the home-made bread, which is one of ulster's greatest charms. it is not an elaborate modern hotel. if it were, you would not get the sort of entertainment that i describe; but to stay there is to get an insight, and a most happy insight, into the homeliness, the hospitality, the shrewdness, and the good housewifery of ulster. [illustration: londonderry from the waterside] tirconnell donegal has become to-day the best pleasure ground in ireland. second only to kerry in natural beauty, and superior to it in grandeur, for kerry has no cliff scenery to compare with slieve league and horn head, it has far more variety of resource than the southern county--or, in two words, it has golf and kerry has not; and it has much more free fishing. it is equipped as a playground, and as a playground i shall write of it--with this preface. when i was a boy, between thirty and forty years ago, there were only two passable hotels west of lough swilly, lord george hill's at gweedore, and mr. connolly's at carrick. both of these were built for men who wanted to fish and shoot; and to reach them meant in literal truth a day's journey into the wilderness. there was no railway in the county except the little line from derry to buncrana; and it was the regular usage for strangers to bring introductions which got them hospitality from the resident gentry. i remember scores of such casual visitors at the big, old rectory where i was brought up. to-day there is hardly any point in the county more than ten miles distant from a rail--irish miles of course, and hilly ones. but when the train takes you from derry to burtonport, curving in behind lough swilly, and following all the northern coast to its extreme remotest corner, you may fume, as i have often fumed, at the vagaries of that wonderful organization; you may think it amazing to be a matter of three hours late in a journey of four hours, as has happened to me; still, it is well to remember how you might have had to drive the same distance on an outside car in such wind and rain as donegal can furnish. and of course the delays i speak of are probably not so usual as at the first wild beginnings of that traffic. no longer, probably, will you see the engine driver getting out to replenish his supply of fuel from a wayside turf stack; no longer will you need to scour the whole countryside for a truckload of luggage casually mislaid. it is only fair to add that where i finally unearthed our possessions was at a mountain siding near two excellent salmon pools, with which i then became acquainted and where i subsequently caught fish. if the engine does break down anywhere on that run there is sure to be a little river within a mile or so, and it is quite worth putting up your rod and going out to have a try; at least one man to my knowledge returned triumphantly with a good salmon--the messenger sent to fetch him having come in handy to gaff it. but in all seriousness tourists have got to remember that these lines are not there for holiday traffic. goods and passengers travel together, and the real purpose of the whole is to give a market to the thousands of cottagers along that wild yet populous shore. what it means is that the coast fisherman who nets a salmon now can sell it for perhaps twopence a pound less than it will fetch in billingsgate--tenpence, a shilling even, for summer fish. in the old days there was no one to give him more than perhaps a shilling for his whole fish. and in truth in the old days a donegal peasant hardly conceived that he could be the legitimate possessor of a salmon. that is the real change. in the days that i remember, the country was owned by the landlords, was governed by them and by their agents, with assistance from the church of ireland clergy. to-day a great part of the land is owned by the people who till it; it is all governed by them. and in increasing measure they own even the game, most jealously guarded of seigniorial rights. take, for example, the little town of milford. i remember it a miserable line of hovels, with only two decent buildings, the agent's house and the always imposing police barrack. to-day it has an excellent hotel, and every look of prosperity. i remember when every soul in it and for ten miles round was in the grip of a really tyrannical landlord, whose murder, when it ultimately came, was indeed an act of what bacon calls "wild justice". much of the improvement visible here is due to the able and courageous man who succeeded the "old lord". but, good landlord or bad landlord, no man can ever again hold that countryside at his pleasure, cowering under the threat of eviction. rent is fixed by a court, and while a man pays his rent he is irremovable. and within a short period every man will be paying, not rent, but instalments of purchase for the land which he and his predecessors have worked--which in nine cases out of ten they have reclaimed from bog and barren moor. with the ownership of the land the game rights must ultimately go, and in many cases already they have gone. the hotel proprietor at milford, an enterprising man, had, i found, bargained with not a few tenant purchasers for the exclusive fishing of little lakes in their property and for the shooting over their moors and bogs. that is the attraction which he has to offer to visitors, who, now that the country is opened up, come in shoals. on lough fern, the big lake adjoining, it was unusual to see two boats fishing, three made a rarity. now, in summer, there will be fifteen or sixteen out. and not only that, but boats have been put on seven or eight of the numberless smaller lakes and bogholes which nobody ever fished at all, except once in a blue moon, when a curragh would be carted over. some of them breed good trout, and now these are being stocked with a new strain of fish. all this means the circulation of money in the country where poverty before was universal, where famine even was not unknown. a failure of the potato crop to-day is a grievous loss: thirty years ago it meant something like starvation. what took me to milford the other day was significant of the new order. i was with a departmental committee appointed to consider how the fisheries of ireland would be affected by the substitution of peasant proprietary for landlord ownership; and our main purpose was to emphasize the value of the interests involved, the possibility of increasing that value, and the necessity for combination unless the whole were to be destroyed. and here was no question merely of providing an attraction for the summer visitor: it meant conserving a mainstay of livelihood for hundreds of labouring men. when i was a boy a regular feature in that countryside was the fish pedlar--some old man or old woman with a donkey and two creels, hawking round fish that had been carted up from the coast by sheephaven. along the prosperous settled shores of lough swilly, by ramelton and letterkenny, these poor folk found a market at the end of a day's journey. it was a poor market and a small one. but since the railroad was instituted, the fish pedlar takes a back place. fish goes straight to the great towns, and it has been worth men's while to organize for catching the summer run of salmon which skirt the coast in june and july. from malin head to arranmore, and from arranmore into donegal bay, scores of thousands of pounds must have been earned in this way during the past seven or eight years by the coast-dwelling folk, half-farmers, half-fishermen, working through the short nights in their four-oared yawls. a lucky crew will earn ten pounds a man in two months' fishing--in a country from which each year thousands go across to scotland or lancashire for field labour and are content if they bring home ten pounds for their season's toil. it is easy to see how great an added source of prosperity this fishing means. yet if the fish are killed out in the breeding streams, it ends the fishing; and when a river is divided into a hundred interests instead of one, no individual has a sufficient inducement to preserve the stock of salmon. a lesson in citizenship has to be learnt; public opinion has to be created. donegal is leading in the attempt to develop co-operative preservation of game and fish, and whoever helps that endeavour is doing a good turn, not only to the interests of sport, but to the interests of ireland. [illustration: tory island from falcarragh hill, donegal] golf, which for the present is even a greater attraction than sport, does not extend into the wilder parts of the country; though, indeed, twenty years ago port salon and rosapenna, where the most famous links are, were outlandish enough: it is golf that has brought them well into the pale of civilization--over-civilization, some of us grumble, when we see smart frocks among the sandhills by downings bay. yet anyone who goes to rosapenna, and has curiosity enough to enquire, can learn the whole history of a great industry's development within a score of years--for downings is the centre of a most prosperous herring fishery, and the girls and boys from that outlying region are fetched at high wages to do skilled work in curing herring wherever herring are being caught, as far south as dublin bay, and very likely beyond. and if i had any choice of all the fine places in ireland to spend a holiday in, i would choose the one which makes the centre of mr. williams's sketch from rosapenna--the low headland of ards, jutting into sheephaven, with wood of oak, and fir, and beech, and ash, so exquisitely blended, spread for a covering over ground so beautifully diversified; with little bays and creeks of blue water over the cleanest and tawniest sand running up into the heart of wooded or heathery slopes. nowhere else is the scent of the brine so clean and strong across the other pungencies of heath, and bog-myrtle, of oak, and of bracken; nowhere else that i know does a perfect day give such fulfilment of desire. rosapenna shore and the village of carrigart are too much dominated by the hotel and by foreign ways for my liking; but on the opposite shore, where portnablah gives a harbour (not safe, alas!) to the boats of my friends, is the place of all my affections. this rocky little townland is set thick with whitewashed cottages, and here it has been an old custom for irish folk from derry and letterkenny to come to the salt water and find homely quarters. the "bathers", as they are called, have of late years grown to be a multitude: if you want rooms in a farmhouse there you must bespeak them far in advance, and no wonder. if my ghost haunts any place it will be there, where the white road to dunfanaghy (white, for this is a limestone tract), leaving the wall of ards demesne, rises to a crest with a few houses (filled with bathers) on the right; and on your left is sessiagh lake, prosperously stocked with trout, and watched over by an old herring fisher, still able to pull a stout oar when the strong gale catches that high-lying water, but for the most part happy to drift contentedly and spin yarns about the men and the things and the fish that he has known. quick with his tongue, too, in a leisurely way. "i suppose people very seldom die here," said a stranger, commenting on the healthiness of the situation. "never more nor once," said old tom. beyond the houses and the limekiln and the glimpse of sessiagh's delusive waters (heaven knows how many blank days i fished there!) is a line of grassy hillocks--the mass of horn head blocks the view beyond them to the west, but full north, suddenly, held in the curve between two of these little summits, you catch sight of the atlantic blue. blue, it may be, or purple, or greyish green, or black almost, with white spray flying; but there it is, held as if in a cup--the very quintessence of the saltness, the strength, and the freedom of the sea. when the herring are in, you shall see it dotted over with smacks and yawls, and here and there a curragh crawling slowly on the water like some black insect; or at night all a-twinkle with lights, till you rub your eyes and wonder if a town has not suddenly sprung into being. and all about, the steep shores of the bay are patched and striped with careful tillage, crops, well-tended, nestling in for shelter under every rocky hummock; and nestled, too, into the folds of the ground, are the white-fronted houses, with stone pegs across their eaves for cording to lash the roof secure against their terrible gales. it is worth while being there in bad weather, to watch the run of sea on those cliffs; sometimes, in a sinister calm, rolling in mountain-high, tearing itself to whiteness on the long black spines of rock; and then, after this forerunner, comes the storm itself. it is then, when you see the smacks running in for shelter, or when, after a night of this, you see them put out to pick up costly nets that have been cut adrift to save men's lives, and that still must be recovered even at grave peril--it is then you will realize how these people take a grip of their country and cling to the foothold for which all life is a struggle. yet life goes merrily there. in the winter through some parishes there will be dancing almost every night in one cottage or another, and the crowd is thick on the floor and about the big turf fire. [illustration: muckish and ards from rosapenna, sheephaven, donegal] these people are for the most part pure irish, and west of dunfanaghy all are irish speakers. under irish rule it was the territory of the m'swineys, chief urraghts of the o'donnell, and doe castle, at the outfall of the lackagh, was the fortress of the chief of the name. owen roe o'neill made his landing here, cromwell's most formidable opponent in ireland--removed at last either by sickness or poison. here red hugh o'donnell was fostered by owen m'swiney of the battle axes before the treacherous kidnapping at rathmullen. there were three m'swiney clans--m'swiney doe, m'swiney banaght in the west of the county, and m'swiney fanad in the peninsula that divides mulroy from swilly. each had its own war tune, and a schoolmaster friend of mine--himself a sweeny--who collected native airs, had got two of the three, but not the third; until at last he heard of an old bedridden man in fanad who might have it. he rode the twenty miles from his home at gartan, with fiddle on his back, and found the old peasant wavering on the brink of death, yet still able to frame feebly the whistle or lilt, which my friend picked up on the strings of the fiddle bit by bit, till gradually he had it all, and, there and then, by the dying man's bedside, set the cabin ringing with the oldtime war march of his clan. another m'sweeny that i have known was turlough, the famous piper of gweedore, whose repute has travelled far overseas. aristocrat he is to the finger tips--saddened indeed because those fine finger tips have been coarsened by spade labour. "look," he said to me; "can there be any music in these hands?" he told me his own generations, connecting him back with the hereditary bards of the m'swineys, and i said that he must know the history of the county better than most. "no," he answered; "i was never curious of these things, except just as they concerned myself and my own people." mr. williams's picture shows errigal where it rises by gweedore over dunlewy lake--one of the grandest among ireland's mountains. but the most striking view of it is east of gweedore, where the little river flows out by gortahork; and here is a thing of much interest, the cloghaneely college, where folk go to study ulster irish amongst those who have it for their native speech. still farther east is falcarragh, and the view which mr. williams has given adds less than due emphasis to the astonishing castellated outline of tory where it rises out of a tremendous depth of water. i never landed there, though i often talked with the tory fishers, including one who had made his fortune at the goldfields and come back to the place of his birth among the rocks and the fish heads. there is one sheltered spot, one growing bush, and one only, on tory. there, of course, irish is the language, and they maintain the practice of verse, chiefly for purposes of satire; quarrels are revenged in rhyme. i talked to a red-bearded mountainy man near gortahork about this, but he said it was a peevish thing to do; he would rather have a skelp at a man. in truth there is an old feud between tory and the shore, and fierce battles have been waged. i do not know why so few people stop at falcarragh: there is a good little hotel, the views are beautiful, there are three little rivers, all holding salmon, and, at the point where the longest of them flows out across the long range of sand beach west of horn head, there is a view of tory and of horn head that passes all i know. running water across sand, clean sand dunes and grey bent, pure illimitable sea and high cliffs, sunsmitten or in shadow--there is landscape reduced to the simplest terms of a broad elemental beauty. also at falcarragh there must be the makings of a links equal to any in ireland. the line of dunes runs for several miles along the sea, ending in one of the strangest natural features i know, the huge mountain of clean sand which centuries of westerly gales have piled up against the rocky mass of horn head. that famous head is in truth an island, the counterpart of tory on its seaward face, yet in the gap between it and dunfanaghy such a deposit of sand has accumulated that only a small causeway has been needed to give access from the mainland to the tiny farms and the one demesne. if in donegal you want to buy donegal homespun, falcarragh is a good market for the product, since some weaving is done about there with an eye to local wear; and what the donegal man means to wear, the donegal housewife "tramps" in soapsuds and water till the web thickens into a fabric fit to turn weather. on the western shore, by carrick and ardara, where is now the headquarters of this industry, cloth is produced solely for export, and the english ladies and gentlemen for whom it is designed seek softness and fineness rather than solidity. indeed the countryfolk themselves treat this merchandise with frank scorn: they fancy something far less flimsy for their own use, and in old days, when nothing but homespun was worn, it used to be sent to a tacking mill and battered till the cloth had the thickness of felt. but the tacking mill at bunlin, whose big wooden mallets rising and falling used to interest us children, is a ruin now; and the homespun of to-day, with its multitude of pleasant colours, is very different from the massive greys or heavy indigo-dyed frieze which used to come from that mill. the industry has been a godsend to that country, and one wet day in the little village of carrick was redeemed to me by the chance of seeing all these folk, men and women, come marching over the hills with the baled cloth on their backs, and then watching the bargaining that proceeded among the various buyers. i bought, too, but i believe the merchants will not allow the people to sell to tourists any more. [illustration: mount errigal from the gweedore river, donegal] i have not written yet of that western shore which stretches southward from dungloe (much haunted by sea-trout fishers) to glenties, ardara, carrick, and killybegs. the most beautiful place that i know on it is at the mouth of the gweebarra river where it flows out due west between a line of sandhills which shine dazzling white in the sun against the immensity of blue. no place is less known; but you can reach it easily from portnoo, where is a hotel. and off portnoo is an island where on certain days in summer a pilgrimage takes place, at spring tides, for it is essential to walk barefoot to the island. the ceremonies performed with certain stones are christianized in form, but evidently had an origin long before christianity. glenties, some eight or ten miles farther south, is at a point where several glens converge (_na gleantai_, the glens) in the valley of the ownea river, famous for its salmon fishing, which is now vested in purchasing tenants who have attempted to introduce co-operative preservation. if the experiment succeeds it will mean better preservation than has ever been known before; if it fail, i fear that one great source of the salmon supply will be wiped out, with loss to sport, and with loss much graver to all the labouring fishers who live by that industry. but, as things stand, the man who wants good fishing is more likely to get it cheap at glenties or ardara than any other place known to me. in both towns there is a decent hotel. ardara stands near the outfall of the ownea but actually on a smaller river, the owentogher, which is not only very picturesque, but a good stream for salmon and sea trout, if only it could be preserved. and one of the most pleasant bits of fishing i ever had was on a tiny stream, the brocky, which comes down a mile farther on and was fishable before the tearing flood had subsided in the bigger rivers. glenties and ardara are places where you go for sport, though the beauty of mountain and river is all about you. but for scenery carrick and killybegs are your destination. killybegs is the terminus of that light railway which runs from donegal town along the north shore of donegal bay, past the marquis of cunningham's wooded demesne at first, but gradually getting into wilder country, till at last it reaches this trim little town on its magnificent harbour. warships use that harbour, and there is nowadays a good fishing fleet operating from it for the herring and mackerel; but of other commerce it knows little. yet for the lover of boating and bathing it would be hard to discover a more attractive spot. there, too, you can see the parent factory of the donegal carpet trade; and pretty it is to see the big looms, with a row of six or seven little girls bareheaded (and often barefooted) in front of each, with nimble fingers knotting on the tufts of richly coloured wool, or driving them down into their place in the solid fabric, while the pattern grows slowly before you on the wide warp. it is odd that so rare a merchandise should come out of these impoverished regions, for no costlier carpets are made; but labour is cheap, and willing, and skilful, and nowhere else is factory work done under more wholesome or happy conditions. all the big room seemed to be a-ripple and a-play with the young faces and the swift, graceful movements of these children, for most of them are no more than children; and small though the wage they earn, it is a big thing in that countryside, where the old-age pensioner with five shillings a week seemed at first to himself or herself rich beyond imagination. there is another of the factories at kilcar, halfway to carrick, built in a sheltered nook almost by the sea; and another in the wild tract between gweedore and falcarragh. to the west of killybegs begins that wonderful line of cliff stretching away past carrick and glen columbkille, and girdling all the projecting headland till it runs back to loughros bay, near ardara. for wildness and for majesty this region has no equal, except in achill; and it has what achill lacks, the charm of rivers. mr. williams's pictures illustrate well the coastline, which even when it is low runs out with huge flag stones and giant boulders into the deep--fit buttress against such waves as roll in there even on a day of calm. everything is big there; distances are long, and a mile never seems to get you far in any direction. it is a country to walk, the finest of all the countries known to me; but i would gladly supplement my walking with a bicycle, travelling one of the roads as far as it will carry me and then leaving it simply by the ditch at the roadside, among the osmunda fern which grows everywhere free as the heather. it commits you to return that way; but what you leave by the roadside is as safe as if argus watched it--unless, indeed, some mountainy heifer should pass that way and eat it: they will chew anything from a fishing rod to a suit of clothes. i have seen embarrassed bathers pursuing an active cow, who carried essential garments in her mouth, still masticating them even while she pranced in her clumsy gallop.--carrick is the centre for this country and slieve league the great excursion; it is a fine walk down by the little port of teelin and then up the track which winds along the cliff edge of the mountain--perhaps the finest view of all is when you are halfway, with seven or eight hundred feet of sheer cliff below you and the steep face towering up another thousand above. at the somewhat overrated hazard of the one man's pass you would fall, i dare say, sixteen hundred feet before you reached the water; but from the top a pebble may be dropped two thousand feet plumb into the sea. [illustration: glenveagh, donegal] horn head is only seven or eight hundred feet; yet because the cliff face there is undercut, and the horns themselves project so oddly, it always seemed to me a dizzier place than the greater cliff. the really marvellous thing at slieve league is that view across donegal bay to the mountains of sligo, benbulbin of magic fame, and along the wild mayo coast that stretches out and out to the west till the long promontory is finished off by island rocks, the stags of broadhaven. yet, since i scorn to deceive, what endears carrick to me is not its cliff scenery, but its little rivers and its people. i know the rivers are too small: you cannot seriously hope to kill salmon there except in a raging flood, and then your flood runs off in a couple of hours: i hooked four fish there inside the first hour after breakfast, killed two of them, and never touched another all day. but for sheer beauty; for infinite variety in the shape and colour of flowing water (the most beautiful thing to me on god's earth); for pools where the eddy swirls past clean rock with glossy ferns in every crevice; for banks where the scent of bog-myrtle is all about as you brush through the heather; for anything that can entice the eye of an angler, i never saw the equal of that main stream. the little owen buidhe, too, in its boggy glen, has attractions of its own, deeper pools and seductive corners; but it is the glen river, flowing down from meenaneary, that haunts my vision when in london i crave for the things that i desired in boyhood, and love more in middle age. and of all the human beings whom i have known among the peasant folk of ireland, none had ever quite the charm of old charlie carr, the gillie who fished with me at carrick. by an odd chance, he was no sportsman. he would want you to be pleased, and to catch fish, if so you fancied it; but i remember how my vanity was hurt when, on a difficult day, i had hooked and landed a fine sea trout, the first that anyone had seen for a long time. "them o'hagans was great people too", he said as he shook the fish out of the net, calmly pursuing his discourse about the ancient days and the generations of old, and the lore of those few books which he had, and studied with passion. he was no true shanachie; what of irish legend and song his memory kept had no real value. he was a lover of knowledge, not for vanity, not for the sense of power, but simply because it added to the richness of life--one of god's gifts that he welcomed as the sunshine. if ever i met a happy nature, a soul without spot, it was this irish peasant; if ever i have seen letters full of grace and simplicity they were those that reached me once in a rare while from that lonely glen, asking, never for himself, but perhaps that i would give a prize to some school children, or the like, and always full of an affection that knew no difference between man and man. i can see now the wonderful blue eyes in that kind face, a handsome peasant face with its fringe of grey close-cropped whisker. if i remember a word of complaint from him, it was when he saw his neighbour go by on a car--a man no soberer, no more industrious, no better educated than himself, yet one who had had the instinct for buying and selling, for putting penny to penny and pound to pound. the neighbour was a good man too, in his way; kindly and friendly, prompt to do a service, yet not to be reckoned amongst those elect upon earth whom everyone using discernment will have recognized on his way through life, of whom not a few that i have known have been donegal peasants. but none had quite the grace, the simplicity, and the distinction of this old dreamer and student who carries net and basket by the glen river without repute among men. for all my love of carrick i could hardly conceive of living there. it is too bare, too vast. and though there is no frost, though every second bush you see in summer is crimson fuchsia full of blossoms, yet winter must be of a terrible loneliness. but the donegal that i was brought up in--donegal of more inhabited and habitable shores by lough swilly and sheephaven and mulroy--does seem to me a place not for summer visitants only. however, this book concerns itself with summer, and nowhere is summer more delightful. of course it rains often, and sometimes hard. "did it rain ony wi' ye?" "it didna tak time to rain; it just cam doun buckets," is a fragment of descriptive dialogue. but take the country as i saw it in mid-july, when london was stewing on a griddle of asphalt and flags, and when english country was all one monotonous deadened green with heavy haze dimming the blueness. out at bunlin, beyond milford, all was green too; i looked from the steep road across a glen breast-deep in bracken, with the curve of cratlagh wood beyond, and nearer me trim fields of green oats and turnips. there was beauty of line there in mulroy with its score of scattered islands, in the hills, not very high, but very mountainous, bold, and jagged, falling from the peak of lough salt to the glen, and to the mulroy water, crest by crest, sharp to the last little rocky hillock. there was beauty of colour too, for the green of the bracken was broken by silvery grey stone, with glint of mica in it, showing up through the fern, and crowned or set about with purple cushions of heath, here and there a foxglove adding another and a brighter purple. there was wonderful beauty of detail in the wooding nestled into the hills--wild growth, scrub oak, light, feathery ash and birch, with the gleam of silvery stems, scotch fir and larch--planted trees, yet falling naturally into forestation which had none of the heaviness, the citizen look of elm and sycamore. all was light, hardy and strong--not a wilderness, but a cared-for country where the eye wandered over a fair expanse of varied beauty, lying there in full summer without summer's drowsiness or blowsiness. lightness, airiness, was the note of it all--light air, breath of bog-myrtle across the salt of the sea; and even the decent homely people, lacking the graces of cork and kerry, had yet in their motion and in their eye just the dash of wildness which marks the celtic strain. [illustration: the entrance to mulroy bay, donegal] next day was donegal all over--fresh breeze, clouds driving swiftly, and then bright sun, lighting up a lovely blueness. we were out on small lakes up among the hills, two of us who fancied ourselves not a little as fishermen, and got no encouragement for that faith; but after all what could be pleasanter, airier, or more resting and more bracing at once? and how good one's lunch is on the stones by a reedy shore! i had to go back to london, and the car took me to rathmullen on the swilly shore; and when the little steamer put out from the pier it seemed to me that of these lovely loughs this is after all the most beautiful. all was grey and green in the westering light; the hills on the inishowen shore opposite showed softer than the crags by mulroy. they were green now, with the olive green of young heather; in another month they would be glowing purple. the lough as we crossed it was a great round lake throwing arms west and south-west to ramelton and letterkenny, beyond which all was bathed in a sunny haze. as we ran farther out, the western mountains of inishowen came in sight, then suddenly beyond dunree the sea gap opened, letting the eye out to limitless ocean; and soon the sheer crag of the binn of fanad was disclosed flanking that portal on the west. looking back to the shore we left, the devil's backbone writhed sinister and jagged along the crest of the knockalla range behind rathmullen; and away to the west in the sun haze, accustomed eyes could make out the faint shapes of errigal and dooish. history was all about us, evident in actual landmarks. on the hills which divide the lough from derry stood out boldly the ring of stone, the great circular fort, which was the grianan of aileach, chief seat of the northern hy niall, whose kinsfolk reigned in tara. here patrick preached about 450 a.d., baptized eoghan, founder of the great tyrone clan, the o'neills. here, in a later age, came an o'brien of thomond, one of brian boru's earliest successors, to avenge a raid of these northerners on clare, and the stones of aileach were carried away to be built into the cathedral at limerick. over at rathmullen is the beach from which the boy hugh o'donnell was rowed out to see the english ship which lay at anchor, offering hospitality with black treachery behind; for the crew cut their cables while the young chief and his company were below seeing the vessel's stores, and sailed off with the prisoner so dishonourably made, to the castle of dublin, where hugh lay for years immured, captured but not submissive; attempting escape after escape with unfailing heart till at last he got loose, and after bare deliverance from death in the snow-covered hills was free to exact a reckoning for the wrongs he had suffered. on a low hill beyond inch island rises the square town of birt, which has memories of another chief, cahir o'dogherty, lord of inishowen. cahir was fostered by the m'devitts of birt, and when red hugh claimed lordship over inishowen, the m'devitts sought english protection for their foster-brother and got it. the o'dogherty became the englishmen's ally and helped to pronounce forfeiture on o'donnell and o'neill after the two great earls took their flight in 1607--setting out from this same ill-omened port of rathmullen. but a new governor of derry arrived, quarrelled with cahir o'dogherty and struck him. the blow was dearly paid for. cahir went back to birt, called out the m'devitts, and sacked and burnt derry. but the irish power had been broken beyond retrieving when the earls fled, and o'dogherty was soon a mere outlaw on his keeping. they ran him to earth finally by doon well, near kilmacrenan, where he was shot dead in the encounter. doon well is famous to-day, but i doubt if many there remember cahir o'dogherty's fate, or even that on the rock of doon took place the installation of each o'donnell prince. what is remembered is the sanctity of the holy well, whose water still draws thousands of pilgrims and still works miracles of healing. history more modern is in view at lough swilly, for here the english fleet brought in their prizes after the action with bonaparte in 1798, and brought more than they knew, for they had captured theobald wolfe tone, the most dangerous enemy to england that ireland had in those or perhaps any other days. to-day there is a strong guard on lough swilly. dunree--_dun riogh_--means the king's fort and the king has his fort there, of the most modern type, commanding the entrance to this great haven, with an armament very unlike that of the martello towers which are dotted about, marking another of england's recurring scares--the scare of the "french colonels" under the lesser napoleon. all these things came into my mind as i sat on the beach by fahan and watched the colour fade out and new colour take its place--masses of dark green where there had been shimmers of grey and blue. other memories came there too--less historical: it was there that somewhere in the 'seventies i had my first sight of a real railway train. i carry away from lough swilly my earliest as well as my latest impression of pleasant, beautiful ulster, enhanced by a grateful thought of the dinner which mrs. macmahon provided for one about to take a long night journey. and whoever leaves the north of ireland with such impressions on his mind will have no cause to quarrel with the close of his holiday. yet it is not well to depart leaving unexplored the mountainous peninsula of inishowen which separates lough swilly from lough foyle. this great ridge of land is dominated by the graceful shape of slieve snacht ("snow mountain"), a model of what mountains should be: bold and peaked, yet with swelling curves that balance on either flank, it fills the centre of a distance more impressively than far loftier hills. inishowen was owned by the o'doghertys, a clan who, tossed between tyrone and tirconnell, had at least great staying power, for the saying is--you cannot beat a bush in inishowen without "rising" an o'dogherty. their castles remain, and at green castle, on lough foyle, is the work of greater men, norman-planned, richard de burgo's fortress. many traces, too, of a far older period are to be seen. at carrowmore, not far from culdaff, is a "souterrain" with five chambers--a great mansion, in short, for these burrowers. rivers and lakes, too, are there with fair fishing, though i believe that a certain old professor in derry has skimmed the cream of it all in his learned leisure, any time this fifty years. but the castle river at buncrana is a fine salmon stream still, and the links there constitute an attraction for very capable golfers--though not equal to those at port salon on the opposite shore. in a word, if you cannot get to the west of lough swilly you may be very well content with the east of it; and though much of infinite beauty and interest lies beyond, when you have seen and known lough swilly and its shores, and the people who live on them--that mixed race, scot and irish, lowland and highland, protestant and catholic, all neighbourly together--why, at least you will have had a very fair chance to know and love, not the ulster that people rant about or rail at, but ulster as it really is. printed in great britain _at the villafield press, glasgow, scotland_ transcriber's notes the table of contents has been added for convenience. illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks. page 34: replaced the oe ligature with oe in the two instances of "phoenix." the turn of the road. a play in two scenes and an epilogue. by rutherford mayne. maunsel & co., limited, dublin. 1907. _this play was produced in belfast, december 1906, by the ulster literary theatre. (all acting rights reserved by the author.)_ _to lewis purcell_ _in remembrance of his kindly aid and criticism._ characters: william john granahan, a farmer. mrs. granahan, his wife. samuel james, } their sons. robbie john, } ellen, their daughter. thomas granahan, father of wm. john granahan. john graeme, a farmer. jane, his daughter. mr. taylor, a creamery manager. a tramp fiddler. the scene throughout is laid in the kitchen of william john granahan's house in the county of down. time.--the present day. a month elapses between scenes i. and ii. the turn of the road. scene i. a farm kitchen of the present day. door at back, opening to yard, and window with deal table on which are lying dishes and drying cloths with basin of water. a large crock under table. a dresser with crockery, etc., stands near to another door which opens into living rooms. opposite there is a fireplace with projecting breasts, in which a turf fire is glowing. time, about eight of a summer evening in july. mrs. granahan and ellen are engaged at table washing and drying the plates after the supper. thomas granahan, the grandfather, is seated at fire place and has evidently just finished his stirabout. the strains of a quaint folk-air played on a violin, sound faintly from the inner room. mrs. granahan. is that the whole of them now ellen? ellen. yes that's all now but one. [she goes across to grandfather and lifts the plate.] have you finished granda? grandfather. yes dearie i have done. [he pauses and fumbles for his pipe, &c.] is'nt that a fiddle i'm hearing? ellen. yes. robbie's playing the fiddle in the low room. mrs. granahan. [arranging plates on dresser and turning round.] i wish some one would stop that boy's fool nonsense wi' his fiddle. he's far too fond o' playin'. it would stand him better to mind his work. [calls.] robbie! [louder.] d'you hear me robbie? ellen. oh, let the boy be, mother. its the first time i've heard him at it this week. grandfather. och aye. let the boy enjoy himself. you're only young wanst you know, mary. ellen. i think it must be a great thing to be a great musician. sometimes i believe robbie should try his luck with that fiddle of his. somehow i know--i feel he _is_ a genius at it. mrs. granahan. what notions you do have to be sure. to think of a big grown man like robbie john spending his life-time at an old fiddle. [sharply.] blathers and nonsense. its time that boy was out lookin' at the cattle. [calls.] are you there robbie? [louder.] robbie john. robbie john. [from without. the fiddle ceases suddenly and he comes and stands with it in his hand at the door.] aye. mrs. granahan. you'd better go down to the low field and see the cattle haven't broken through into aura boyd's corn. you couldn't keep them beasts in when the flies gets at them. robbie john. just one second till i try this again. mrs. granahan. now, will you go when i tell you. you and your ould fiddle. it'll be the death of you yet. mind what i say. robbie john. [coming through door and standing there.] bad cess to the cattle and aura boyd. grandfather. he's a tarr'ble unneighbourly man. mrs. granahan. he's a cross grained man right enough, but it wouldn't do to have the cattle trampin' and eatin' his corn. robbie john. i was down there only ten minutes ago when you sent me, and they were eatin' there quite peaceable. mrs. granahan. now will you go robbie john when your mother wants you. aura boyd sent over here this forenoon to say if that kerry cow broke into his field again he'd have the law agin us. robbie john. och, he's a cross ould cratur. sure, she had only one foot through the hedge when he turned her. [he sees mother is getting impatient.] all right; i'm away. [he goes back into room, leaves fiddle there, comes into kitchen again and goes out by door to yard.] mrs. granahan. he's as ill to drive as the ould mare to meetin' a sundays. [she goes and looks through door into room.] look at the time it is and your father and samuel james niver back yet ellen. they're terrible late o' comin'. ellen. och, i suppose they've met some dealer at the fair and are driving a hard bargain as usual. grandfather. i wonner if they got that foal red off their hands yet. it'll be a job i'm thinkin'. he was a miserable baste, and tarr'ble broken in the wind. ellen. och, trust father to make that all right. i heard mr. taylor, of the creamery, say that father could sell you skim milk for cream, better than any man he knew. mrs. granahan. [seating herself at chair beside table at back.] oh, aye. it's easy for _him_ to talk, but money's hard o' makin', and if people's soft it's their own fault. only i hope they've no' taken any drink. grandfather. it's no fault in a good man if he does take a half-un. mrs. granahan. now, don't you be startin' to talk that way. it's always the way with them dailers. muddle the good man's head with whiskey, and then _do_ him. ellen. [standing nonchalantly at table facing front with hands resting on it.] they'll not muddle father much i'm thinkin'. besides, samuel james is with him. grandfather. samuel james is a cunnin' rascal. mrs. granahan. don't you miscall my son mr. granahan. he's a canny good son and works hard, and is worth more than half-a-dozen men like robbie john. they'll no put their finger in his eye. [goes to door back.] bliss my heart there's that sow among the kale. shoo! [she goes out and is heard shouting.] ellen. [laughing.] that poor sow. it has the times of it. [robbie john enters and sits down near grandfather.] grandfather. well, son; what about the cattle? robbie john. [weariedly.] och, they're all right. i knowed they'd be all right. it's always the way. grandfather. [soothingly.] they are a terrible newsance, indeed, robbie. robbie john. but that's not what troubles me. why can't mother leave me alone for just a few minutes till i get some time to myself at the fiddle. i niver touch it but i'm taken away and sent off somewhere. ellen. [seating herself at chair beside robbie john.] don't be cross with her robbie, dear. she's anxious about the cattle. robbie john. but, ellen, look here. any time i can get to have just a tune on that fiddle, someone's sure to take me away from it. father sends me out to mend gaps that were mended, or cut turf that was cut, or fodder horses that were foddered. and when he's away and i might have some chance, mother does the same. here i've been workin' for the past week, day in and day out, and the very first chance i get, i must run after the cattle or somethin'. [despondently,] nobody has any feelin' for me here at all. grandfather. now, now; robbie. it's all for your own good, son, she does it. ellen. and we feel for him, don't we grand-da? you mustn't look so cross, robbie. you know that they think you're too much wrapped up in that fiddle of yours, and they want to break you off it. robbie john. [determinedly.] that they never will; never. ellen. [coaxingly.] oh! look grandfather at the cross robbie. grandfather. [gazing amusedly at robbie john.] indeed, robbie, you look like them prize fightin' men ye see up in the town. robbie john. well, there; is that any better. [he smiles half bitterly.] ellen. a wee bit. i wish jennie graeme seen you with that face. you wouldn't get your arm round her so easy then; would he grand-da? grandfather. a bonny wee girl she is, and has a fine farm and land comin' till her. [aside.] boys a dear but these musicians gets the fine weemin. robbie john. there, there; and creamery managers sometimes gets them too, grand-da. grandfather. indeed, that taylor man will get a body can cook sowans anyway. ellen. [looking through window.] here's mother. mrs. granahan. [enters and sits down exhausted on chair at side of table next door.] that sows a torment. i just had her out and back she doubles again. she just has me fair out of wind turnin' her out. robbie john. [rising and making toward door into room.] i can go and have some practisin' now. mrs. granahan. robbie john, i seen the carts comin' up the loanin'. your father will be in, in no time. he'll no be pleased to see you han'lin' that, [pointing to the fiddle.] just when he comes back. [starts up as if suddenly reminded.] i must go and get them eggs counted. [goes out again through door to yard.] ellen. aye, robbie; don't take it. he'll just think you've been playin' that all the time he was away. and he's always that cross after markets, you couldn't stand him. robbie john. [sitting down again.] you're right. i don't want another talkin' to like the last one; but its hard. [he takes up a stick from fuel beside fireplace and starts whittling it. the rattle of carts is heard. samuel james passes the window and walks in. he is partially intoxicated, enough only to make him talkative.] ellen. well, how did the fair go off? [samuel james takes off his overcoat, flings it on back of chair beside dresser and sits down heavily.] ah! you've been takin' a drop, as usual. samuel james. [scowls at this but does not deny.] the fair. oh, it was great value. sure grand-da he sould the foal for thirty poun'. grandfather. [astonished] boys a dear but william john granahan bates the divil. and who took her? samuel james. there was a cavalryman bought her. boys but da is the hard man to plaze. we stopped at muc alanan's on the way home and met william john mckillop there, and he toul' the oul' man he was a fool to let a good horse go at that price, for he was lookin' all roads to give him thirty poun' for it; only he couldn't get in time for the sale. grandfather. [incredulously.] who did you say? mckillop? samuel james. [laughing.] aye. robbie john. [smiling.] sure mckillop hasn't two sov'rins in the wide world. he was only takin' a rise out of da. samuel james. sure i knowed the ould yahoo hadn't the price of a nanny-goat. but of course, da tuk it all in for gospel. and me sittin' listenin to him tellin' ould mckillop what a grand action the foal had and the shoulders the baste had, and the way it could draw thirty hundred up killainey hill without a pech. grandfather. [astonished.] william john granahan makes a tarr'ble fine sunday school teacher. samuel james. [grinning.] but to see ould mckillop sittin' there as solemn as a judge, drinkin' it all in as if gospel and winkin' at me on the sly, the ould rascal, and cursin' his luck at losin' such a bargain. [the voice of william john granahan can be heard inviting some one to come on. the strains of a fiddle played by uncertain but unmistakeably professional hands, sounds from the same direction.] ellen. [looking out through window into yard.] who's that father has got with him samuel james? oh such a dirty looking man! samuel james. [chuckling.] da got ahoult of him at buckna cross roads and right or wrong he'd have him home wi' him to show robbie john what fiddlin' brings a man till. ellen. [severely.] its my mind that you and father have been stayin' too long in the public house, samuel james. [william john granahan and tramp fiddler can be seen outside window.] look at them--comin' in! oh my; wait till mother sees the pair of them. [william john granahan comes in leading a ragged looking bearded tramp with an old fiddle tucked under his arm.] william john granahan. now we're hame, and we'll get a drop to drink and a bite to eat, mr. fiddler. [he goes over to fireplace and stands with his back to the fire.] take a sate at the fire and warm yourself. [no one offers a seat to the tramp who stands puzzled looking and swaying in a drunken manner in the kitchen, slightly in front of samuel james, who remains seated beside dresser engaged in taking off his leggings.] ellen. get us a drop o' tay and give this poor misguided cratur somethin' to eat. ellen. [moves over to dresser and then stands at door into room. she evidently disapproves of the tramp and does not offer to obey. the grandfather rises in disgust and moves his chair nearer the fireplace away from the tramp.] tramp. [to ellen.] your pardon noble lady, i intrude. your pardon signor i incommode you. times change and so do men. ladies and gentlemen behold in me the one time famous leader of the blue bohemian wind and string band that had the honour of appearing before all the crowned heads of europe. william john granahan. god bless me, d'you say so mister? d'ye hear that robbie john. there's a fiddler for you and see what comes of it. tramp. perhaps with your permission i may venture to play you a few extracts from my repertoire. i can play to suit all tastes from a simple country ballad to a concerto by brahms or the great russian composer tschaikouski. william john granahan. [openmouthed.] them rooshians has the tarr'ble names! tramp. firstly i shall play that touching little ballad i heard monsieur here warble so sweetly as we rolled homeward on his chariot. if i play he accompanies me with voice. ne'st ce pas, monsieur? william john granahan. [nervously.] is your mother out ellen? ellen. she's lookin' after the hens i think. she won't hear you. [william john granahan starts singing two verses of a folk song, the tramp accompanying meanwhile with fiddle, always putting in an extra flourish. the rest all join, even the grandfather beats time with a stick. the door opens and mrs. granahan appears seemingly astonished at the uproar. all suddenly cease singing and try to appear innocent, except the tramp, who goes on playing. he suddenly notices the cessation.] tramp. bravo. a most exquisite little air and beautifully rendered. [he stops short on seeing mrs. granahan who stands glaring at him arms akimbo.] your pardon madam. you are the mistress i take it of this most noble and hospitable house. mrs. granahan. [ignoring him and going to centre of floor where she looks angrily at william john granahan who endeavours to appear unconcerned.] you should be well ashamed of yourself william john granahan. what will they say about you in the session i wonner next sabbath day. d'you think my house is a home for all the dirt and scum of the country side? tramp. your pardon madam. you owe me an apology. appearances belie me but scum i am not. i was at one time the well known and justly famous leader of the blue bohemian wind and string- mrs. granahan. wind and string fiddlesticks. out you go. out you will go. i want no tramps in here upsettin' my house and makin' it the talk of the neighbours. out you go at once. tramp. [with drunken pride.] i thrust my company on no man or woman uninvited. mrs. granahan. out you go. i want no excuses. put him out of this samuel james. [samuel james eludes his mother's eye and beckons the tramp to stay on.] the drunken wretch comin' in here. a nice place you'd have it william granahan with your fine company. william john granahan. i brought him home here as a tarr'ble and awful warnin' to robbie john what this sort of an occupation brings a man till. yon see him robbie john. there's you're great fiddlin' for you. be warned in time. robbie john. [the tramp moves to the door. robbie john rises and goes across to him and taps him on the shoulder.] here. [slips him money.] god bless you poor wanderin' soul and god forbid any granahan should ever be treated as you have been. tramp. sir, i thank you. [coming back to him and confidentially.] perhaps i could yet please your ears with a romanza which i composed myself- mrs. granahan. away with you out of this. we want none of your music here. samuel james. [to tramp.] why don't you give up playin' that fiddle of yours and turn your hand to honest work? tramp. [proudly.] desert my fiddle. the fiddle presented to me at vienna by my orchestra! a genuine old cremona 200 years old! rather would i wander in hades for ever. never! though cruel words stab and wound me. [half sobbing.] farewell. [all remain quiet. the strains of a melancholy air like a serenade come from outside. it slowly dies away in the distance. robbie john moves forward as if to go out.] mrs. granahan. [sharply.] robbie john. where are you going? don't dare to leave the house. my son going out to keep company with the likes of that dirty rapscallion. robbie john. ah mother pity the poor wretch. every word you said to him cut and wounded me to the quick. did you not see the tears in his eyes for all his fine talk. i should like to know more about him. samuel james. if you went to the sergeant at the barrack, i warrant ye he could tell you more about him. [he bends down as if to catch the sound of the fiddling which grows very faint.] listen! [robbie john moves to door and opens it.] mrs. granahan. [angrily.] where are you going? robbie john. [rapt.] listen. [he holds his hand for silence. then quickly goes out.] william john granahan. [to get into his wife's good graces.] well mary the foal's sould at last. mrs. granahan. i've a crow to pluck wi' you over that same foal, william granahan. i suppose they did you as usual. william john granahan. [getting angry.] nine and thirty year ha'e i gone till market and no man, woman, child, dog or divil ever got the better of me in a bargain yet and right well you know it. [with pride.] i soul' the foal for thirty poun' not a ha'penny less. mrs. granahan. [doubtfully.] i hope you ha'e it all wi' you. william john granahan. i ha'e it all but two shillin' and wan penny. mrs. granahan. and can you account for them? william john granahan. woman dear would you ha'e me go and come to market wi'out a ha'penny in my pocket? have some gumption about ye. [in a loud angry voice.] i'm danged but the next time i make a good bargain, i'll go and ha'e a week to myself in newcastle or belfast. i'm young enow yet. mrs. granahan. there. stop your fool talk in front of the children and go and change your clothes. grandfather. it was a good price indeed. samuel james. [slily.] yes. he soul' it for thirty poun' and william john mckillop lookin' all roads to give him forty for it. william john granahan. [angrily and stamping his foot.] will you houl' your tongue you blatterin' blatherin' idiot. bad scran to ye for a meddle- [he goes forward to go into room and aims a box on the ears at samuel james who retreats to table and watches him go through door followed by mrs. granahan. a noise of voices in angry argument is heard.] samuel james. now he'll catch it. if i had been da i would ha'e kept back five poun' and toul' her i soul' it for twenty-five, but the ould man's that honest, he knows no better. [robbie john enters. he goes to seat himself in his old position but stops a moment when spoken to, and then in a petulant manner takes his seat on hearing the speech.] well robbie and what d'ye think of his great object lesson till ye. it was me put it intil da's head. i thought there might be a bit o' value. [chuckles.] ellen. there. i just thought it was you did it. [she comes and sits down again beside table at left. samuel james seats himself on table carelessly and swings his legs under.] you're a schemer that's what you are. grandfather. aye. there's a dale of the crook in ye samuel james. you're deeper nor one would think. samuel james. [suddenly to robbie john.] i seen jenny graeme at the market to-day robbie. [robbie john does not answer, being evidently shy.] oh well, maybe you're no interested in her. [to ellen.] man there was a fine lock o' cattle at the fair, ellen. ellen. i'm sure there was. who else did you see? robbie john. [unwillingly but unable to restrain his jealousy.] who was with her? who left her home? samuel james. [nodding slily to ellen.] young m'donnell o' the hill head was looking after her pretty close. ellen. [glancing at robbie and then at samuel james and smiling.] he's a very nice young man. robbie john. [savagely.] i wish her luck wi' yon booby. samuel james. there's nothin' the matter wi' him. he has a nice place and a fine farm forbye. robbie john. farms and cattle and crops don't make a fine man. grandfather. deed now robbie, they goes a long ways. samuel james. [to himself.] better nor bows and fiddles and such trash. [to robbie john.] i heerd up at bann to-day, that ye won three poun' at the feis at newcastle a monday. ellen. i knew that on tuesday. it was fine of robbie wasn't it? samuel james. it all depends. da heard it for the first time to-day and i can tell you it didn't seem fine to him. coorse a poun' or two would ha'e made a differ o' opinion same as it done wi' you i expect. ellen. you needn't sneer at me. it was me told robbie to keep it. he was goin' to give it all up. i wouldn't be so mean as to take it off him. samuel james. oh you're an unusual sort of young woman i know but if robbie john takes my advice, he better choose quick between playin' the fiddle and stayin' on here. robbie john. give up my fiddle. never. samuel james. well you can plaze yourself. i suppose you could make as much by fiddlin' as if you stayed on here and waited till we had the place divid among the three of us. ellen. why i heard from mr. taylor that father was worth four or five hundred pounds and then the two farms. grandfather. aye. you'd be a long time robbie john earnin' that wi' your fiddle. don't heed his fool talk son. stay at home and nivir mind the musicians. ellen. robbie dear, and i'm sure mr. graeme would never let his daughter marry a penniless fiddler--even if she would herself. i don't know. she might and she--mightn't. samuel james. [rising from table and stretching himself.] coorse if he made a name for himself he could marry the landlord's daughter. i heerd the quality go mad after the musicianers. [makes to door.] well i'm going to wash my hands. [goes out to yard.] grandfather. robbie dear. come here. robbie john. aye. what is it? grandfather. take heed till yourself. i know what's going on better nor you. take an ould man's advice. settle yourself down and give up that string instrument. coorse i daresay you may go and become a great man wi' it but you're more like to become a cratur like thon that was in as not. there's no good runnin' risks. and your father, i heerd him say himself, if you make your bed, you'll lie on it, for he'll nivir help you out, once you take to the fiddlin'. ellen. aye robbie. its far better not to run the risk of becoming a beggar man. robbie john. well i'll think over it ellen. i'll think over it. grandfather. robbie, come out wi' me. [the two go out by door into yard. william john and mrs. granahan come in arguing excitedly.] mrs. granahan. well you can ha'e the poun' if you like, but i can tell you its a sore pinch to make things do, what with the price of the sugar riz up and the flour. [samuel james comes in. he takes in the situation and seats himself again on the table near ellen who remains still seated beside it.] william john granahan. there. that's enough to do about it. [he goes over to armchair but does not sit down and remains facing mrs. granahan.] twenty nine poun' you'll get and no more. [emphatically.] min' that. mrs. granahan. i'll min' it right enough william granahan. and its a sore time i have trying to keep in wi' one hand what you lavish out wi' the other. samuel james. [nudging ellen slily.] i was talking by the way to mrs. mccrum the milliner, mother, to-day, and she said to give you word she'd have your new tay gown ready for you a tuesday week. william john granahan. [triumphantly.] there you are ma'am. there you are. keepin' it in wi' one hand were you? faith if i know anything you lather it out wi both hands and feet. you want to rob me of me one poun' do ye? and all for an ould tay gown! [contemptuously.] a tay gown! ellen. [maliciously.] a taygown's not expensive. william john granahan. oh indeed now? hach. you'll be wantin' one next i suppose. a nice house this is, where a man couldn't get keepin' as much as would buy him an ounce o' tobaccy. [viciously.] man i do hate this hypockerisy. mrs. granahan. i'll not talk any more till ye, william granahan. you're full o' drink and bad tongued. william john granahan. if you say any more till me, i'll smash all the crockery in the house. mrs. granahan. come out ellen to the creamery and maybe when we come in, he'll be a bit cooler in the head. [she hurries out followed by ellen through door to yard.] william john granahan. [to samuel james.] she's a tarr'ble woman your mother when she's started. but i'm much obliged to you samuel james for the mention o' that tay gown. by me sang, but that turned the enemy's flank. [laughs.] i'm danged but you're the boy. [gratefully.] heth you saved me a poun' anyway. samuel james. [rising and going over sheepishly to him.] you'll not forget me da? will you? william john granahan. [suspiciously.] na. samuel james. well ye might gie us a part o' it. william john granahan. how much dy'e want? samuel james. twelve shillin'. william john granahan. would you take the very boots off me feet. where would i get ye twelve shillin'. samuel james. out o' the poun' o' coorse. where else? william john granahan. [grumblingly.] you're askin' ower much. if it was a saxpence [samuel james shrugs his shoulders.] or a shillin' [samuel james shrugs more emphatically.] or two shillin'? samuel james. no. william john granahan. or half a crown? samuel james. no. william john granahan. i'd think nothing of lendin' them till ye. but twelve shillin'! would three shillin' no' do? samuel james. no. it won't. either give me the twelve shillin' or i'll tell her about your conduck- william john granahan. there. there it is an bad scran to ye. to think o' me walkin' ten mile to the fair and back and arguin' wi' dailers and chates of all kinds and gettin thirty poun' for a baste i wouldn't buy myself for thirty shillin' and only gettin' eight shillin' out o' it. samuel james. [whistling and counting money delightedly.] aye. its a hard world and no mistake. william john granahan. [excitedly.] i'll go down to the shough and drown myself i will. samuel james. na. go to mucalanan's and drown yerself. william john granahan. i'm danged but you're right. na. na. she'll hear me goin' out by the gate. samuel james. boys but you're the poor hearted man. well i'm away. [he makes to door.] william john granahan. where now? samuel james. to courdy williamson's for the loan of a monkey wrinch for the new machine. the hay's for cuttin' the morrow. william john granahan. oh aye. an you'll be for coortin' that young imp of a daughter o' his i warrant ye. were you there yisterday forenoon? samuel james. [somewhat taken aback.] yis. why d'ye ask? william john granahan. oh nothin'. only i hadn't a sowl to help me wi' them cattle. samuel james. well wasn't robbie john at home? what ailed him he couldn't help ye? william john granahan. look you here samuel james. [samuel james comes back nearer.] i've been worried wi' that boy this long time. [samuel james nods approvingly.] i've made up my mind to-day after seein' yon scarecrow we met at buckna cross roads, robbie john aither mends himself or he goes out o' this. samuel james. you're right da. you hae stud his goings on a long time. i think ye do well to stop him. it's only doin' him a kindness. william john granahan. i'll just ask him to burn it when he comes in. if he won't, he can just plaze himself. i'll hae no more to do wi' him. [suddenly.] i wunner what his mother would say to that? samuel james. she' just as tired of it as you are. wait; i'll call her in. [goes to door back and shouts.] are you there ma'am? mrs. granahan. [without.] aye. [she comes to door, opens it and stands looking inquiringly at both of them.] well? samuel james. da's just been talkin' about robbie john, and he wants you to hear what he says. william john granahan. robbie john's an idle useless paghle. he'll aither mend himself or go out o' this. mrs. granahan. [sharply.] mend yourself first, me good man. william john granahan. its not like as if he tuk a drop o' drink or fell in wi' bad company, for you'll get quet o' drink and bad company if you hae no money. samuel james. [slily.] it was mother and i larnt you that. william john granahan. [snappishly.] will you hould your tongue. [to mrs. granahan.] when he might ha' been lookin after the cattle or the pigs or somethin else, where is he? up in the loft playin that damnation fiddle o' his. night an mornin' he's at it. mrs. granahan. deed and he's doin badly by it and no mistake. he's not been worth a ha' penny till us, this last six months. i think you do right just to stop him. samuel james. i heerd he won three poun' at the feis last monday at newcastle. william john granahan. there you are. and he never offered me one ha'penny o' it. me that brought him up and raired and fed him. them that plays the fiddle comes to no good end, i can tell ye. [reminiscently and with a sort of shame-faced pride.] not but i wasn't the great man at it myself wanst. and you were the girl that could ha' danced to it mary. but thank god i quet it. samuel james. [curiously.] why? william john granahan. i might ha took to drink and bad company and the like. mrs. granahan. you're no rid o' that yet william granahan. ye mind what way ye come home last bann fair on top o' the bread cart. samuel james. [slily.] yis. and the way the scarva man done him out o' the price o' the two pigs. mrs. granahan. that's one thing i can't get over. was it in a public house ye met him? william john granahan. there. there. thats enough to do about it. i hear enough about drinkin' from john graeme every session day without you etarnally at it. [robbie john and grandfather enter. they evidently understand from the looks of those present that something important is talked of.] where's that fiddle of yours robbie john? bring it to me. [robbie john looks curiously at him and then at samuel james. he goes into room and brings it out. he holds it in his hands and looks suspiciously at the father.] now robbie john listen to what i and your mother have thought about this. for our sake and your own we want you to give up that accursed thing and put it from you. robbie john. why? what harm does it do you or me? william john granahan. it makes you negleck your work. it makes you think o' things you shouldn't think o'. it makes you loss slape o' nights sitting up an playin' and then you can't rise in the mornin'. when you should be polissin the harness, or mendin' a ditch, or watchin' the cattle, or feedin' the poultry, you've got this thing in your hand and practisin' on it. robbie john. [indignantly.] its not true. i don't do these things. i- william john granahan. now will you atten' to your duties and give up this playin'. what good will it ever do ye? ye seen what it brought yon man till that was in here. it's a tarrible warnin' till ye. robbie john. the fiddle didn't make him what he is. the drink did that. william john granahan. [scornfully.] aye. the leader of an ould circus band or somethin' like. [getting excited.] i'd just do wi that as i'd do with a sarpint. trample it under my heels. robbie john. [threateningly.] dare to put a hand on it. i'll kill the first man tries to. william john granahan. [angrily.] you dar' talk that way to your father! [soothingly.] mrs. granahan. now robbie dear. don't be gettin' on that way. grandfather. robbie my son mind what i was tellin' ye. its better to bear it if you can my son. its a hard thing but you can take my word for it, you'll no regret it. william john granahan. [sadly.] i had o' coorse a will drawn up and signed by 'torney mcallan and was for lavin' ye nice an' comfortable when i was to be takin' away. [he breaks down.] robbie, robbie, my son, sure its not my heart you're for breakin'. samuel james. coorse i heerd from one o' the judges, robbie, at the feis that you had the touch o' a master, and all that sort o' thing; but i advise ye- [here the grandfather shakes his stick at him threateningly.] i advise ye--of coorse its hard to know. grandfather. [looking angrily at samuel james.] don't think o' that robbie. sure every man that plays a fiddle, thinks he's a genius. don't be led astray son. william john granahan. [coaxingly.] aye. your grand-da has sense wi' him robbie. after all what about it. man there's that bonny wee lass waitin' for you over at graemes. to the fire wi' it. [robbie john hesitates. the grandfather pats him approvingly. with bowed head he goes forward to place it on the fire.] curtain. scene ii. the same scene. ellen and mrs. granahan seated near fire. ellen. so mr. graeme is comin' over here to settle matters with father to-day do you say? mrs. granahan. yes child, he's comin' to-day. ellen. what is it all about? mrs. granahan. well i suppose he's anxious to see what money is comin' to robbie john. he doesn't want to throw his daughter away without askin' questions. i expeck she's well enough to do to marry anyone she likes, but he's a canny man. ellen. well i suppose he's right. he must be anxious to see her well married. mrs. granahan. oh now between the two of them, robbie john will be a sight better off, nor your father and i, ellen when we married. ellen. robbie's a lucky man too. i never seen anyone as fond of him as she is. i wonner when father will be goin' to see anyone about me? mrs. granahan. oh whist child, your time's comin'. who was it left ye home from john graeme's temperance lecture? ellen. [slily.] that's a secret. mrs. granahan. [knowingly.] not till me. he's a brave body anyway. ellen. who? mrs. granahan. now you're the soft lassie. who's the manager of the creamery up beyont? ellen. [unsuspectingly,] tom taylor of course. mrs. granahan. and of coorse it was tom taylor left ye home. [knock at the door.] come in. come in. [taylor enters.] why speak o' the divil--how d'ye do mr. taylor. taylor. [he comes in, stands rather awkwardly looking at ellen, and then goes over near them.] very well, thank you, ma'am. mrs. granahan. this is my daughter ellen. [slily.] i think ye met her afore. taylor. [shaking hands with ellen, he detains her hand for a second and then drops it.] we did, i think, didn't we? mrs. granahan. [knowingly.] i just thought as much. [aside.] oh well, he's a brave body and would do rightly if the creamery does the same. [suddenly to taylor.] are ye coortin' any this weather mr. taylor? taylor. [taken aback. then decides to laugh it off.] well--eh--no. i'm not doin' much that way. mrs. granahan. [incredulously.] oh indeed. well i heerd otherwise. its full time ye were lookin' about for a wife. you'll be gettin' well on past thirty soon. taylor. [fidgeting uneasily.] oh i'm time enough for a couple of years or more. i want to look round me a bit. mrs. granahan. well ye better look sharp, for you'll soon be getting too ould for gettin' any sort of a dasint girl. [inquisitively.] ha'e ye anyone in your eye yet? taylor. i have an account to pay your good man mrs. granahan. mrs. granahan. two poun' ten is due. [thinking.] aye. but i suppose you'll be now in what i would call a good way o' doin'. taylor. there was a five per cent. dividend this half year. the creamery's goin' on well. [searching in pocket and getting out account.] two pounds, nine and six, ma'am, beggin' your pardon. mrs. granahan. ach sure sixpence is naither here nor there to a creamery. [pauses.] if that's the way you are, you could be married in a year's time and- taylor. [evidently desirous to lead conversation off this topic.] here's the money, ma'am. [he lays it down on the table and counts it out.] you'll do as well as mr. granahan, i suppose. you take all to do with the money part i think. mrs. granahan. yes i do. you were at the lecture last monday? taylor. [alarmed.] what the divil- [suddenly to mrs. granahan and genially.] yes. could you oblige me with a receipt ma'am? mrs. granahan. surely. here ellen, get me the pen and ink. [ellen goes into room.] i suppose now there were some nice young weemin there--eh mr. taylor? taylor. [uneasily.] yes. and don't forget the stamp ma'am. mrs. granahan. ach sure a penny stamp's what you always carry wi' ye. [confidentially.] i think shame on ye mr. taylor, triflin' wi' the poor girls. there's no excuse for a man o' your age. taylor. [fidgeting.] well, well, i--here's a stamp ma'am. [impatiently.] i'm young enough yet. i don't want to marry yet awhile. mrs. granahan. well now i think ye'd be better o' some one to look after ye. there's william john granahan. _he's_ niver done bein' thankful since he married. he says he doesn't know what he mightn't ha' been, if he hadn't married _me_. taylor. [slily.] i can quite believe _that_. mrs. granahan. it was a good job for him, i can tell ye. for what wi' goin' to dances and the like and public houses, he was for making a nice mess o' himself. [confidentially.] and between you and me, ellen will no' be so badly off aither when he goes. [ellen comes in and puts paper, &c on table.] taylor. here's the stamp ma'am. mrs. granahan. [not noticing.] and there's a girl for you mr. taylor, that we spent a dale o' time over, and was brought up most careful. she's none o' your or'nary girls. ellen. [sharply.] oh mother! [she looks at taylor, smiles, and shrugs her shoulders.] mrs. granahan. [motioning silence.] there's too many girls runnin' about and all they can do is--sing a song or two, and dress themselves up like play actresses, and run about at bazaars and the like trying to get ahoult o' young men. taylor. you're quite right ma'am. mrs. granahan. now there's ellen was four years at a boardin' school that mr. graeme recommended till us, and i can tell you she got the proper schoolin', and let alone that, she can bake, sew or knit, and knows all about the managin' of a house. ellen. oh quit! [she looks diffidently across at taylor, who grins.] mrs. granahan. [counting money.] here. it's sixpence short o' the count. taylor. let me see. [he goes to table and counts money.] two and two's four, and two's six, and two and six is eight and six, and one shillin'--nine and six. mrs. granahan. [thinking.] nine and six. i thought it was--oh yes it _was_ nine and six. taylor. yes. nine and six. mrs. granahan. very good. i'll write you a receip'. [takes pen and paper.] ellen. [to taylor who stands looking over at her.] you haven't been round this way a long time mr. taylor. what ailed you, you didn't call? taylor. oh i was very busy. [he looks at mrs. granahan who is writing laboriously. then goes and examines a fiddle that hangs on the wall.] ha! i thought robbie john had burnt his fiddle and promised to play no more. mrs. granahan. aye so he did, but there's a strange story wi' that thing you're lookin' at. there was a tramp come here one day i was out, and when i come back, i found him playin' away on that thing, and the house in an uproar. taylor. aye? he left it here then? mrs. granahan. no, wait till i tell ye. i packed him out o' this, and the next thing i heerd about him was when a wheen o' weeks ago he was got half dead wi' wet and could in the flough moss. john mckillop was down for cutting turf, and foun' him in a peat hole, wi' his hands on the brew, and the ould fiddle beside him. ellen. yes. the poor soul died the next day, and just before he died he asked mckillop to bring over his fiddle to give to robbie john. robbie had been kind to him sometime or other, and the poor bein' never forgot it. taylor. ach aye. i do remember hearin' somethin' about it. they said he had been a big man in his day i think. mrs. granahan. aye. he was blatherin the day he was here about bein' the leader of an ould band or somethin' like, now that i call to mind. but indeed i paid no heed till him, for he was part drunk. taylor. [curiously.] you didn't get robbie to burn this one i see. mrs. granahan. well you see, samuel james said it was a very valuable one and worth fifty poun' or more may be. there's an inscription on it somewhere if you look. taylor. [taking down fiddle and examining it.] aye so i see. "to nicholas werner as a token of esteem from his orchestra. vienna, 1878." ellen. yes poor soul. he was tellin' the truth and no one believin'. taylor. and does robbie never play it? ellen. not since he promised that i know of. but all the same it must tempt him for i see his eyes fixed on it often enough when he thinks no one's lookin'. taylor. [he looks over at mrs. granahan who appears to be engrossed in her writing. he is just slipping his arm round ellen when mrs. granahan looks up. he instantly drops his arm.] mrs. granahan. ha'e you that stamp mr. taylor? taylor. its usual mrs. granahan for whoever signs the receipt to supply the stamp, however, there you are. [mrs. granahan licks the stamp, and signs the receipt.] the writin' doesn't come easy to you, ma'am. mrs. granahan. now its not very courteous makin' fun o' poor old weemin', mr. taylor. i thought better o' you nor that. taylor. ould weemin'? talk sense, mrs. granahan. i only wish my ould woman, if ever i have one, looks as well as you do. mrs. granahan. there, there, none o' your fool nonsense. you don't go blarneyin' me, like you do the likes of ellen there. ellen. ach mother! mrs. granahan. i'm much obledged to ye for the money mr. taylor. i must put it by me. [goes into room.] ellen. i suppose you've heard about robbie? taylor. [coming near her.] no. what's happened? ellen. he's to be married to jane graeme at christmas and mr. graeme's comin' over here to-day to settle about the money. taylor. [slily.] i wonder who your father will be settlin' matters with ellen, when you get engaged. ellen. why, of course--whoever gets me, i suppose. taylor. well there's one thing i wouldn't haggle with him over. ellen. and what would that be? taylor. yourself of course. [he draws her to him and makes to kiss her. robbie john and samuel james pass by the window and ellen immediately slips away from him. when they come in, she lifts a can and goes out by door to yard. robbie john and samuel james seat themselves at table. leaning against table and nodding to both.] well how's the corn doin'? samuel james. oh, fairly well the year. how's the crame market? taylor. much the same. nothin' new with you i suppose? samuel james. well they're goin' to settle robbie the day, that's all. he's a lucky boy. taylor. i wish you joy, robbie. robbie john. thank ye. thank ye kindly. she's a nice wee girl. samuel james. you don't seem as gay hearted as i would expect, does he mr. taylor? you'd think he was for getting hung or somethin'. i suppose ye heerd all about him givin' up the fiddle playin'? and the luck o' it. to burn his ould fiddle, and then get another a few days after. you'd think there was some sort of a strange warnin' or advice or somethin' in it. taylor. it is very strange. robbie john. samuel james do ye remember the time that ould tramp was playin' on this fiddle, as he went out that day, down the loney? [samuel james nods.] well, it seemed to me as if he were playin' to bring me out after him. d'ye mind the story, mr. taylor, about the piper that went off with all the children, and was niver heard tell of again. taylor. aye. robbie john. well i could feel him drawin' me out after him the very same way. and last night, as sure as death, i heard the same uncanny air singin' in my ears, and it seemed to be callin' me to come out o' this. taylor. [exchanges startled looks with samuel james.] och i suppose the wind or somethin' outside. but there's no doubt robbie you have a genius for the fiddle. there was a german professor of music at newcastle the day you won the prize and he was--but its not right of me to make you vexed, now you've stopped playin'. samuel james. ach he doesn't mind you tellin'. do ye robbie? tell and hearten him up a wee bit. taylor. this german was so struck with your playin' that he was lookin' for you all roads, but you were nowhere to be found. robbie john. [interested.] aye? i went straight home. i wonner what he wanted? samuel james. perhaps he could have given him a lift, eh mr. taylor? taylor. he was talkin' to me afterwards and by the way, i had clean forgot. [fumbling in his pocket.] he gave me his card to give you. i have it on me somewhere i think. [producing it.] aye, there it is. [reading.] professor--somethin' or other royal college of music. robbie john. keep it. if i had it, it would only temp' me. taylor. [looking significantly at samuel james who indicates by shaking his head that he considers robbie john hopeless.] you're a queer character. all right. but you can have it any time. [to samuel james.] i wish i had said nothin' about it. where's the old man? samuel james. the two ould men are out in the haggard, but [slily.] ellen's in the crame-house. [taylor goes out through door at back. samuel james looks over at robbie john who sits deep in thought near the fire.] you can no' hoodwink me, robbie. you're no' happy. robbie john. i'm happy enough. [angrily.] don't be tormentin' me. samuel james. faith you look happy. [drawing closer.] i seen you last night at it. robbie john. [looks round startled.] i couldn't keep from it. there's a spell or somethin' on it. samuel james. na. na. but every fiddle has its spell for you. you broke your promise. robbie john. you followed me then? samuel james. yes. ye crept on your stocking soles to the back o' the forth ditch, and played there for two mortal hours, till i was heart feared they'd miss us out o' bed, and raise a cry. robbie john. and you stood two hours in the night listenin' to me. samuel james. i 'clare to god, there's somethin' out o' common wi' you or that fiddle, for i had to stop and listen, and me teeth chatterin' wi' could. robbie john. i did wrong i know, but look here samuel james, as long as i see that thing hangin' there, my hands are itchin' to hold it, and the tunes i could play--they keep runnin' in my head. [suddenly rising.] i'll destroy it. samuel james. [quieting him down.] na. na. its a vallible fiddle. robbie john. it is. ach man but it does temp' me sorely. samuel james. aye. you might make a fortune, the dear knows. man i know what _i_ would do if i could play like _you_ do. [sarcastically.] that was if ye had the heart. robbie john. [excited.] ach quit! quit talkin' to me that way. i'm going out. [goes out by door at back.] samuel james. [getting off seat and standing about centre of room.] he'll take to it yet. [he goes over nearer fireplace.] i can see it workin' in him. sure his hands are tremblin' and his fingers twitchin' all the times he's lookin' at it. [the grandfather enters softly by door at back. he stands looking at samuel james who does not observe him.] maybe its no' right of me to let it hang there. ach. he maybe could make money plenty. i want till have a fine place and a lock o' money. and i'll build a bigger house. grandfather. [hobbling over to his seat.] aye. aye. ye could do a heap wi' money, samuel james. samuel james. [alarmed. he endeavours to bluff it with a show of geniality.] money's the thing, grand-da. grandfather. its a tarr'ble fine thing, there's no doubt. food and drink and fine clothes and fine houses ye can get. samuel james. and tobaccy and seegars and the front seat at a consart. grandfather. here. don't be temptin' robbie john about playin' on that fiddle. you've upset the boy. samuel james. [sharply.] i don't temp' him. grandfather. you're always remindin' him of it. i can see what you're workin' for samuel james. ye want all the money for yourself. samuel james. ha' sense, grand-da. sure they're settlin' the matter to-day and he's to be married at christmas. he wouldn't do anythin' rash now. grandfather. the clock has no' struck the hour yet samuel james. ye could no' tell what's workin' in his mind. samuel james. well, he'd be a fool, and what's more, he knows himself to be one if he goes. he'll lose all the money from da if he goes, and i'm sure jennie graeme's father wouldn't turn his head to look at a fiddler. grandfather. aye. he's tarr'ble proud o' his family. mrs. granahan. [opens door of room and comes in.] here. i seen mr. graeme and your da comin' up the loney from the windy in the low room. samuel james. well, they'll be for comin' in here and we're only in the road. come and twist a wheen o' ropes for me. [samuel james and grandfather go out by door at back.] mrs. granahan. [takes brush and sweeps floor. she then arranges a kettle at the fire. then goes to door and looks out.] aye. here he bes now and that good man o' mine talkin' till him a dozen till one. and ten till one, he'll have john graeme that angered wi' his arguin', that there'll be nothin' settled the day. [sound of william john granahan's voice. he appears to be talking at a great rate and most emphatically. john graeme and william john granahan pass the window.] aye, to be sure. he'd rather get the better o' graeme in an argyment as settle wi' him over twenty sons, the ould gomeril. [john graeme and william john granahan enter.] how dy'e do, mr. graeme? [she shakes hands with him warmly and warns the husband by nods not to resume the argument.] it's the brave weather for the crops this. john graeme. indeed we should be deeply thankful for the marcies vouchsafed us. [solemnly.] aye indeed. william john granahan. well indeed i would be that myself, only the half o' them young chickens goin' off with the gapes. it was a tarr'ble to do to save what's left o' them. mrs. granahan. oh well. its all in the way o' providence, mr. graeme. [she looks disapprovingly across at granahan. the two men seat themselves. john graeme beside table and wm. granahan on edge of table next him.] that was a fine lecture on the temperance ye gied us mr. graeme, at ballykelly. it done some people a heap o' good. [she looks across meaningly at william granahan.] john graeme. [apparently much pleased.] do you say so, mrs. granahan? i'm much pleased indeed to hear o' it. mrs. granahan. i only wished more o' the same kind had heerd you. [she looks across again at william john granahan who avoids her eye.] but you'll excuse me, i'm sure. i ha'e some things next room to look after for the evenin'. [she curtsies to graeme and with a warning look at granahan goes into room.] john graeme. i am very much pleased indeed to hear your good woman say she liked what i said. how did ye take to it yourself, mr. granahan? william john granahan. [suddenly waking up from twisting and untwisting a piece of string which he has found and in which he appears deeply interested while his wife is talking.] how did we like the speech you gave on temperance, d'ye say? [carelessly.] och, it was a very good and sensible discoorse, so i heerd ellen and mrs. granahan say. john graeme. ye didn't go yourself then. [disappointedly.] man, i wanted ye there particuler. william john granahan. i ha'e no doot if i had been there, i could ha' got up and contradickted ye, for [emphatically.] i did not agree wi' all i heerd ye said. john graeme. [surprised.] not agree wi' what i said. [scornfully with evident disgust.] man, ye couldn't argy wi' facts. what did ye disagree wi' in the discoorse? william john granahan. well for one thing, ye said there was too many public houses in the country. john graeme. [scornfully.] and every right-minded man would agree wi' that. william john granahan. well i can shew you another. you'll no argy wi' me that if a man wants to drink, he will drink. john graeme. [somewhat perplexed.] well--- [slowly.] i suppose i do agree till that. william john granahan. and if a man will drink, he's boun' till get drunk. john graeme. na. na. i don't agree till that. william john granahan. [triumphantly.] did you ivir hear tell of a man who was drunk wi'out drinkin'? john graeme. that's no' in the argyment at all. william john granahan. but i tell you it is. a man's bound to be drinkin' if he gets drunk. john graeme. i'm no contradickin' that at all. i--- william john granahan. [interrupting.] now houl' your tongue till i explain till ye. if a man get's drunk when he's drinkin', he's bound to be drunk o' coorse. john graeme. [contemptuously.] ye talk like a child. william john granahan. now wait till i get it hammered intill ye. now when that man's drunk, he's boun' to ha'e been drinkin'. [he hesitates and is obviously confused. then suddenly seems to grasp the idea he wants.] aye--in a public house o' coorse. john graeme. o' coorse. what else would he do there but drink. william john granahan. now that man gets drunk. [he looks inquiringly at graeme] john graeme. [hopelessly.] aye. william john granahan. now the public houses are that scarce that he has till walk home maybe ten mile or more. john graeme. well? william john granahan. and ten till wan he gets lost or somethin', and they have the whole countryside upset lookin' for him. now if he had a public house convanient in his own townland, there would be no bother at all, and he could be at his work the next mornin' wi'out any interruptin' o' labour. d'ye see what i mane? mrs. granahan. [suddenly appearing at door evidently angry.] the more public houses the less drinkin' did he say? if he had _his_ way o' it, every other house from here to buckna would be a public house. [to husband.] quit your wastin' mr. graeme's time wi' your argyments, and settle what he has come here to do wi' ye. william john granahan. well. well. we'll agree till let the matter drop. you ha'e nobody but your daughter i suppose? john graeme. well i ha'e a sister married up in dublin. william john granahan. but she's in a good way o' doin' i suppose? john graeme. oh yes. purty fair. o' coorse i would like to lave her somethin'. william john granahan. ach, gi'e her a lock o' your hair or somethin'. you'll lave the place to your daughter o' coorse. john graeme. yes. i'll be doin' that. william john granahan. aye. it's a purty fair farm o' land. ye bought it out o' coorse? john graeme. two year come march, and a good reduction. william john granahan. aye. so i heerd. well if ye gi'e her the farm and what money ye ha'e, i'll gi'e robbie a cheque for a hunnert poun'. john graeme. [impressively.] william john granahan d'ye think this is a horse fair? my daughter will ha'e no man unner five hunnert poun'. william john granahan. [uneasily and walking about.] man, you'll nivir get her married john graeme, at that way o' talkin'. five hunnert poun'. d'ye think i'm a rockyfellow? ha'e some sense about ye. john graeme. aither that or no son o' yours weds my daughter. five hunnert poun' and not one ha'penny less. there's the family name to be thought o'. william john granahan. ach! family name! a lock o' ould wives' blathers about who was married till who, till you'd have your head sore takin' it all in. john graeme. you've heerd what i ha'e to say. take it or lave it. you can plaze yourself. william john granahan. five hunnert poun'. it's a tarr'ble price. would two hunnert no' do? you see i ha'e samuel james and ellen to provide for. john graeme. a graeme o' killainey weds no man unner five hunnert poun', william granahan. mind that. i want my daughter married to no beggarman. william john granahan. [excitedly.] beggarman! beggarman, did ye say? hats, john graeme, i think ye should be proud o' wan o' yours marryin' a granahan. money or no money, that's a nice way o' talkin'. john graeme. i suppose ye know i come o' good family, mr. granahan? william john granahan. [sarcastically.] i heard ye were wance cotter folk up by dromara mountain. john graeme. [proudly.] my father and my forefathers had my farm--aye, from the time o' the plantin'. william john granahan. d'ye tell me? i nivir seen your laase o' the farm but of coorse if ye say so. did ye nivir hear tell of smith, hunter, and fargison? john graeme. [contemptuously.] john smith of ballykelly? william john granahan. [disgusted.] yon cratur? ballykelly? [proudly.] lonnon! well my mother was a daughter o' samuel james smith, and a niece o' robert john francis fargison. john graeme. [contemptuously.] i nivir heerd tell o' them. william john granahan. i wonner at your ignorance john grame. a well educated man like yourself as sets yourself up to be taching the congregation on matters o' law and the temperance question, (_raising voice_) and you that ignorant o' common information. mrs. granahan. [opening door and coming in a few steps.] william john granahan, didn't i tell ye not to be raisin' argyments. how you manage at the markets i nivir could understand. get your business done, and ha' settled wi' it. william john granahan. [soothingly.] whist, whist woman, i was only discoorsin'. mind the tay and i'll mind the rest. there. there. i agree to your tarms, john graeme. i'll do it, though it's lavin' me tarr'ble short. john graeme. [impressively.] but there's one thing i'll no ha'e, william granahan. william john granahan. [alarmed.] and what might that be? john graeme. if your son is to marry my daughter, i'll ha'e none o' his music. its all very well for quality and the like to go strummin' on instruments, but its no' meant for a sensible farmer. william john granahan. aye. i agree wi' that. but look here. mind ye a song or two and a bit o' a tune on a long winter's night keeps one from thinkin' long and between you and me, it keeps you from the bottle. john graeme. that's where you and i differs. supposin' he starts playin' a dance tune or two, and the neighbours gather in. you like to do the thing dacint, and ye send out for drink, and then it goes from bad to worse. na. na. i'll ha'e none o' that. william john granahan. well. well. make your mind aisy. ye know he has promised me nivir to play again, and i don't think you'll hear much o' his fiddlin'. john graeme. i'm right glad to hear it, and i'll tak' your word for it. william john granahan. very good. [with admiration.] man, you'd ha' made a great horsedailer john graeme. john graeme. aye. i had an uncle in the town, a dailer, and he was always sayin' that. william john granahan. and well you could ha' done it, if i knowed anythin'. i'll go to banbridge a friday wi' you to settle wi' the lawyers. john graeme. very good. i'll call for you wi' the trap that day. its time i was for goin' home. william john granahan. we were expectin' ye ower the day, and i think mrs. granahan has the tay laid in the low room. [calls.] mrs. granahan! mrs. granahan. [from room.] yes. [she comes in and stands waiting near door.] william john granahan. we're just after settlin' up about robbie john and jennie. can ye get us a drop o' tay? mrs. granahan. if you could just take mr. graeme for a turn round, i could ha'e it for you in wan second. the table's laid and the kettle's boilin'. is your daughter wi' you mr. graeme? john graeme. aye. she was comin' over after me. i suppose she should be here by now. william john granahan. well i can show you the new reaper and binder i got. that new wexford machine, i was tellin' you about a sunday in the session. john graeme. very good. i'll just go out and see it. [william john granahan and john graeme go out by door at back.] mrs. granahan. [going over to fire and arranging kettle.] five hunnert poun, and after me tellin' him to keep till four hunnert. wait till i get ahoult o' him again. i'll speak till him. did he no' hear me thumpin' four times on the door till remind him. he must ha'e a soft spot in his heart for robbie john. [tap at door.] come in. [jane graeme enters somewhat diffidently.] oh its you miss graeme. [shakes hands.] youre welcome indeed. your father's just gone out wi' my good man. jane. yes. i know--but i thought perhaps--well that robbie was in here. mrs. granahan. [inspecting her critically.] deed now, i couldn't tell you where he might be. jane. i'll just sit down a minute. i suppose you are all doing well here mrs. granahan? mrs. granahan. ach aye. as well as one could expeck. there's nothin' to make much complaint o'. jane. i haven't seen robbie about for some time mrs. granahan. i suppose he's working hard at the harvest. mrs. granahan. aye 'deed there's a brave press o' work on now, what wi' the corn a cuttin', and the rest o' it, he's been gey busy o' late. jane. indeed i am sure he was. [she looks round, sees the fiddle hanging up where taylor has left it.] [aside.] is that the fiddle he was telling me about, i wonder? [to mrs. granahan.] is that the tramp's fiddle, mrs. granahan? mrs. granahan. aye, that's the poor cratur's belongin'. but you needn't be afeared. robbie's indeed been very good. he's nivir played on it to my knowin', and keeps his promise well. jane. poor robbie. do you not think he's unhappy about something or other mrs. granahan. he's got very dull and moody this last while. mrs. granahan. deed now i don't see much odds in him miss graeme. he nivir was a great boy with his tongue anyway; [slily.] bar maybe an odd wan or two he would mak' up to. jane. i think you do wrong to keep that fiddle hanging up before his eyes, when he has promised never to play again. mrs. granahan. och blatherations. i nivir heerd the like o' the sort o' talk people goes on wi' nowadays. do ye think my son bes only an ould ba cryin' for a toy? deed now i don't think he worries his-self much about it. jane. [aside.] poor robbie. [to mrs. granahan.] robbie's a poor hand at the farming, mrs. granahan. mrs. granahan. [snappishly.] och aye. but he's greatly mended since he giv up playin'. jane. yes. he's a very poor farmer. but he was a wonder with his fiddle. mrs. granahan. oh well. it canna' be helped. he's better wi'out. jane. i don't know. [she goes over and takes down the fiddle seats herself and draws the bow across it as it lies on her lap.] robbie could have made it speak to you. he used to make me cry, and then laugh after it. [she places the strings near her ear and thumbs it wrapt in thought.] mrs. granahan. [looking contemptuously at her and then rising.] you just stay here a second till i fix the tay. [she goes into room. jane remains seated where she is, occasionally touching the strings and seemingly deep in thought. robbie john passes window. he looks in and then goes quickly to door and enters.] robbie john. who's that fiddlin'? [goes over to jane.] why it's you. i heard you were come. jane. yes. i'm just in a minute or two. [he sits down beside her.] robbie. robbie john. well? jane. answer me one question. aren't you a very poor farmer? robbie john. well--i--i suppose i am. jane. i knew you were. you're no good for selling cattle or going to market, or looking after crops. robbie john. you're very hard jane to-night. what's put all that into your wee head? jane. i've been listening to this and its been tellin' stories on you. robbie john. aye and when its hangin' there dumb its speakin' to me, callin' to me. don't think i'm mad jane but i can't stand it much longer. what makes them hang it there to temp' me? why? just because they think they can make a few miserable pounds, they'll keep it there makin' me a liar, a pledge breaker, a man who can't keep his promise. i'll end it now. i'll smash it. [he makes to take the fiddle out of her hands.] jane. [resisting.] no. no. i want to say--i want to ask something robbie. what does it say to you? robbie john. what does it--ach--i wonder would you laugh at me like the rest if i told you. jane. [sitting closer and putting her arm about his neck.] what does it say. tell me. _i_ would never laugh at you robbie dear. robbie john. [hesitatingly.] ach--about--about takin' it and makin' a name for myself with it. [bitterly.] it sounds like fool talk doesn't it. jane. to my father and yours it would sound like that and samuel james would laugh at you, but he'd encourage you to believe in it. robbie john. let me break it then. smash it. jane. [determinedly.] no. look robbie if i said it was whispering you the truth, what would you say? robbie john. [surprised.] i would say that it was true. but you never would. jane. [determinedly.] i say it is the truth. robbie john. you what? ach you don't know what you say child. if i did take to it again, look what would happen. my father would turn me out, and your father would forbid me then ever lookin' at you again. jane graeme engaged to a penniless fiddler, and she the best match in the whole countryside. i need never think of you again jane. jane. i don't care what they bid. if you took to that fiddle and went away, would you forget me soon? robbie john. forget you, jane? what makes you think that? sure you know i gave it up sooner than lose you. jane. then take that fiddle and do what your heart tells you to. i wondered often and often what it was that made you so sad, and i know now. god made you a musician and not a farmer. robbie john. and you? what would you do? jane. i know and trust some day god willing, you'll come back to me, rich and famous enough to have them all at your feet. i know you will. robbie john. god bless you wee girl for you're put a heart into me. [they embrace. mrs. granahan comes in.] mrs. granahan. there. there. bide a wee. here they're all coming in for their tays. [william john granahan, graeme, taylor, samuel james and grandfather come in. robbie john goes over to fiddle and puts it into a case.] william john granahan. [puzzled.] so you're at it again, are you? well i suppose there's no harm in giving miss graeme a tune, but i thought you were a man to your word. robbie john. [determinedly.] look here. i want you all to know i am goin' to try my luck with this. samuel james. [exultingly.] you're goin' to lave us like to mak' money wi' it. robbie john. i'm goin' to try. mrs. granahan. robbie john are you daft. what wild nonsense are ye talkin' about. and you to be married at christmas and everythin' settled about you this very day. robbie john. i am determined to do it. nothin' can keep me back. john graeme. there. that's enough. my daughter jilted by a granahan! come home out o' this jane graeme. [he stamps his foot angrily and beckons her to come. jane moves past robbie john where he is standing and then suddenly kisses him and goes out with her father.] william john granahan. [passionately.] you see what you ha'e done robert john granahan. broken your parents' hearts, and made the name of the granahans a disgrace to the countryside. [wildly.] quick d--n ye before it's too late. robbie john. my mind's made up. give me the address of that professor you told me of, mr. taylor. taylor. you're a fool, robbie. [producing card and handing it to him.] there. that's it. william john granahan. there's time yet, man. after john graeme, and make it up wi' him. swear you were only makin' fun. robbie john. i stick by the fiddle. william john granahan. [mad with anger.] then stick by the fiddle. and know if ever you are weary or ahungered or in want, ye need nivir look me for any help. [shouts.] out you go. out. don't dar one of you as much as till take his hand. out. out the same as the beggar man gone, wi' the curse of your father on you. [robbie john goes toward back and stands a moment as if in silent appeal at the open door. mrs. granahan rushes forward to her husband as if to entreat mercy. he angrily puts her away.] out. out you go. curtain. epilogue. the same scene, about midnight. there is no light except that of one or two candles and the turf fire. grandfather seated at fire. william john granahan leaning despondently on table beside which he is seated. samuel james in his favourite seat on the top of the table. wind, storm and rain outside. grandfather. aye. aye. but its no use talkin' now. ye might ha' been a wee bit the less hasty. william john granahan. and who was goin' to thole yon conduck. it was too bad of him and after the to-do we had over him this very day. its a sore heartscald, robbie john, ye've been to me this day. samuel james. ach, sure its over. its full time we were in our beds. [viciously.] you'd think he was dead and buried to hear the two of ye goin' on. sure for all know, he may be comin' back and a great name wi' him. grandfather. that's you to the ground, ye cunnin' rascal. keep him out at all costs. [thunder and lightning.] d'ye hear yon? to think o' that poor sowl wi' his wee bit o' a coat out in the coul' and wet. if any harm come till him, samuel james, know this, you were the cause o' it. samuel james. it was his own choosin'. grandfather. his own choosin'. who flattered him and led him on? who kep' the fiddle hangin' there and would let no one take it down, a continuin' temptation till him? and you, william john granahan, wi' your lust for money. aye. lust for money. you couldn't abide him heartenin' up the house wi' a tune or two, but ye'd brak the boy's heart sendin' him out till work again, and him workin' as much as two of samuel james there. ye thought he was wastin' time and money. d'ye think there's nothin' in this life beyond making money above the rent. i tell you it's not the money alone that makes life worth livin'. it's the wee things you think nothin' o', but that make your home a joy to come back till, after a hard day's work. and you've sent out into the coul and wet, the one that was makin' your home somethin' more than the common. d'ye think them proud city folk will listen to his poor ould ballads wi' the heart o' the boy singin' through them. its only us--its only us, i say, as knows the long wild nights, and the wet and the rain and the mist o' nights on the boglands,--its only us i say, could listen him in the right way, [sobbing.] and ye knowed, right well ye knowed, that every string o' his fiddle was kayed to the cryin' o' your own heart. william john granahan. [half sobbing.] there. there. god forgive me, my poor ould boy. i did na know. whist. maybe if i say a word or two:--oh god forgive us this night our angry words, and ha'e marcy on my wayward son, o lord, and keep him safe from harm, and deliver him not unto the adversary. amen. grandfather. amen. aye. aye. ye done well. let no the sun go down upon your wrath. william john granahan. [going to door.] it's a coorse night. [pauses.] i'll lave the door on the hesp. [he unbolts the door.] curtain. o'gorman and company, printinghouse, galway. _press opinions of performances._ "the turn of the road" ... is beyond question one of the most sterling products of the irish literary revival ever seen at the abbey theatre. whether depicting a matchmaker like the astute mrs. granahan ... or reproducing the conversation of farmers just returned from fair or market, discussing parish affairs or speculating on harvest prospects, the author is equally delightful and successful.--_irish times._ the "turn of the road" ... is one of the most successful pieces ever written dealing with irish life. the author "rutherford mayne" has drawn his characters with a master's hand and they stand out clear and distinct.--_freeman's journal._ the play was of engrossing interest and was a masterpiece of composition which speaks hopefully of the work to be expected of the ulster school of drama.--_daily express._ "the turn of the road" is a brilliantly written comedy characteristic of the county of down.--_irish independent._ the charm of this little play is delightful and natural; its comedy is beautifully balanced and its pathos ... superb and admirably restrained.--_evening herald._ "the turn of the road" is a clever and poetic conception clothed in smart effective county down dialogue with many bright and sparkling lines. the significance, the pathos, and inherent beauty of the concluding scene is a piece of consummate art.--_belfast newsletter._ the author ... builds his scenes out of simple materials but always with the eye of a craftsman for striking effects and incidents.... the "return from market," "the marriage bargain," and the last scene ... have the illusion of life, and are in a phrase--which, though blunted by misuse, expresses a real need in irish art--"racy of the soil"--_the northern whig._ "the turn of the road" is a cleverly constructed picture of life in a county down farmhouse, evidently drawn by one who knew his characters or their prototypes in the flesh.--_irish news._ it is a play that transports the hedge rows, the farm kitchen with its dresser and turf fire, and above all the real vernacular right into our preception more vividly than an experience. the author has written a remarkable fine play of life, humour, and realism.--_nomad's weekly and belfast critic._ into the brief compass of his two acts mr. rutherford mayne has compressed the age-long attitude of ulster towards the arts.... light is breaking after the long arctic night. the very existence of this poignant play pregnantly indicates that the old order is changing and must soon give place to the new.--_the lady of the house._ the more we see this peasant drama in two scenes and an epilogue, the more we admire its unpretending art and its real greatness.--_belfast evening telegraph._ the drone a play in three acts by rutherford mayne luce & co. boston copyright, 1912. samuel waddell. to seveen characters john murray, _a farmer._ daniel murray, _his brother._ mary murray, _john's daughter._ andrew mcminn, _a farmer._ sarah mcminn, _his sister._ donal mackenzie, _a scotch engineer._ sam brown, _a labourer in john murray's employment._ kate, _a servant girl in john murray's employment._ alick mccready, _a young farmer._ _the action takes place throughout in the kitchen of john murray in the county of down._ time ... _the present day._ the drone _a comedy in three acts_ act i. scene: _the farm kitchen of john murray. it is large and spacious, with a wide open fire-place to the right. at the back is one door leading to the parlour and other rooms in the house, also a large window overlooking the yard outside. to the left of this window is the door leading into the yard, and near the door an old-fashioned grandfather's clock. opposite to the fire-place on the left side is another door leading into daniel murray's workshop, and beside this door is a large dresser with crockery, &c. at the back beneath the window is a table near which_ kate, _the servant, a slatternly dressed girl of some thirty years of age or more, is seated. she is carefully examining some cakes of soda bread, and has a bucket beside her into which she throws the rejected pieces._ kate. that one's stale. it would break your teeth to eat it. (_she throws the cake into the bucket._) and the mice have nibbled that one. and there's another as bad. (_she throws both pieces into the bucket._) (brown, _the servant man, opens the door from yard and enters. he is elderly, and with a pessimistic expression of face, relieved somewhat by the sly humour that is in his eyes. he walks slowly to the centre of the kitchen, looks at_ kate, _and then turns his eyes, with a disgusted shake of the head, towards the dresser as if searching for something._) brown. well! well! pigs get fat and men get lean in this house. kate. it's you again, is it? and what are you looking now? brown. i'm looking a spanner for the boss. the feedboard to the threshing machine got jammed just when halfway through the first stack, and he is in a lamentable temper. kate (_uneasily_). is he? (_she starts hurriedly to clear up the table._) brown (_watching her slyly to see what effect his words have_). and he's been grumbling all morning about the way things is going on in this house. bread and things wasted and destroyed altogether. kate. well, it's all miss mary's fault. i told her about this bread yesterday forenoon, and she never took any heed to me. brown. miss mary? (_with a deprecatory shake of his head._) what does a slip of a girl like that know about housekeeping and her not home a half-year yet from the boarding-school in the big town, and with no mother nor nobody to train her. (_he stares in a puzzled way at the dresser._) i don't see that spanner at all. did you see it, kate? kate. no. i've more to do than look for spanners. brown (_gazing reproachfully at her and then shaking his head_). it's a nice house, right enough. (_lowering his voice._) and i suppose old mr. dan is never up yet. i was told by johnny mcandless, he was terribly full last night at mcarn's publichouse and talking--ach--the greatest blethers about this new invention of his. kate. do you say so? brown. aye. no wonder he's taking a lie this morning. (_he peeps into the door of the workshop._) he's not in his wee workshop? kate. no. miss mary is just after taking up his breakfast to him. brown. some people get living easy in this world. (_he gives a last look at the dresser._) well divil a spanner can i see. i'll tell the master that. (_he goes out again through the yard door, and as he does so,_ mary murray _comes through the door from the inner rooms, carrying a tray with teacups, &c., on it. she is a pretty, vivacious girl about eighteen years of age._) mary. who was that? kate. it's the servant man looking for a spanner for your father, miss mary. there's something gone wrong with the threshing machine. mary (_taking the tray to the table and starting to get ready to wash up the cups_). i do believe sometimes that uncle dan's a lazy man. kate (_assisting her at the washing and stopping as if astonished at the statement_). and is it only now you're after finding that out! sure the whole countryside knowed it this years and years. mary (_sharply_). the whole countryside has no business to talk about what doesn't concern it. kate. oh, well, people are bound to talk, miss. mary. but then uncle dan is awfully clever. he's got the whole brains of the murrays, so father says, and then, besides that, he is a grand talker. kate. aye. he can talk plenty. sure sarah mcminn, that lives up the cut, says its a shame the way he's going on this twenty years and more, never doing a hand's turn from morning to night, and she says she wonders your poor father stands him and his nonsense. mary. who said that? kate. sarah mcminn told johnny mcandless that yesterday. mary. sarah mcminn? pooh! that hard, mean, old thing. no. i believe in uncle dan and so does father. he'll make a name for himself yet. kate. well, it's getting near time he done it. mary. and that sarah mcminn they say just keeps her brother in starvation, and she just says nasty things like that about uncle dan because he doesn't like her. kate. aye. he never did like people as seen through him, not but she is a mean old skin-a-louse. (_the voice of_ daniel murray _is heard calling from within._) he's up, miss. mary. are you up, uncle? (dan murray _opens the door from the inner apartments and comes into the kitchen. he is carelessly dressed and sleepy-looking as if just out of bed, wears a muffler and glasses, and appears to be some fifty years of age._) daniel. yes. did the _whig_ come yet? mary. yes. i put it in your workshop. daniel (_glancing at the clock_). bless my heart, it's half-past one! mary (_reproachfully_). it is, indeed, uncle. daniel. well! well! time goes round, mary. time goes round. (_kate picks up the bucket and goes out by the yard door._) where's your father? (_he crosses over to the workshop door._) mary. he's out working with sam brown at the threshing all morning since seven o'clock. daniel. well! well! a very industrious man is john murray. very. but lacking in brains, my dear--lacking in brains. kind, good-hearted, easy-going, but--ah! well, one can't help these things. (_he goes towards the workshop._) where did you say the _whig_ was, mary? mary. it's in your workshop. (_he crosses over to go there._) mary. you were very late coming in last night, uncle. daniel. eh? (_he goes in, gets the paper, comes out again._) mary. i heard you coming in, and the clock was just after striking two. (_he sits down and opens paper._) daniel. well--i met a few friends last night. appreciative friends i could talk to, and i was explaining that new idea of mine that i've been working at so long--that new idea for a fan-bellows. it's a great thing. oh yes. it should be. i sat up quite a while last night, thinking it over, and i believe i've got more ideas about it--better ones. mary. do you think you'll make money off it, uncle? daniel. mary--if it comes off--if i can get someone to take it up, i believe 'twill make our fortune, i do. mary. oh, uncle, it would be lovely if you did, and i would just die to see that nasty mcminn woman's face when she hears about you making such a hit. daniel. mcminn? has that woman been sneering about me again? that's one woman, mary, i can't stand. i can never do myself justice explaining ideas in company when that woman is present. mary. never mind her, uncle. (_coming close beside him._) do you mind the time last time, uncle, when you went up to belfast for a week to see about that patent for--what's this the patent was, uncle? daniel (_uncomfortably_). last time? aye? why? mary. yes. don't you remember you said you knew of an awfully nice boy that you met, and you were going to bring him down here. daniel. upon my soul, i had clean forgotten. yes, yes. i think i did say something about a young fellow i met. mary. was he nice, uncle? daniel (_becoming absorbed in the newspaper_). eh? i think so. oh. he was--very nice chap. mary. well, you said he was coming here to see me, and he never turned up yet. daniel. did i? very possibly. i suppose he must have forgotten. mary (_walking away to the left and then back again pouting_). i'm sick of the boys here. there's only alick mccready that's anyway passable. when will you see him again, uncle? daniel. well--possibly, when i go up to town again. very soon, perhaps. that is if your father, mary, can spare the money. mary (_thoughtfully_). i don't know, uncle. you see that would be five times now, and somehow you never seem to get anything done. that's what he said, mind you, uncle. daniel (_mournfully_). well! well! to think of me toiling and moiling away in that workshop of mine, day after day, and week after week, and year after year--and there's all the thanks you get for it. mary. uncle? daniel (_somewhat irritably as he gets engrossed reading_). well? mary. look, if you went up to belfast again soon, won't you see that boy? i wonder what he's like. (_she gets close beside her uncle and nestles beside him._) is he dark or fair? daniel. yes, yes. i think so. mary. dark? daniel. yes. i believe he is dark. mary. and tall? daniel (_trying vainly to read in spite of the interruptions_). very tall. mary. oh, how nice! and uncle, is he good-looking? daniel. very. fine looking fellow. mary. that's grand; and uncle, is he well to do? daniel. he has every appearance of it. mary. oh you dear old uncle! (_she nestles closer to him._) but maybe he wouldn't look at me when he has a whole lot of town girls to go with. daniel. my dear niece, you don't know what a very good-looking young lady you are, and besides he saw your photograph. mary. which photograph? daniel (_perplexed_). which photograph? your own of course! mary. the one i got taken at lurgan? daniel. yes. i think so. mary. oh uncle! that horrid thing! why didn't you show him the one i got taken at newcastle? daniel. my mistake. very sorry, indeed, mary, i assure you. but i tell you what, i'll take the album with me next time. will that do? mary (_laughing_). there. now you're only joking. (_suddenly._) what do you do all the time you stay in belfast, uncle? daniel (_uneasily_). um--um----business, my dear girl, business. see engineers and all that sort of thing, and talk things over. it takes time, you know, mary, time. mary. you've been an awful long time inventing, uncle, haven't you? daniel. well, you know, mary dear--time--it takes time. you can't rush an inventor. mary. well look, uncle. you know i can just wheedle father round my wee finger, can't i? daniel. you can indeed. mary. well, look: if you promise to bring down this boy you are talking about, i'll get father to give you enough to have two weeks in belfast. there. it's a bargain. daniel. um--well--he may not be there you know. mary (_disappointed_). o uncle! daniel. you see he travels a lot and he may be away. he may be in london. in fact i think--yes. he said he would be going to london. mary. then why not go to london? daniel (_starting up and speaking as if struck with delight at the possibility_). eh? i never thought of that! (_he collapses again._) but no. your father, mary. he would never give me the money. no. mary. but you're more likely to meet people there who'd take it up, aren't you, uncle? daniel. it's _the place_ for an inventor to go, mary. _the place._ (_pauses._) but i'm afraid when john hears about it----(_he becomes very dubious and shakes his head_). mary. well, look here, uncle. do you mind the last time when he would not give you money to go up to belfast about your patent. daniel (_sadly_). i do. mary. you remember you got a letter a few days after asking you to come up at once and you had to go then. hadn't you? daniel. i had. mary. well, couldn't we do the same this time? daniel (_looking at her uneasily_). eh? mary. couldn't we get someone to send a letter. (_pausing and thinking, then suddenly_). oh, the very thing! you know that silly alick mccready that comes running after me. well, look, i'll get him to send a letter. daniel. no good, my dear. i did it before----i mean letters on plain notepaper don't carry much weight. no. mary. what about----oh, i know! uncle, a telegram! daniel. great idea! it is in soul! mary. and we'll put something on it like "come to london at once to see about the patent," or something like that. and he'd have to let you go then. daniel. mary, you're really a cleverer girl than your father thinks. (_musingly._) two weeks in london. mary. and don't forget the nice boy, uncle, when you go. daniel. i'll do my best to get hold of him. mary. no. i want a good definite promise. promise, uncle. daniel. well, really you know, my dear, he---mary. uncle, promise. daniel. um----well, i promise. mary. you're a dear old thing. you see, uncle, i don't want to marry alick mccready or jim mcdowell or any of those boys, unless there's nobody else. daniel. quite right, my dear, quite right. two weeks in london. splendid! but it's time i was going into my workshop. (_he rises and takes the paper with him._) i must really try and do something this morning. (_exit by workshop door._) mary (_calling after him_). you won't forget, uncle? will you? daniel. no, certainly not. mary. i do hope uncle brings that nice boy. dark--tall--well set up--well to do. (kate _comes in again through the yard door, and looks at_ mary, _who is gazing vacantly into space._) kate. well? what notion have you got now? mary. oh! just think, kate! how would you like a boy who was dark and tall, and well set up and well to do? kate. i'd just leap at him. mary (_laughing_). agh! i don't think he'll ever come, kate! kate. i think you've plenty on hand to manage. (brown _opens the yard door and resumes his old-position from which he stares at the dresser_). you're back again, are you? brown. aye. kate. what ails you now? brown. i'm looking the spanner. mary. the spanner? brown. the spanner, miss mary. it's for turning the nuts like. kate. have you never got it yet? brown. do you think i've got eyes in the back of my head? underneath the seat, beside the salt-box, on the right near the wee crock in the left hand corner. (_he makes a movement to open one of the drawers of the dresser._) kate. will you get out of that, ignorance. it's not there. brown (_with an appealing look at_ mary). maybe its in the parlour? mary. well, i'll take a look round. (_she goes through the door to living rooms._) brown (_mysteriously_). did you hear the news? kate. no. (_very much interested._) what? brown. ach! you women never know anything. kate. what's the news? somebody killed? brown. no. more serious. kate (_alarmed_). god bless me! what is it? brown. andy mcminn has a sister. kate (_disappointed_). ach! brown. and she's trying to get a man. kate. well. i knowed that this years. brown. and mr. john murray is a widow man. kate. you mean to be telling me that mr. john has a notion of that old thing? go long with you! brown. did you ever hear tell of a widow man that never got married again. kate. plenty. don't come in here talking blethers. brown. whist. there's more in what i'm telling you than you think. and i'll hold you to a shilling that sarah mcminn will be mrs. john murray before one month. kate. who told you? brown. ach. you've no more head than a yellow yorling. where has mr. john been going to these wheen of nights? kate (_thinking_). andy mcminns! brown. aye. do you think it is to see old andy? and sure he's been talking to me all morning about the way the house is being kept. no hand to save the waste; bread and things destroyed; hens laying away; eggs ate up by the dozen and chickens lost and one thing and another. and hinting about what money a good saving woman would bring him. and mr. daniel---kate. sh----he's in there working. brown. working? ah, god save us! him working! the last man that seen mr. dan working is in his grave this twenty years. (_he goes over next workshop door._) i'll just peep in at him through the keyhole. (_he goes over and does so, and then beckons_ kate _over. she peeps in and grins. as they are thus occupied_ alick mccready _opens the door and stands gazing at them. he is a type of the young well-to-do farmer, respectably dressed and good-looking._) alick. well! well! some people earn their money easy! brown. aye. in soul. just look in there to see it. (mccready _looks in and bursts into a loud hearty laugh._ brown _hurriedly goes out by the yard door and_ kate _by door to inner rooms._) daniel (_opening door and standing there, perplexed looking_). what's the matter? alick. ah. i was just laughing at a wee joke, mr. murray. daniel. it must have been very funny. alick. aye. it was. (_coming close to_ daniel, _who walks slowly to the middle of the kitchen._) i say. were you at mcarn's publichouse last night? daniel (_looking round cautiously to see that no one else can hear him_). well, just a minute or two. why? alick. there was someone there told andy mcminn this morning, i believe, that you'd been talking of a great invention altogether, and he was that much curious to see it that him and his sister sarah are coming over this day to have a look at it. daniel. who? sarah mcminn? alick. aye. she's very anxious to see it, i believe. daniel. um. rather awkward this. she's not a woman that, plainly speaking, i care very much to talk about my ideas to. alick. but have you got something struck out? daniel. mccready, come here. (alick _goes closer to him._) it is really a great idea. splendid. but i've a great deal of trouble over it. in fact i've been thinking out details of a particular gear all morning. alick. aye. (_he looks at_ daniel _and then endeavours to restrain unsuccessfully a burst of laughter._) daniel (_angrily_). you were always an ignorant hound anyway and be d----d to you. (_he turns to go towards his workshop._) alick. ah, mr. murray, i beg your pardon. it's another thing altogether i'm thinking about. i just wanted a talk with you this morning. you have a nice wee girl for a niece, mr. murray. daniel (_somewhat mollified_). well? alick (_bashfully_). and i was wondering if you could put in a good word for me now and again with her. daniel. now, look here, alick. we can all work nice and comfortably together, can't we? alick. aye. daniel. well, if you behave yourself like a man with some manners, and not like an ignorant clodhopper, i can do a great deal for you. alick. thank you, sir. you know, mr. murray, i have as nice a wee farm, and as good stock on it as well, as any man in the county, and if i'm lucky enough to get that niece of yours, you'll always be welcome to come and pass a day or two and have a chat. daniel. i think you and i will get along all right, alick. there's one or two little things i need badly sometimes in this house. i mean i want help often, you know, alick, to carry my points with john; points about going to see people and that sort of thing, and it's really very hard to manage john on points like that, unless we resort to certain means to convince him they are absolutely necessary. alick (_uneasily_). yes. i sort of follow you. daniel. you know what i mean. john's a little dense, you know. he can't see the point of an argument very well unless you sort of knock him down with it. now, if a thing is fair and reasonable, and a man is so dense that he can't see it, you are quite justified--at least, i take it so--to manufacture a way--it doesn't matter how--so long as you make that dense man accept the thing, whatever it is, as right. do you follow me? alick. i'm just beginning to see a kind of way. mary (_appearing at door from inner rooms_). i can't see that thing anywhere. (_she suddenly sees_ alick.) oh alick! you here! alick. yes. it's a nice morning, and you're looking beautiful! mary. oh, bother. (_she seems to suddenly recollect something._) oh, i say! uncle! you remember? uncle! daniel (_somewhat perplexed_). eh? mary (_motioning towards_ alick). telegram to come to london. daniel. ah----oh, yes, yes. mary. let's go into your workshop and tell alick what we want. come on. alick. i'll do anything in the world you want. (_they all go into the workshop. as they disappear,_ john murray, _sweating and angry looking, comes through from the yard followed by_ brown. john _is a tall, stout man, with a rather dour countenance and somewhat stolid expression. he is a year or so the elder of dan in age. he goes to the dresser, puts his hand on the top shelf, takes down a spanner and throws it down angrily on the table._) john. there. there you are, you stupid-looking, good for nothing, dunder-headed, italian idiot you. brown. you're something terrible cross this morning. john. (_heatedly_). is it any wonder? away out at once now and put her to rights and quick about it. (brown _meekly goes out._) the like of servant men nowadays, i never seen in my mortal days. a concern of ignorant bauchles, every one of them. daniel (_opening door of workshop and peeping out. he sees_ john _and goes over to him with a genial air_). good morning john. john (_snappishly_). morning. daniel. john, what do you think, i believe i have just come on to a great idea about---john. ach! you and your great ideas! here you've been blundering and blethering and talking these fifteen years and more, and i've never seen anything come of them yet. daniel (_soothingly_). i know, john, i know. but i'm handicapped you know. bad place to work in and all the rest of it: but you've been kind to me, john. keeping a brother and helping him after he has lost all his money isn't a common thing with many men, but john a day will come sometime, and you'll get it all back. (_impressively_). every penny. aye, and twice over. john (_softening_). thank you, daniel. daniel. you will, john, you will. but don't cast up things like that about the time i've been. it hurts me. a thing like this takes time to mature, you know, john. the great and chief thing for an inventor is time. look at palissy, the great french potter, who found out how to make porcelain glaze. why he worked for years and years at his invention. and there was the man who found out how to make steam drive engines. look at the years those men spent--and no one begrudged them. john. i suppose that now. daniel. certainly, john, nothing surer. and look at the fortunes those men made. but the great difficulty is trying to get someone to take up your patent. you see these men had the eyes of the world fixed on them. people knew all about them, and had their hands stretched out ready to grab what they invented. (_pathetically_). i----i'm just a poor unknown man struggling in a wee dark corner. john (_touched_). never mind, danny. you'll make the name of the murray's known yet, maybe. daniel. i'll do my best, john. but mind you it would take me to be pushing on this thing that i have found out and bringing it before people to notice. you see i've got it all ready now except for a few small details. john (_much interested_). have you now? i would like you sometime to explain it to me, daniel. i didn't quite get on to it the last time you were telling me about it. daniel. some time again. oh yes. but john--i'll have to go to some of the towns soon to see people about it. the bigger the town the better the chance, and john (_impressively_)--london's the place. john (_aghast_). london! in all the name of the world, yon place! would belfast not do you? daniel. no. i don't like belfast. they're a mangy, stick-in-the-mud, follow-in-the-old-ruts crowd. never strike out anything new. it's a case of london or nothing. john (_dubiously_). it will be a terrible expense this london visiting. daniel. it'll be worth it. john. now, danny, i would like to oblige you, but what do you think it would cost me? daniel. well, i could live cheap you know, john, and do without meals an odd day, and go steerage and third class, and that sort of thing. i would say about fifteen pounds roughly. that would let me stay more than a week. john. fifteen pounds! god bless me, daniel, would you break me? no, no, i couldn't afford to give you that much. daniel. maybe ten would do it. i could sleep out under the arches an odd night or two, and---john. no, no. i'll not have that. a murray aye had a bed to go to and a sup to eat. (_after a contemplative pause._) here, i'll give you three pounds and you can go to belfast. daniel. i don't care much about belfast. you know i have been there five times now, and i have never got anyone to look into the thing at all proper. john. you're too backward, daniel, when it comes to the like of that. but ten pounds! no, i would like you to get on in the world right enough, daniel, but i couldn't afford it. you know the way this house is being kept; it's lamentable. tea and sugar and flour and things. man, i'm just after paying off ten pounds to the mcafees for one thing and another, and it only a running account for two months. if i had a good housekeeper now, maybe things would alter for the better. mary (_coming out from the workshop followed by_ alick). o uncle dan! he says he'll go at once and get it----(_she stops short in confusion on seeing her father._) alick. how are you, mr. murray? john. o! bravely. what's the news with you? alick. i was just looking over some of them ideas of daniel's, about the new fan bellows. john. aye. now what do you think of it? alick (_warned by_ daniel _who nudges him_). they're great altogether. john. do you think there will be any sale for it at all? alick. i think so. (_he perceives_ daniel _motioning assent._) i believe there would be indeed. john. man, i wish i had the head of some of you young fellows to understand the working of them machinery and things. (daniel _goes back into the workshop._) i've the worst head in the world for understanding about them sort of things. there's daniel, a great head on him, daniel. alick (_slyly_). he has, right enough! john (_proudly_). one of the best. when he was a wee fellow, dang the one could beat him at making boats or drawing pictures, or explaining extraordinary things to you. none. not one. a great head on him, daniel. he'll do something yet. alick. did you know andy mcminn's for coming over to see you this day, mr. murray? john (_eagerly_). this day? when? are you sure? alick. aye, so he said. about two o'clock or so. someone told him about daniel's great new idea, and he's very curious to hear about it. mary. he's always poking his nose into people's business. john. whist. andy mcminn's a very decent man. tell me (_rather bashfully_), was sarah to come with him? mary (_alarmed_). o holy prophets! i hope not. alick. aye. she's coming too. she wanted to see it as well as andy. john. aye. certainly, and she's welcome too. mary, you can get the house ready, and the table set, and a nice tea for them when they come, and i can go and get tidied up a wee bit. (_he goes off through door into inner rooms._) alick (_leaning against the table and looking across at_ mary, _who is sitting at the opposite end._) you're as nice a wee girl as ever i---mary. you're an awful fool. hurry, alick, like a decent man and get that telegram sent. alick. that uncle of yours, mary, heth he's as canny a keoghboy as i've seen. its the queer tears he'll be taking to himself in london if i know anything. mary. hold your tongue. you've no business to talk about uncle dan that way. he could give you tons as far as brains go anyway. alick. i believe that. (_he goes to yard door, then turns back._) i say, mary. what name will i put on that telegram? "come to london at once about patent. intend purchasing." hadn't we better have a name? mary. yes. i'll just ask uncle. (_she knocks at door of workshop._) uncle! daniel (_without_). yes. mary. what name will we put to that telegram? daniel (_without_). oh, it's not particular. wilson or smith, or brown, or gregg. alick. i'll put gregg on it. daniel. do well. alick. did you see the fluster that your father got into, mary, when he heard that sarah mcminn was coming over? mary (_alarmed_). what? alick.. did you not see how he rushed off to tidy himself up when he heard sarah mcminn was coming over? mary (_seating herself on chair to right of table_). nonsense. father wouldn't think of that woman. alick. all right. but i think i know something more than you. mary (_anxiously_). what? tell me. alick. come on and leave me down the loaning a pace, and i'll tell you. mary (_glancing at him, and then coquettishly turning her back to him as he leans against the table_). oh, i can't. those people are coming over, and that mcminn woman will be looking at everything and telling you how to do things in front of father, and all the rest of it. alick (_entreatingly_). leave me down the loaning a pace till i tell you the news. mary (_teasingly_). no. alick. come on. mary. no. (alick _moves sadly towards the door._ mary _looks round, and then laughingly skips past him out through the yard door, and he follows her._) john (_coming through door from inner rooms partly dressed, with a towel in his hands, evidently making much preparation to clean himself_). daniel! (_loudly and crossly._) daniel! daniel (_peeping out from workshop door_). well! john. tidy yourself up a wee bit, man, andy mcminn and sarah's coming over to see you. daniel (_somewhat taken back_). me? john. aye. they want to see about the new invention. you can have the collar i wore last sunday, and put on your new coat that you got in belfast. (daniel _goes back into the workshop._) i wonder what tie would be the better one? yon green or the red one that mary gave me last christmas. aye. (_seeing no sign of_ daniel.) d----n! is he making no shapes to dress himself. daniel! daniel (_without_). aye. john (_loudly_). daniel! daniel (_again appearing at door_). well! john (_impatiently_). come on and get on you. daniel. ach. this is always the way. just when a man has got the whole thing worked out and the plans of the apparatus just on the point of completion he has to stop. john. never mind, danny. you can do it again the night or the morrow morning. i want you to look decent. come on and get on you. daniel (_beginning to regard his brother with a sudden interest and suspicion_). who did you say was coming? john (_at door to rooms_). andy and sarah mcminn. (he goes out.) daniel (_suddenly realising the import of the preparations going on._) mcminn. mc----. (_he stops short, and then in a horrified voice._) surely to god he hasn't a notion of that woman? (_calling tremulously._) john! john! john (_at door_). hurry up, man. daniel (_appealingly_). john. tell me, john. you haven't----you're not going to----you haven't a notion of that woman? john (_hesitatingly_). well, daniel, you see the house needs some one to look after it proper, and i thought----well--maybe--that sarah would be just as nice and saving a woman as i could get, but i thought i would keep it a bit secret, don't you know, because i don't know yet if she'd have me or not. and she could talk to you better nor i could about machinery and things that would interest you, for she has an agency for sewing machines, and knows something about that sort of thing, and you'd get on great with each other. now, hurry and get on you. (_he goes out by door into rooms._) daniel (_looking after him in a helpless manner, and sinking into a chair_). if--if she'd have him! o great god! if that woman comes to this house, i--i'm a ruined man. (curtain.) act ii. _the same scene some hours later. the curtain rises to discover_ kate _seated near table at back enjoying a cup of tea which she has made, and is drinking with relish._ kate. i suppose they'll be wanting jam and sugar for the tea--aye--and some of them scones miss mary cooked yesterday, not but you couldn't eat them, and a pat or two of butter. (_she finishes off the remains of the tea._) now, that's a nice girl for you! here's company coming till the house and tea and things a wanting, and she goes and leaves all to go strolling down the loaning with that fool of a mccready. (brown _opens the yard door and comes in. he replaces the spanner on the top shelf and then turns and looks at_ kate.) kate. well? brown. well, yourself? kate. do you see any sign of them mcminns yet? brown. aye. i see the trap coming over the cattle hill. there was three in it, as far as i could make out. kate. who be to be the third party i wonder? is it their servant man? brown. do you think old andy mcminn's servant man gets leave to drive them about of an afternoon like the clergy's? talk sense, woman. kate. maybe it's yon scotch body i heard was stopping with them. brown. aye. yon mackenzie. ach, man, but yon creature would scunder you. kate. aye. brown. ach! cracking jokes and laughing that hearty at them, and i'm danged if a bat with one eye shut could make out what he was laughing at. (_listening._) here they are. i hear the wheels coming up the loaning. i'll have to go and put up the horse for them i suppose. (_he goes out by yard door._) kate. i wonder if the master seen them coming. (_she rapidly clears the table and then goes over to door into room._) i better tell him. (_she knocks at the door._) john (_without_). aye. (_he comes and opens the door, dressed in his best suit of clothes._) what's the matter? kate. they're just come, sir. john (_excitedly_). are they? (_comes into kitchen._) is my tie right, kate? and my clothes--is there any dirt on the back of them? kate (_inspecting him critically_). you'll do grand. i never seen you looking better. john. where's mary? why isn't she here? kate. she went out about something. she'll be back in a minute. john. right enough, it would do her all the good in the world to have a sensible woman looking after her. she just gets her own way a deal too much in this house. (_he goes to window and looks out._) aye. here they are! tell daniel to hurry. (kate _goes off by door to rooms._) sarah's looking bravely. man, that woman could save me thirty, aye forty, pounds a year if she was here. (_suddenly._) ach! is daniel never ready yet? (_calls._) daniel! (_louder._) daniel! daniel (_without_). aye. john. hurry, man. they've come. (john _goes to yard door and goes out._) daniel (_in an exasperated voice_). ach! (john _comes in followed by_ andrew mcminn, _an elderly non-descript sort of man, followed by_ sarah, _a sour faced spinster of uncertain age. in the rear is_ donal mackenzie. _he is wearing a tourist costume of norfolk jacket and knickers, and is a keen faced, hard, angular looking personage._) john. yous are all welcome. every one of you. you andy and sarah, and mr. mackenzie. the scotch is aye welcome, mr. mackenzie. mackenzie. aye. that's what i said the last time i was in ballyannis, and was verra thirsty, and went into a beer-shop to get a dram--black and white it was. verra guid. (_he laughs loudly at his own joke._) sarah. we brought mr. mackenzie along with us to see your brother, john. you see he's an engineer and knows a good deal about machinery and plans and things. mackenzie. aye. there's not much about machinery that i dinna ken, mr. murray, from a forty thousand horse power quadruple expansion doon to a freewheel bicycle. (_proudly._) i hae done spells work at all of them, you ken. andy. i suppose daniel's at home. is he? john. daniel? oh aye, daniel's at home. he's just tidying himself up a wee bit. mackenzie. a wee bit paint and powder gangs a lang gait to make up defects, as you ken yourself, miss mcminn. (_he laughs loudly._) that's a guid one. andy (_looking slyly at sarah_). he's up out of bed then? john (_innocently_). oh aye. he sits up late of nights working out things. (_he points to the door of workshop._) that's his workshop. mackenzie. he works then? john. aye. he works in there. (_andy goes over and goes into workshop._) mackenzie. because it doesna follow always, as i have discovered in my experience, that because a man has a workshop, he works. (_he laughs, evidently much pleased at his own humour._) andy (_looking out again through door_). there's nothing much to see in this place except a lot of dirty papers. john. that's the plans of the bellows he's working at. mackenzie (_going over to workshop_). come out, mr. mcminn, till i examine. (_andy comes out and he passes in._) eh. this is the plan of the great bellows. (_he laughs loudly._) andy. is he making much headway with it, john? john. indeed, now, i think he's doing bravely at it. he's keeping very close at it this day or two. andy. there's a terrible amount of newspapers lying in there. has he no other plans and drawings except what's there? john. oh aye. he has plenty of plans and drawings somewhere, for i seen them once or twice. mackenzie (_coming out_). i can't say much about that contrivance. (_he laughs._) and, i say. look here. he does more than draw bellows. he draws corks as well. (_he produces a bottle of whiskey almost empty._) john. ah, well. he's not a great transgressor either in the matter of a bottle. no, no. andy. and the smell of smoke in the place! sarah. john, i think daniel smokes far too much. andy. he should be dressed by now. john. aye. oh, aye. he should right enough. he's a wee bit backward before women, you know, sarah. (_calls._) daniel! (_he goes over and opens door into rooms._) daniel! daniel (_without_). yes. (_he appears at the door struggling vainly with his collar._) john. why didn't you come long ago. what kept you? daniel. your collar. (_he looks across at_ andy _and_ sarah, _who have seated themselves at the back._) how do you do, andy and sarah? you're very welcome. (_he looks at_ mackenzie, _who stares curiously at him._) andy. this is a friend of ours, daniel, that happened to be stopping with us last summer at newcastle in the same house, and he came over for his holidays to us this time. we brought him over to see you. they calls him mackenzie. daniel (_crossing over to the left and taking a seat near the door of the workshop._) how do you do? mackenzie (_patronisingly_). i'm glad to see you at last, mr. murray, for i've heard a good deal about you. sarah. you see, daniel, mr. mackenzie is an engineer in one of the great scotch engineering yards. (daniel's _face expresses his dismay, which he hurriedly tries to hide._) what place was it you were in, mr. mackenzie? mackenzie. i served six years in the engine and fitting shops with messrs. ferguson, hartie & macpherson, and was two years shop foreman afterwards to dennison, mclachlan & co., and now i'm senior partner with the firm of stephenson & mackenzie. if ever you're up in greenock direction, and want to see how we do it, just ask for donal mackenzie, and they'll show you the place. (_proudly._) we're the sole makers of the mackenzie piston, if ever you heard of it. daniel (_uneasily_). i'm sorry to say i haven't. mackenzie. and you call yourself an engineer and you don't know about donal mackenzie's patent reciprocating piston. john (_apologetically_). you see we be a bit out of the world here, mr. mackenzie. daniel. yes. now that's one point. one great point that always tells against me. (_getting courageous._) it really needs a man to be continually visiting the great engineering centres--greenock, london-mackenzie (_scornfully_). london's not an engineering centre--glasgow, hartlepool, newcastle---daniel. well, all those places. he could keep himself posted up in all the newest ideas then, and inventions. mackenzie. but a man can keep himself to the fore if he reads the technical journals and follows their articles. what technical papers do you get? do you ever get the scottish engineers' monthly handbook, price sixpence monthly? i'm the writer on the inventors' column. my articles are signed fergus mclachlan. perhaps you've read them? daniel. i think--um--i'm not quite sure that i have. mackenzie. you remember one i wrote on the new compressed air drills last july? daniel (_looking across at_ john, _who is standing with his back to the fireplace_). i don't think i do. john. no. we don't get them sort of papers. i did buy one or two like them for daniel, but he told me he would just as soon have the _whig_, for there was just as much information in it. mackenzie (_laughing_). o spirit of burns! just as much information--well, so much for that. now, about this new patent, this new fan bellows that i hear you're working at, mr. murray. daniel. what about it? andy. we both seen the drawings in there, daniel, but i don't think either of us made much of it. could you not explain it to him, daniel. give him an idea what you mean to do with it. john. aye. now's your chance, daniel. you were talking of some difficulty or other. maybe this gentleman could help you with it. daniel (_shifting uneasily, and looking appealingly at_ john). well. there's no great hurry. a little later on in the evening. (_he looks at_ sarah.) i'm thinking about miss mcminn. i don't think this conversation would be very interesting to her. sarah. oh, indeed now, mr. murray, i just love to know about it. a good fan bellows would be the great thing for yon fireplace of ours, andy. andy. aye. soul, it would that. daniel (_uncomfortably_). no. not just yet, john. a bit later on. i'm shy, john, you know. a bit backward before company. john. you're a man to talk about going to see people in london. sarah. what? was he going to london? john. aye. he was talking about going to london, and i was half-minded to let him go. andy (_who exchanges meaning glances with_ sarah). boys, that would cost a wheen of pounds! mackenzie. who wull you go to see in london? daniel (_evasively_). oh--engineers and patent agents and people that would take an interest in that sort of thing. mackenzie. have you anyone to go to in particular? daniel. oh, yes. sarah. it will cost a great deal of money, daniel. seven or eight pounds anyway. won't it, mr. mackenzie? mackenzie. it would, and more. john (_looking at_ sarah _with evident admiration_). man, that's a saving woman. she can count the pounds. (_suddenly_). daniel, away out and show andy and mr. mackenzie the thresher, and get used to the company, and then you can come in and explain the thing to them. i want sarah to stay here and help me to make the tea. that fool of a mary is away again somewhere. andy (_after a sly glance at_ sarah). aye. come on, daniel, and explain it to us. i hear there's a new kind of feedboard on her. mackenzie. how is she driven, mr. murray? daniel (_uncomfortably_). how is she what? mackenzie. how is she worked--steam, horse, or water power, which? john (_motioning_ daniel _to go, which the latter does very unwillingly_). go on out and you can show them, daniel. (daniel, andy, _and_ mackenzie _go out through yard door._) he's backward, you know, sarah, oh, aye--backward; but a great head. a great head on him, daniel. sarah. i suppose he is clever in his way. john (_seating himself close beside her and talking with innocent enthusiasm_). ah, boys, sarah, i mind when he went to serve his time with mcarthurs, of ballygrainey, he was as clever a boy as come out of the ten townlands. and then he set up for himself, you know, and lost all, and then he come here. he's doing his best, poor creature, till pay me for what kindness i showed him, by trying to invent things that he says would maybe pay off, some time or other, all he owes to me. sarah (_cynically_). poor daniel! and he lost all his money? john. aye. every ha'penny; and he took a hundred pounds off me as well. and now, poor soul, he hasn't a shilling, barring an odd pound or two i give him once or twice a month. sarah. well! well! and he's been a long time this way? john. aye. (_reflectively._) i suppose it's coming on now to twenty years. sarah. it's a wonder he wouldn't make some shapes to try and get a situation somewhere. john. ach, well, you know, when annie, the wife, died and left mary a wee bit of a wain, i was lonesome, and daniel was always a right heartsome fellow, and i never asked him about going when he came here. sarah. he must be rather an expense to you. pocket money for tobacco, and whenever he goes out a night to mcarn's, its a treat all round to who is in at the time. and his clothes and boots, and let alone that, his going to see people about patents and things up to belfast three or four times in the year. if he was in a situation and doing for himself, you could save a bit of money. john (_pensively_). aye. heth and i never thought much of that, sarah. i could right enough. i'll think over that now. (_he looks at her, and then begins in a bashful manner._) you weren't at ballyannis school fãªte, sarah? sarah. no. but i heard you were there. why? john (_coming still closer_). i was expecting to see you. sarah (_contemptuously_). i don't believe in young girls going to them things. john (_gazing at her in astonishment_). but god bless me, they wouldn't call you young! (sarah _turns up her nose disgustedly._) i missed you. man, i was looking for you all roads. sarah. i'm not a fool sort of young girl that you can just pass an idle hour or two with, john murray, mind that. john. i never thought that of you, sarah. sarah. some people think that. john (_astonished_). no. sarah. they do. there's andy just after warning me this morning about making a fool of myself. john (_puzzled_). but you never done that, sarah. sarah. well, he was just after giving me advice about going round flirting with tom, dick and harry. john. ah no. you never done that. sure i knowed you this years and years, and you never had a boy to my knowing. sarah (_offended_). well i had, plenty. only i just wouldn't take them. i refused more than three offers in my time. john (_incredulously_). well! well! and you wouldn't have them! sarah. no. john. why now? sarah (_looking at him meaningly_). well--i liked somebody else better. john (_piqued_). did he--the somebody--did he never ask you? sarah. he might yet, maybe. john (_hopelessly to himself_). i wonder would it be any use then me asking her. sarah. and i'm beginning to think he is a long time thinking about it. (_knocking at the door._) john (_angrily_). ach! who's that? brown (_opening yard door and looking in_). me, sir. mr. dan wants to know could you not come out a minute, and show the gentlemen what way you can stop the feedboard working. john. don't you know yourself, you stupid headed lump you. away back at once. (brown _hurriedly closes the door after an inquiring glance at the pair._) that's them servant men for you. he knowed rightly what way it worked, only he was just curious. (_savagely._) he's a stupid creature, anyway. sarah. i think all men is stupid. they never see things at all. john. now, sarah, sure women are just as bad. there's mary. she's bright enough someways, but others--ach---sarah. mary needs someone--a woman--to look after her. somebody that knows how to manage a house and save money. she's lost running about here. now, i had a young girl with me once was a wild useless thing when she came, and when she left me six months after, there wasn't a better trained, nor as meek a child in the whole country. john. and you can manage a house, sarah, and well, too. can't you? sarah. i ran the house for andy there twenty years and more, and i never once had to ask him for a pound. and what's more, i put some into the bank every quarter. john. did you now? (_he looks at her in wondering admiration._) sarah. yes. and i cleared five pounds on butter last half year. john (_with growing wonder_). did you? sarah. and made a profit of ten pounds on eggs alone this year already. john (_unable to contain himself any longer_). sarah, will you marry me? sarah (_coyly_). oh, john, this is very sudden. (_knocking at yard door._) i will. i will. will you tell them when they come in? john (_now that the ordeal has been passed, feeling somewhat uncomfortable_). well, i would rather you waited a few days, and then we could let them know, canny, don't you know, sarah. break the news soft, so to speak. eh? sarah (_disappointedly_). well, if you want it particular that way i--(_knocking_). john (_going to door_). aye, i'd rather you did. (_he goes to the door and opens it and_ mary _comes in._) mary. i peeped through the window and i thought, perhaps, it would be better to knock first. it's a nice evening miss mcminn. (_she takes off her hat and flings it carelessly on a chair._) where's uncle dan? i want to see him. john. he'll be in soon enough. he's out showing andy and mackenzie the thresher. mary (_laughing_). uncle dan! what does he know about----(_she stops short, remembering that_ sarah _is present._) mr. mackenzie? sarah. yes. he's a gentleman, a friend of ours, engaged in the engineering business, who has a large place of his own in scotland, and we brought him over here to see your uncle dan about the invention he's working at. john. you stop here, mary, with sarah, and get the tea ready. you should have been in the house when company was coming. where were you? mary. oh, just down the loaning. john. who with? mary. alick mccready. john (_sternly_). aye. you're gay fond of tralloping about with the boys. sarah. he's not just the sort of young man i would like to see in your company, mary. mary (_impertinently_). it's none of your business whose company i was in. john (_disapprovingly_). now, mary, remember your manners in front of your elders, and mind you must always show miss mcminn particular respect. (_impressively_). particular respect. (_going towards yard door._) and you can show sarah what you have in the house, and do what she bids you. them's my orders. (_he goes out._) sarah (_looking disapprovingly at_ mary). i wonder a girl like you has no more sense than to go gallivanting about at this time of day with boys, making talk for the whole country side. mary (_sharply_). i don't have to run after them to other people's houses anyway. sarah. and that is no way to be leaving down your hat. (_she picks it up and looks at it._) is that your sunday one? mary (_snatching it out of her hand_). just find out for yourself. sarah. now, you should take and put it away carefully. there's no need to waste money that way, wearing things out. mary (_with rising temper_). do you know it's _my_ hat? not yours. and i can do what i like with it. (_she throws it down and stamps on it._) i can tramp on it if i want to. sarah (_smiling grimly_). oh, well, tramp away. it's no wonder your father complained of waste and this sort of conduct going on. (kate _comes in through door from rooms._) mary. have you got the tea things ready, kate? kate. yes, miss. mary. i suppose we better wet the tea. sarah (_looking at the fire_). have you the kettle on? mary. can't you see for yourself it's not on. sarah. here, girl (_to_ kate), fill the kettle and put it on. (kate _looks at_ mary, _and with a shrug of her shoulders, obeys the orders._) where's the tea till i show you how to measure? mary (_in a mocking voice_). kate, get miss mcminn the tea cannister till she shows you how to measure. (kate _goes to the dresser and brings the teapot and cannister over to_ sarah _at the table._) sarah. but it's _you_ i want to show. (mary _pays no attention, but sits down idly drumming her fingers on the table._) there now--pay particular attention to this. (_she takes the cannister from_ kate, _opens it and ladles out the tea with a spoon into the teapot._) one spoonful for your father and uncle, one for my brother and mr. mackenzie, one for yourself and me, and half-a-one for kate. mary. do you see that, kate? kate. yes, miss. mary (_mockingly_). now the next thing, i suppose, is to weigh out the sugar. sarah. no. you always ask the company first do they take sugar before you pour out the tea. mary. no; not in good society. you put it on the saucers. sarah. put some in the bowl, kate, and never heed her. mary (_almost tearfully_). you've no business to say that, kate! who's your mistress here? kate (_very promptly_). you, miss. mary. then do what i tell you. put on the tablecloth, and lay the cups and saucers, and make everything ready, and take no orders except from me. sarah. very well. i'll learn her manners when i come to this house. (_to_ mary) i want to see the china. mary. well, go into the next room and look for it. sarah (_going towards door to rooms_). you better mind what your father told you. (_she goes in._) mary (_making a face after her_). you nasty old thing. (daniel _appears at the door from yard. he is nervous and worried looking. he goes and sits down near the fireplace, wearily._) uncle dan. (_she goes over close beside him._) wasn't it good of alick? he went away to ballyannis post office to get that telegram sent. daniel. a very decent fellow, alick. (_gratefully._) very obliging. mary (_confidingly_). do you know, uncle, when he went off to send that telegram i was nearly calling him back. i don't care so very much now whether i see that boy you were telling me about or not. is he--do you think, uncle--is he much nicer than alick? daniel. nicer? (_he looks at his niece, and then begins to divine the way her feelings lie._) well, of course we have all our opinions on these things you know, mary, but alick--well, after all there's many a worse fellow than alick, isn't there? (mary _does not answer, but puts her head close to her uncle._) ah, yes. mary (_suddenly_). uncle! do you know what has happened? i heard father proposing to miss mcminn! daniel (_groaning_). oh my! i knew it would happen! i knew it would happen! when? where? mary. in here. i wanted to slip in quietly after leaving alick down the loaning when i overheard the voices. it was father and miss mcminn. she was telling him how she had saved five pounds on butter last half year, and ten pounds on eggs this year, and then father asked her to marry him. i knocked at the door out of divilment, and she just pitched herself at him. i--i'm not going to stay in the house with that woman. i'd sooner marry alick mccready. daniel (_despairingly_). i would myself. i daren't--i couldn't face the look of that woman in the mornings. mary. it's all right for you to talk, uncle. you'll be working away at your inventions, and that sort of thing, and will have nothing much to do with her, but i'd be under her thumb all the time. and i hate her, and i know she hates me. (_tearfully._) and then the way father talks about her being such a fine housekeeper, and about the waste that goes on in this house, it nearly makes me cry, just because i have been a bit careless maybe. but i could manage a house every bit as well as she could, and i'd show father that if i only got another chance. couldn't i uncle? daniel (_soothingly_). and far better, mary. far better. mary. and you could do far more at your invention if you only got a chance. couldn't you, uncle? daniel. no doubt about it, mary. none. i never got much of a chance here. mary. i wonder could we both try to get another chance. (_suddenly, with animation._) uncle! daniel. well? mary. aren't you going to explain that fan bellows thing you've been working at to them when they come in? (daniel _nods sadly._) well, look. that scotchman--he understands things like that, and that's just the reason why that nasty woman brought him over. just to trip you and show you up, and she thinks she'll make father see through you. but just you rise to the occasion and astonish them. eh, uncle? daniel (_uneasily_). um--well, i don't know. that scotchman's rather a dense sort of fellow. very hard to get on with somehow. mary. now, uncle dan, it's our last chance. let us beat that woman somehow or other. daniel. it's all very well, mary, to talk that way. (_suddenly._) i wonder is there a book on machinery in the house? mary. machinery? let me think. yes, i do believe kate was reading some book yesterday about things, and there was something about machinery in it. daniel. for heaven's sake, mary, get it. mary (_calling_). kate! are you there, kate? (kate _comes in from inner rooms._) where's that book you were reading last night, kate? kate (_surprised_). for dear's sake, miss! yon dirty old thing? the one with the big talk between the old fellow and the son about everything in the world you could think of? mary. yes, yes. uncle dan wants it. (kate _fetches a tattered volume from the dresser and hands it to_ daniel. daniel _opens it, and reads while the two girls peer over his shoulder._) daniel (_reading slowly_). "the child's educator. a series of conversations between charles and his father regarding the natural philosophy, as revealed to us, by the very reverend ezekiel johnston." kate. (_much interested_). aye. just go on till you see mr. dan. its the queerest conversation between an old lad and his son ever you heard tell of. daniel (_reading_). ah! "the simple forms of machines. the lever, the wedge, the inclined plane--father--and here we come to further consider the application of this principle, my dear charles, to what is known as the differential wheel and axle. um charles--father--charles. father." (_he looks up despairingly at_ mary.) no good, my dear. out of date. (_he, however, resumes reading the book carefully._) kate (_nudging_ mary, _and pointing to door into rooms_). she's going into all the cupboards and drawers, and looking at everything. (_she turns to go back and opens the door to pass through._) i never seen such a woman. mary (_raising her voice so as to let_ sarah _hear her_). just keep an eye on her, kate, and see she doesn't take anything. daniel. i might get something out of this. atmosphere. pressure. mary. uncle dan. (_he pays no attention, but is absorbed in the book_). uncle dan, i'm going down the loaning a pace. alick said he might be back, and i think--(_she sees he is not listening, and slips back to look over his shoulder._) daniel (_reading_). charles. and now my dear father, after discussing in such clear and lucid terms the use of the barometer, and how it is constructed, could you tell me or explain the meaning of the word "pneumatic." mary (_going towards yard door_). good luck, uncle danny. i'm away. (_she goes out._) daniel. there's not much here about bellows. (_hopelessly._) i wish i had made up this subject a little better. (kate _comes in evidently much perturbed and angry._) kate. the divil take her and them remarks of hers. who gave her the right to go searching that way, i wonder? where's the silver kept, and was it locked, and how many spoons was there, and why weren't they better polished; and part of the china broke. sarah (_coming to door and speaking. as soon as_ daniel _hears her voice he hurriedly retreats across to the workshop._) where do you keep the knives and forks? kate. you don't want forks for the tea. sarah. i want to count them. kate (_in amazement_). oh, god save us! you'd think there was a pross on the house! (_she follows_ sarah _in through door_ mackenzie _comes in, followed by_ john, _then_ andy.) mackenzie. and it was a great idea, you know. the steam passed through the condenser, and the exhaust was never open to the atmosphere. john (_evidently much impressed, and repeating the word in a wondering manner_) aye. the exhaust! mackenzie. aye. the exhaust. but now i'm verra anxious to hear your brother explaining what he's made out about the bellows. its the small things like that you ken that a man makes a fortune of, not the big ones. john (_impressed_). do you think that now? mackenzie. you know i take a particular interest in bellows myself. i tried my hand a good while working out a new kind of bellows, and i flatter myself that i know something about the subject. john. aye. (_looking round._) where's daniel? daniel! are you there, daniel? (daniel _comes out and stands near the door._) you could maybe bring them plans out you're working at and explain it to them now, daniel. eh? and wait, sarah wants to hear it too. (_calling._) are you there, sarah? daniel (_seating himself sadly_). aye. she's in there somewhere taking stock. john (_going next door to rooms_). are you there, dear? (sarah _comes out._) daniel's going to explain the thing to us, and you wanted to hear about it. didn't you? sarah. i'm just dying to know all about it. (_she seats herself to the right at back._ andy _sits on one side of the table and_ mackenzie _at the other, expectantly, while_ john _goes over to the fireplace almost opposite his brother._) you know, mr. daniel, that's one thing we want very bad in our house--a good fan bellows. daniel. they are very useful, very. john. aye. they are that. (_to_ sarah). he has a good head on him, daniel. eh? (_to_ daniel.) now go on and make it very plain so that every one can follow you. bring out the plans and show us. daniel (_uneasily._) i can explain it better without them. (_after a pause._) well, i suppose this subject of bellows would come under the heading of pneumatics in natural philosophy. john. oh, now, don't be going off that way. could you not make it plainer nor that? daniel (_appealingly_). well. could i be much plainer, mr. mackenzie? mackenzie (_cynically_). i'm here to discuss fan bellows, not pneumatics. daniel (_sotto voce_). d----n him. (_he pulls himself together._) well. then i suppose the first thing is--well--to know what is a bellows. andy. aye. man, daniel, you start off just the same as the clergy. that's the way they always goes on expounding things to you. sarah (_severely_). don't be interrupting, andy. mackenzie (_sneeringly_). well, i think everyone here knows what a bellows is. daniel. everyone here? do you, john? john. aye. i would like, daniel, to hear right what a bellows is. i mean i can see the thing blowing up a fire when you use it, any man could see that--but its the workings of it. what's the arrangements and internal works of the bellows now, daniel? daniel. well, you push the handles together in an ordinary bellows and--and the air--blows out. (_seeing that this statement is received coldly._) now, why does it blow out? john (_disappointedly_). because it's pushed out of course. there's no sense in asking that sort of a question. daniel. well, there's a flap on the bellows--a thing that moves up and down. well, that flap has all to do with pushing the air. john. maybe this scientifican business is uninteresting to you, sarah, is it? daniel (_brightening up at the suggestion_). i'm sure it is. perhaps we better stop. sarah (_smiling grimly_). oh, not at all. i want to hear more. mackenzie. you're wasting a lot of my time, mr. murray. i came here to hear about a fan bellows. daniel (_confusedly_). oh, yes. yes. certainly. fan bellows. there's a difference between a fan bellows and an ordinary bellows. mary (_opening door from yard and coming in_). oh, uncle dan, are you explaining it to them. did i miss much of it? mackenzie. i don't think it matters much what time you come in during this. john (_impatiently_). go on, daniel. daniel. it's very hard for me to go on with these constant interruptions. well, i was just saying there was a difference between a fan bellows and an ordinary bellows. mackenzie. now, what is a fan bellows yourself, mr. murray? daniel (_hopelessly_). a fan bellows? ah. why now is it called a fan bellows? mackenzie (_roughly_). don't be asking me my own questions. daniel (_with a despairing effort_). well, now we will take it for granted it is because there must be something of the nature of a fan about a fan bellows. it is because there are fans inside the casing. and the handle being turned causes these--eh--fans to turn round too. and then the air comes out with a rush. john. aye. it must be the fans that pushes it out. daniel. exactly. well, now, the difficulty we find here is--(_he pauses_). andy. aye. john. go on, daniel. daniel. you want a constant draught blowing. that's number one. then--well--the other. you see, if we took some of these fans. mackenzie. yes. daniel (_in a floundering way_). and put them in a tight-fitting case, and put more of them inside, and understood exactly what their size was, we could arrange for the way that-john (_in a puzzled way to_ sarah). i can only follow daniel a short way too. (_repeating slowly._) put them in a tight-fitting case-brown (_appearing at yard door with a telegram in his hand, and speaking with suppressed excitement_). a telegram for mr. daniel. daniel (_with a gasp of relief_). ah! (_he tears it open and proudly reads it out aloud._) "come to london at once to explain patent. want to purchase. gregg." (brown _goes out again._) mackenzie. who? gregg? daniel. i suppose i better go, john? john. let's see the telegram. (_he goes over to_ daniel, _who hands it to him._) mackenzie. if you go to london, it'll take you to explain yourself a bit better, mr. murray. john (_who has resumed his place at the fire, and is looking carefully at the telegram_). that will mean how many pounds, daniel, did you say? daniel (_promptly_). fifteen, john. (mary _goes out by door to rooms._) mackenzie. who is gregg? daniel. gregg? ah. he's a man lives in london. engineer. john (_dubiously_). well, i suppose you--(_he pauses, then hands the telegram to_ sarah, _who stretches out her hand for it._) mary (_at door_). tea's ready. (_she stands aside to let the company past._) sarah. we didn't hear all about the bellows. andy (_contemptuously_). no, nor you never will. (_he rises and goes through the door._) mackenzie (_rising and stretching himself wearily_). any more, mr. murray? daniel. i refuse to discuss the matter any further in public. (_he goes off across to tea._) mackenzie (_going over to john and looking at him knowingly_). do you know what it is, mr. murray? your brother's nothing short of an impostor. john (_much offended_). don't dare to say that of a murray. mackenzie (_shrugging his shoulders_). well, i'm going for some tea. (_exit._) sarah. john, i've something to say to you again about daniel, but the company's waiting. (_she goes out to the tea room._) john (_sitting down moodily_). aye. mary. are you not coming, father? john. aye. mary. father! surely you aren't going to marry that woman? john. don't talk of sarah that ways. i am! mary. well, if you are, i'm going to say yes to alick mccready. i don't want to yet awhile, but i'm not going to stay on here if that nasty woman comes. (_she kneels close beside her father and puts her arms round his neck._) oh, father, if you only give me another chance, i could show you i could keep house every bit as well as that woman. (daniel _appears at the door. he slips across to the workshop unobserved._) give me another chance, father. don't marry her at all. let me stay with you--won't you? john. you're too late. she's trothed to me now. mary. pooh. i'd think nothing of that. (daniel _comes out of the workshop with a bag._) uncle dan! what's the matter? daniel. mary, i can't eat and sit beside that scotchman. (_he notices_ john _is absorbed in deep thought, and motions_ mary _to slip out. she does so, and he looks observingly at_ john, _and then goes to the table, and makes a noise with the bag on the table._ john _watches him a moment or two in amazed silence._) john. what are you doing, daniel? daniel. just making a few preparations. john. ah, but look here. i haven't settled about london yet, daniel. daniel. oh, london, john. (_deprecatingly._) let that pass. i won't worry you about that. (_broken heartedly._) i'm leaving your house, john. john (_astonished_). what? daniel. you've been kind, john. very kind. we always pulled well together, and never had much cross words with one another, but--well, circumstances are altered now. john. you mean because i'm going to marry sarah. daniel. exactly. that puts an end to our long and pleasant sojourn here together. i'll have to go. john (_affected_). oh easy, daniel. ah, now, sarah always liked you. she thinks a deal of you, and i'm sure she'd miss you out of the house as much as myself. daniel. john, i know better. she wants me out of this, and i would only be a source of unhappiness. i wouldn't like to cause you sorrow. she doesn't believe in me. she brought that scotchman over to try and show me up. you all think he did. you think i mugged the thing. you don't believe in me now yourself. (_he puts a few articles of clothing, &c., into the bag._) john (_awkwardly_). aye. well--to tell you the truth, daniel, you did not make much of a hand at explaining, you---daniel (_pathetically_). i thought so. look here. one word. (_he draws_ john _aside._) do you think mackenzie invented that patent reciprocating piston that he's so proud of? john (_looking at him in amazement_). what? daniel (_impressively_). well. i know something about that. he stole it off another man, and took all the profits. i knew that. do you think i'm going to give away the product of my brains explaining it to a man like that! no fear, john. (_he turns again to the bag._) i'm taking details of my bellows, and my coat, and a few socks, and the pound you gave me yesterday, and i'm going to face the world alone. john (_moved_). no, no. you'll not leave me, daniel. ah, no. i never meant that. daniel. if she's coming here i'll have to go, and may as well now. sarah (_without_). john murray! daniel (_retreating slowly to the workshop_). i'm going to get that other coat you gave me. it's better than this one for seeing people in. (_he goes into workshop as_ sarah _comes out into the kitchen. she is evidently displeased._) sarah. hurry up, john. the company's waiting on you, and i don't know what's keeping you. unless it was that brother of yours, more shame to him. john. aye. daniel kept me. (_looking at her._) he's talking of leaving. you wouldn't have that, sarah, would you? sarah (_sharply_). leaving, is he? and a right good riddance say i. what has he done but ate up all your substance. john (_astonished_). you wouldn't put him out, sarah? sarah (_snappishly_). i just wouldn't have him about the place. an idle, good for nothing, useless, old pull a cork. john. do you not like him, sarah? (_somewhat disapprovingly._) you told me you thought a good deal of him before. sarah. aye. until i seen through him. him and his letters and telegrams. just look at that. (_she shows him the telegram._) it comes from ballyannis. john (_scratching his head in puzzled wonder_). i don't understand that. sarah. he just put up some one to send it. young mccready or someone. you couldn't watch a man like that. no. if i come here, out he goes. you expects me to come and save you money and the like of that old bauchle eating up the profits. (_she goes towards the door into tea room._) come into your tea at once. (_exit._) john. by me sang he was right. (daniel _comes out and starts brushing his coat loudly to attract_ john's _attention, and then goes across towards him and holds out his hand._) daniel. i'll say good-bye, john. maybe i'll never see you again. (_he appears much affected._) john (_touched_). ach. take your time. i don't see the sense of this hurrying. stop a week or two, man. i'll be lonesome without you. we had many a good crack in the evenings, daniel. daniel. we had, john. and i suppose now that you'll be married i'll have to go, but many a time i'll be sitting lonely and thinking of them. john. aye. you were always the best of company, and heartsome. you were, daniel. daniel. well, i did my best, john, to keep--(_he half breaks down_)--to keep up a good heart. john. you did. i wouldn't like to lose you, daniel. (_he looks at the telegram in his hand._) but daniel. this telegram. it comes from ballyannis. daniel (_taken aback, but recovering his self possession._) ballyannis? ballyannis? ah, of course. sure gregg, that london man, he was to go through ballyannis to-day. he's on a visit, you know, somewhere this way. it's him i'm going to look for now. john. was that the way of it? (_with rising anger at the thought of the way in which his brother has been treated._) and she was for making you out an impostor and for putting you out. i didn't like them talking of a murray the way they done. daniel (_with sudden hope_). are you engaged to that mcminn woman, john? john. aye. i spoke the word the day. daniel. was there anybody there when you asked her? john. there was no one. daniel. did you write her letters? john. no. not a line. daniel. and did you visit and court much at the home? john. no. i always seen andy on business and stopped to have a word or two with her. daniel (_appealingly_). then, john, john, it's not too late yet. (_desperately._) give me--ah, give wee mary another chance. sarah (_at door_). come in, john, at once. your tea's cold waiting, and it's no way to entertain company that. john (_angrily_). d----n her. daniel! out of this home you will not go. i'd rather have your crack of a winter night as two hundred pounds in the bank and yon woman. (_he reaches out his hand._) i'll break the match. (_the two men shake hands._) (curtain.) act iii _the same scene two weeks later._ brown _comes in by yard door holding letters in his hand, which he examines curiously at intervals._ brown (_shouting loudly_). miss mary! are you there, miss mary? kate (_coming in from parlour_). hi there. stop that shouting. d'ye want to wake the dead? brown. i want to give these letters to miss mary. where is she? kate. who're they for? let's look at them. brown. not for you anyway. (_loudly._) miss mary. kate. ach quit deaving me with your shouting. mary (_coming in_). what's the matter? oh! letters! any for me, sam? brown. aye. there's a post card for you, miss mary, and a registered letter for mr. john. the posty says he'll call on the road back for the account when you sign it. (_he hands the post card to_ mary _and looks carefully at the letter._) it's like the mcminn writing that. (_he looks at_ mary, _who is reading and re-reading the post card with a puzzled expression._) isn't mr. dan to be home to-day from belfast, miss mary? mary. eh? brown. isn't mr. dan expected home to-day from belfast? mary. yes. brown. i wonder did he get the bellows sold? there was great talking about him last night in mcarn's. some said he had sold it and made a fortune. (_he breaks off abruptly on seeing that_ mary _pays no attention to him, and then peers over to see what she is reading._) post cards is interesting things. picture post cards is. kate. here. away out and get them purtas dug for the dinner. we're tired hearing your gabble. brown (_retreating to door and eyeing_ kate _meaningly_). the master was complaining again to me yesterday evening about the dinner he got. there's no mistake he likes his meat like myself, and right enough it was bad yesterday. i was chowing haws all evening to keep off the hunger. kate. go on you out of this. brown. that's all the news this morning. (_he makes a grimace at_ kate _and goes out into the yard._) mary. i can't understand this post card. (kate _goes over and looks at it along with_ mary.) "o wad that god the gift wad gie us, to see oorselves as ithers see us." what does that mean? "how's the uncle?" it's some cheeky person anyway--"from d.m." who could that be? kate. it's not mccready, miss, is it? mary. no. that's not his writing. kate. och, miss mary! do you see the picture of the highland man dancing, and under it--"a mackenzie clansman." it's thon scotch fellow sent it. mary. just like the way he would do. i met him again one night we were over at the doctor's, and he was trying to make up to me all he was able. kate. aye. any word from mr. dan about the boy he was to bring you? mary. no. i'm not going to bother any more about boys, i'm going to keep house from this on properly. but uncle dan said something in his last letter about a great surprise he had for all of us. kate. surprise enough it will be, and he lands home with a ha'penny in his pocket. the last time he come home he borrowed a shilling of me and niver paid me back yet. did he sell the plans of the bellows, miss? mary. he didn't say. (john murray _comes through yard door. he has evidently been working outside and has left his work in a hurry._) father, there's a letter for you. (_she hands it to him._) a registered one too. john. aye. so brown was telling me. maybe its from thon mcalenan fellow that owes me two pound for the heifer. (_he tears it open._ mary _and_ kate _watch him with interest. his face changes as he reads, and an expression of dismay comes over it._) mary (_coming closer to him_). what's the matter, father? john (_fidgeting uneasily_). nothing, child. nothing. (_he looks at the letter again._) well i'm--(_he stops short on remembering_ mary _is there._) she's a caution. mary. father. tell me. is it from the mcminns? john. aye. (_pacing up and down._) i knowed she'd do it. i knowed she'd do it. mary. what? john. sarah's taking an action against me. mary. an action? john. aye. (_consulting the letter._) for a thousand pounds. mary (_awestruck_). a thousand pounds! john. aye. now the fat's in the fire. she says i promised to marry her and broke it off. at least, it's andy that writes the letter, but it's her that put him up to it. i know that too well. (_reading._) "to mr. john murray. dear sir,--you have acted to my sister in a most ungentlemanly way, and done her much wrong, and i have put the case intil the hands of mr. mcallen, the solicitor, who will bring it forward at the coming assizes. if you wish, however, to avoid a scandal, we are oped to settle the matter by private arrangement for one thousand pounds. yours truly, andrew mcminn." mary. that's awful, father, isn't it? john (_going over to fireplace and standing there irresolutely_). aye. it's a terrible mess, right enough. mary (_brightening up_). sure she wouldn't get a thousand off you, father? kate. there's john mcardle up by slaney cross got a hundred pounds took off him by wee miss black, the school teacher. john (_uncomfortably_). aye. heth now, i just call that to mind. and he never got courting her at all, i believe. kate. it just served him right. he was always a great man for having five or six girls running after him. john. and she hadn't much of a case against him. kate. the school children were standing by when he asked her in a joking sort of way would she marry him, and the court took their evidence. john (_hopelessly_). aye. men are always terrible hard on other men where women are concerned. kate. and a good job it is, or half the girls would be at the church waiting, and the groom lying at home rueing his bargain. (_she goes out by yard door._) mary (_going up to her father_). father, has she a good case against you? john (_after a moment of deep thought_). no. i don't think it. mary. don't worry so much then, father. john. it's the jury i'm so frightened of. they all come from the mountainy district at this assizes, and there's not a man of them but wouldn't put a knife in me, the way i get beating them down in price at the fairs. mary. i don't think they'd give her fifty pounds when they see her. it's only good looking girls would get big sums like a thousand pounds. john. it's all very well, mary, but she could dress herself to look nice enough, the same sarah, if she liked. mary. she could not, indeed. john. they say, at least brown was hinting to me, that its yon scotch fellow, mackenzie, has put up the mcminns to this business. he and that connection are as thick as thieves. mary. he mightn't be so very fond of them. when a man sends post cards to a girl he doesn't know very well, he's got a wee bit of a liking for her. john. what are you talking about? i never sent her any post cards. mary. father, what are you going to do? john (_despairingly_). i'm d----d if i know. mary. will you defend the case? john. i don't want to go near the court at all. mary. father! (_alarmed._) father! sure you wouldn't--you couldn't think of marrying her after all that row that happened? (john _remains silent._) wouldn't you rather lose a thousand pounds and keep me, father? (john _breaks a piece of soda bread morosely and eats it._) wouldn't you, father. john. ah! (_he spits out the bread._) heaven save us, what kind of bread's that? mary (_taking away the bread and putting it behind her back._) father! ah please, please, don't marry her anyway. sure you won't? brown (_coming in hastily_). here's mr. dan coming up the loaning, sir, that grand looking you'd hardly know him, and a big cigar in his mouth. john. daniel back? mary. oh, i must go out and meet him. (_she goes out by yard door quickly._) john. had he his luggage with him? brown. aye. he has yon big portmanteau of his, and a parcel of something or other. john. away out and help him then, can't you? (brown _goes out._) i wonder what kept him in belfast all this time. i suppose he's spent most of the five pounds i gave him. like enough. i never mind him coming back yet with a ha'penny on him. (_he sits down at the fireplace and looks again at the letter._) a thousand pounds! and there never was a breach of promise case known where they didn't bring in a verdict for the woman. never! (_he becomes absorbed in thought, and as he sits ruminating_ mary _opens the door, carrying a large brown paper parcel, followed by_ daniel. daniel _is dressed fairly well, and seems to be in high spirits._ brown _follows him carrying a portmanteau._) daniel (_brightly_). home again, john. john (_morosely_). aye. it was near time, i think. daniel. saw quite a number of people this time, john. a great number. they were all very much interested. fine town, belfast. growing very rapidly. wonderful place. mary. what's in the parcel? (_she looks at it with great curiosity._) daniel. ah, that--that't the great secret. mum's the word. all in good time, mary. brown. will i leave your bag here, mr. dan? daniel. yes. here's a sixpence for you. (_he hands it to_ brown.) john. you're brave and free-handed with your money. giving the like of that bauchle sixpence. (brown, _who is going out through yard door, stares back at his master protestingly, and then goes out._) the lord knows but we will be wanting every ha'penny we can scrape together, and soon enough. mary. i didn't tell uncle dan yet, father. daniel (_seating himself near the workshop door_). has anything happened? mary. yes. sarah mcminn has---john. read that letter, daniel. (_he goes across and hands_ daniel _the letter, and goes back to the fireplace to watch him._) daniel (_taking out his glasses and solemnly perusing the letter_). um. john. well? what do you think of that? daniel (_endeavouring to appear cheerful._) keep up a stout heart, john. you're safe enough. john. oh, heth, i'm not so sure of that. sure you never heard tell of a jury yet that didn't give damages against the defendant in a breach of promise case. did you now? daniel. tuts, man. she has no case. john. case or no case it doesn't seem to matter. what sort of case had jennie black against john mcardle, of slaney cross? none. what sort of case had maggie mcandless against old william boyd? none at all. i was at both of them trials and says to pat mcaleenan--"the girl has no case at all!" but for all that they brought in a verdict for one hundred pounds against mcardle, and they put two hundred against old boyd, and nearly broke the two of them. daniel. it's very awkward this. john. did you do anything, daniel about the bellows? daniel. the bellows? aye. (_he points at the parcel._) a good deal, john. it's all there. but it's all not quite settled yet. a day or two more and you'll see. if all goes well i'll have a great surprise for you in a day or two. john (_disgustedly_). ach! i suppose you spent every ha'penny of the money, too, that i gave you? daniel. john. another surprise for you! those people i met and went to, put me up very cheap for the week. very cheap. (_he produces some money._) therees one pound ten and sixpence for you. john. what? daniel. i'll keep the pound to do me to the end of the month and not ask you for any more, john, after that. that is if--well--(_he looks at the parcel._) that thing there is all right. john (_pocketing the ten and sixpence after counting it carefully_). daniel. i'm sorry, but there's an account of some thirty shillings i owe the mcardles, and i want to pay it the night. so if you don't mind--(_he holds out his hand._) daniel (_unwillingly_). well, i suppose it can't be helped, john. but it leaves me just with nothing. however, there you are. (_he hands the pound over to him._ sam brown _opens the yard door and peeps in cautiously._) john (_looking at him angrily_). what ails _you_ anyway? brown. if you please sir, the posty wants the account signed for that letter. mary. oh, i forgot all about that. (_she picks up the receipt for the letter from the table._) i'll sign it for you, father. (_she goes over to_ brown, _who whispers somethings. she nods._) and i'll give it to him myself. (_she goes out following_ brown.) john. it's a serious business, this, about the mcminns. daniel. you're all right, man. wait a day or two. take my advice. do nothing in a hurry. sit down and think it over the way i do when i'm working out a new idea. don't rush things. it will all come right in the end. just you wait and see if it doesn't. john. would it not be better to settle before going into the court? you know i couldn't stand being pointed out to of a sunday morning and one and another talking--"there's the man that sarah mcminn took the breach of promise case against." no, i couldn't stand that at all. it would be a disgrace to the murrays for ever. i'm wondering now----(_he pauses lost in thought._) daniel (_alarmed_). john. surely you wouldn't--you couldn't think of going back on what you said to me. would you? john. i wonder, daniel, would you mind so much after all if i married her? daniel (_in an agonised voice_). i couldn't stand it. no, john, i couldn't stay. any other woman but that mcminn. mary (_appearing at the door followed by_ alick mccready). come on in, alick. alick. good morning, mr. murray. how are you, mr. dan? so you are back again? we're all glad to have you back. daniel. thank you, alick. mary. father. alick says he heard andy mcminn talking yesterday to some one at mcardle's shop, and he was telling them all about the whole business, and blaming it all on uncle dan. john. and so the people are talking of me already? now that i come to think of it, it was your uncle dan, and a brave ha'penny it's going to cost me. one thousand pounds. alick. never mind, mr. murray. maybe uncle dan will do something yet. what about the bellows? (dan _makes a horrified movement to stop_ alick _talking, but too late._) john. aye. here, daniel. i'll make a bargain with you. i'll leave you to the settling of the case, and you can find the money yourself to pay for it if you want to. and if you can't find the money, i'll marry her. mary. father, surely---john. what? that's enough about it. i would as soon do without the marrying if i could. i don't want the woman at all, but i'll marry her before she gets a ha'penny off me. so you can settle it among yourselves. you can take charge of that letter, dan, and make the best you can of it. (_he goes angrily out by yard door._) daniel. this is a nice mess you put me in for, alick. what the divil made you mention the bellows? alick. i'm sorry, mr. dan. i wasn't thinking. daniel. the sooner you start and think a bit the better. if you don't help to settle the case--(_he looks angrily at_ alick)--well--i've a good deal of influence with somebody. (_he looks significantly at_ mary, _who is again examining the parcel._) alick. i'll do my best, mr. dan, to help you. mary. what will we do, uncle dan? daniel. i suppose you've no money, alick? alick. well, i haven't much ready money, mr. dan, but i could lend you up to twenty pounds at a pinch. mary. twenty pounds would hardly be enough. would it, uncle? alick. better get hold of andy and ask him. daniel. i don't like going near that woman at all. mary. alick! could you not slip over and ask andy to come across? you know what the mcminns are like. he'd come over for a shilling if he thought he'd get one. ah, yes. you will, alick. won't you? alick. i'll go straight across now if you--if you---mary. what? alick. if you'd leave us along the road a bit. daniel. aye. do. mary. leave him down to the gate anyway. i want to stay here and think over things a wee bit. that't the good wee girl. (_he gently urges her out with_ alick, _then goes over to the table, lifts the parcel, and sits down near the fireplace. feeling the parcel._) i'm afraid, dan murray, it's all u. p. this time. i'm afraid it is. (_then an idea seems to dawn on him, and he looks at the parcel._) unless--unless--well--i wonder now if i-(kate _and_ brown _enter through yard door._ brown _is carrying a bucket filled with washed potatoes._) kate. there. put it down there. you didn't know we wanted that much, did you not? you're getting as big an old liar as mr.--(_she stops short on perceiving_ daniel.) brown (_looking up and then realising what had made her pause_). aye. go on. as who do you say, woman? kate (_recovering herself_). just as big an old liar as andy mcminn. brown. now, whist. the mcminns were aye decent folk. (_he glances across at_ daniel, _who apparently is not listening._) they're near people, and all that sort of thing, but once they say a thing they stick to it. kate. they're a lot of mean scrubs, the whole caboosh of them. daniel (_to himself_). i wonder would twenty pounds be any use at all? brown (_nudging_ kate _slyly_). i believe that once sarah puts a price on a thing, like a pig or a sow, or a hen, the divil himself couldn't beat her down in the price of it. and andy, they say, can beat the best dealer in the county from here to the mourne. (daniel, _who has been listening uneasily, gets up and turns round to look at them._) it's the fine cigar that you were smoking, mr. daniel, this morning. daniel. cigar? yes. yes. brown. aye. a fine cigar, sir. there was a grand smell off it. i seen you coming up by the mcminns, sir, this morning on the road from the station. daniel. yes. on the road from the station. brown. you didn't see them, but i noticed andy and sarah coming out to the gate when you had passed them and looking after you a long time. daniel. is that so? brown. aye. a long time, sir. i suppose, like myself, they smelled the cigar. (daniel _at once throws down the cigar in disgust._) mr. andy, they say, is guy fond of a good cigar, and i understand that he'll be for getting a few boxes of them soon, for the sister, they say, is coming into a lot of money. kate. ach, you and your cigars! will you get out of this and quit tormenting people? go on. out you go. brown (_as if out of curiosity, picks up the cigar and goes out slowly_). daniel. he's a very impertinent man that. very worrisome. kate. ach, never heed him, mr. dan! sure no one in this house does. you'll be tired after travelling, sir. will i make you a drop of tea? daniel. it's hard to eat anything, kate, when i'm worried. (_despairingly._) i don't think there's another man living that has the same worries as i have. something awful! where's the pen and ink, i wonder? kate. there's some here on the dresser, miss mary was using it to-day. (_she takes it over from the dresser to the table._ daniel _rises and goes over and sits down and begins slowly to write._) cheer up, mr. daniel. sure you sold the plans of the bellows anyway. didn't you, sir? they had word up at the mcaleenans the other night that you got two thousand for it. daniel (_astonished_). eh? they said that. kate. aye. to be sure. mcandless told mcardle, and he told smith the postman, and the postman told the mcaleenans, and said he had seen letters about it. and mcaleenan was up in mcminns the other night and told them, and i believe you never saw such an astonished crowd of people in all their lives. daniel. he told the mcminns that? kate. aye, last night i think it was. daniel. last night? (_he looks at the letter._) yesterday was the 14th, wasn't it? aye. it was. i wonder did they believe mcaleenan? kate. i don't think they know right what to make of it. and yon scotchman was there at the time, and mind you, mr. dan, they say he looked quite serious when he heard it, and said such things as that happened many's a time. daniel (_incredulously_). mackenzie said that? kate. aye. you know, i think it's maybe because he has a wee notion of miss mary, sir. daniel. it's quite possible. quite possible. a nice wee girl is mary. fact, too good for the half of the clodhoppers about these parts. (_he takes up the parcel, pen, and ink, and paper, and goes across into the workshop._) kate (_looking after him_). poor creature. i'm feared he's for the road again if he doesn't worry out some way for himself. and god knows he's the one best fitted for it. (mary _enters._) well, did you see him off comfortably? mary. who? kate. alick mccready. mary. kate. i with you'd mind your own business. kate. it's a sore time i have in this house minding my own and every other bodies' business. mary. kate. he said i couldn't bake a cake to save my life. i'll just show him that i can, and you're not to help me, mind you. i'm going to do it all myself. mary. where's the flour? kate. there's none in the house, miss mary. mary. what? kate. you mind it was all used up this morning on account of them cakes that nearly killed your poor ould da. mary. go down to mcardles, kate, and get a quarter stone on account. kate. your da told me this morning, miss mary, that i wasn't to get any more from mcardles or any other place unless he gives me an order for it. do you not mind? mary (_dejectedly_). so he did. i had forgotten. kate. aye. quite so, miss. (_she sits down contentedly._) mary. i wonder is uncle dan about? kate. aye. he's in his workshop, miss. mary (going over and knocking at door of workshop). uncle dan! daniel (_appearing at door_). well, mary? mary. uncle dan, could you give me sixpence? daniel (_jumbling in his pockets_). sixpence? sixpence, mary? bless your wee heart. here. here's a two shilling bit. but mary, mum's the word. don't tell john i gave it to you. mary. no. thank you, uncle. (daniel _goes in again._) there, kate, quick as you can and don't stop to talk to anybody. sure you won't? (_she hands_ kate _the money and takes up the recipe book._) kate. i'm not dirty looking--am i, miss mary? mary (_absorbed in the book_). no. you'll do grand. flour, currants. kate. ach! you and your currants. could you not tell a body was her face clean? mary. it's lovely. hurry, kate. (kate _shrugs her shoulders disgustedly, and goes out by yard door._) flour, currants----(_she goes over to the workshop door and listens_)--raisins--(_a sound as of a blast blowing can be heard._ mary _becomes intensely interested, and, throwing aside the book, kneels down and puts her head to the keyhole._) he's actually got something to work. (_she peeps in._) he has, indeed. (_she laughs, knocks loudly at the door, and then runs to the other side of the kitchen._ daniel _opens the door and cautiously peeps out._) uncle danny! ha! ha! uncle danny! (_dancing up and down in front of the fireplace._) uncle dan's a wonderful man! uncle dan's a wonderful man! daniel (_amazed_). what's all this? mary. i'm a cleverer girl than you think, uncle dan! i know your great surprise. i've found it out. and you've actually got it to work! that's splendid, uncle, isn't it? father will be awful proud when he hears about it. and you did it all yourself, uncle? daniel. well, i took those plans, mary, to a handy chap, an acquaintance of mine, and he made it out according to my design. i'm not sure--i think it works all right. mary. and did you get it sold, uncle? daniel. no, mary, but i have hopes--great hopes. (_he wanders up to the window apparently searching for the screw driver._) mary. do you think you'd get more than one thousand pounds for it? daniel (_looking out of window and seeing someone approaching_). don't know, mary. don't know. very hard to know these things. where could that screw driver be i wonder? mary. i think i saw father working with it last at something in the parlour. will i get it for you, uncle dan? (_knocking at door._) daniel. no. never mind, mary. i'll get it myself. there's someone at the door. you better open the door, mary. (_he goes off hurriedly to parlour._) (_knocking at yard door._) come in. (donal mackenzie _opens the door and comes in._) mackenzie. fine afternoon, miss murray. mary (_coldly_). good day to you. mackenzie. i'm going off to scotland verra soon, and i thought i would call over to see you before i went off. you're no angry, are you? mary. no. (mackenzie _seats himself at the table._) mackenzie. did you get a post card? mary. i got some silly thing this morning that i tore up. mackenzie. i'm sorry. i'm verra fond of you, mary. mary. miss murray, please. mackenzie. a girl like you is lost here, you know. now, if you were a scotch lassie you would have a great time enjoying yourself. in a place like greenock we have a theatre, and we have a music hall and a cinematograph show on saturdays and trains to glasgow. you could have a grand time in scotland. mary. do you really like me, mr. mackenzie? mackenzie. verra much. indeed i-mary. well. look here. i would like you very, very much too, if you---mackenzie. if i what, bonnie mary? mary. i'd even let you call me mary, and write to me if you wanted to, if you would do me a favour. mackenzie. what's the favour? mary. uncle dan has brought home his fan bellows, and it works. mackenzie (_laughs_). the fan bellows! i think he'll never make much of a fortune of his fan bellows. mary. do you ever examine new inventions? mackenzie. aye. i'm a specialist on that, you know. i'm the writer of the inventions column in the scottish---mary. yes. yes. that's all right. i know. are all the inventions you write about good things? mackenzie. eh? ninety-nine per cent. rotten, lassie. ninety-nine per cent. perfectly rotten. people don't invent a reciprocating piston that works every day in the week, or a fan bellows either. mary. but if you liked the inventor you could do him a good turn all the same? mackenzie. aye. i did that often. mary. then could you do a good turn for uncle dan? mackenzie. give the bellows a boost up. no, mary. i could nae. i don't like to grieve you, but committing perjury--no. i couldn't do it, mary. mary (_coming closer_). yes. you would. you'd do it for me. won't you? mackenzie. eh? mary. look. uncle dan has his new fan bellows in that workshop. go in and look at it, and if you do like me really, you could tell the mcminns that it was good--even if it wasn't quite perfect. mackenzie (_hesitatingly_). um. i'll consider the question. (daniel _re-enters. he stops short on seeing_ mackenzie, _and seems to become very uncomfortable._) mary. uncle dan! mr. mackenzie's going to examine your bellows. daniel. i don't allow everybody to go and look at it. no. i refuse. it's my property and no one else's. mary. uncle dan. (_she looks at him meaningly._) mr. mackenzie has promised to give his opinion on it. daniel. it's not protected yet by patent. mackenzie. andy mcminn is coming over, mr. murray. he has got orders from his sister to settle the case for her. are you going to pay the money? daniel. that is a matter of my own deciding. (mary _goes over to her uncle and whispers to him._) mackenzie. verra well. i may go. (_to_ mary.) i would have done you that good turn, miss murray; but there's no enmity between us. and (_lowering his voice_)--i hope you get the best of the mcminns in the bargain. don't give in, mr. murray, easy. take my tip. i'm from the stables, you know. (_he laughs knowingly._) mary. here's andy now (_she looks out through the window_), and alick's with him. (_she opens the door,_ andy mcminn _and_ mccready _enter._ mccready _glances at_ mary _and_ mackenzie, _and goes over sulkily to the fireplace._ andy _advances awkwardly towards_ daniel.) daniel (_genially_). good afternoon, andy. andy. good afternoon. (_he looks at_ mackenzie, _who nods curtly._) i suppose you know i've power to settle the case. daniel. well, you wrote the letter, and so, in point of law, i think it is you who should look after all this unfortunate business. believe me, andy, i sympathise with you. i do indeed. (mary _and_ mackenzie _become absorbed in conversation near the table._ alick mccready _stands at the fireplace looking at them and unable to conceal his jealousy, makes sundry odd noises to distract_ mary's _attention. she pretends not to hear him._) i have your letter here. (_he searches in his pocket and produces it._) yes. one thousand pounds. do you not think that a trifle high? andy. well. you know we could have as easily claimed two thousand, but we didn't like to break you altogether; so we just said that a thousand would come pretty near it. mackenzie. mr. daniel, may i look at the bellows? mary. uncle dan, i'm sure you won't object. (_she makes a gesture as if asking him to assent._) daniel (_looking hard at her, and then seeming to understand what she is about_). yes. yes. i'll thrash out the matter here with andy. (mackenzie _goes across into the workshop, followed by_ mary. mccready _sits down disconsolately at the fireplace and begins to smoke his pipe moodily._) a thousand pounds is impossible. absolutely out of the question. mccready (_to himself_). ach. she only torments me. daniel (_looking over wonderingly_). eh? people behave strangely sometimes, andy. very strangely. (mccready _makes no response, but sits with his back to the two of them._) just a moment, andy. what about a wee drink. eh, andy? andy. aye. well, i wouldn't mind at all, daniel. daniel. just to show there's no ill-feeling over this unfortunate business. (_he goes to the clock, opens the panel door and takes out a bottle of whiskey, gets glasses from the dresser and pours out a small portion of whiskey into each._) good health, andy. andy. good health, daniel. (_they drink._) daniel. now to go on with our business. i don't think, in the first case, that this was an affaire de coeur, as the frenchmen say. andy. eh? daniel. you don't understand french? of course not. no. it wasn't a love affair, i mean. i don't think sarah was in love with john, was she? andy (_hesitatingly_). well--indeed, now, i don't know that she was. daniel. no. we're all aware of that. he was just what we'd call a likely man. that's all. andy. aye. he would have been a good match for her. daniel. yes. quite so, andy. he would have been a good match for her. (_he makes notes in a pocket book._) nothing like notes, andy. now, so much for the love part of the business. they never exchanged letters? andy. no. no letters. daniel (_writing_). no letters. of course in a breach of promise letters are a great help. a great help. i'm very glad, however, just for your sister's sake, that she never wrote any to john. imagine them reading out the love letters in the open court, and all the servant boys gaping and laughing. andy. it's not nice, right enough. it's one thing i wouldn't like. daniel. no. it's one thing we would not like. well. no love. no letters. next thing. he never courted her? andy. well, he came over and sat in the house a few nights. daniel. yes. no doubt. but hadn't he always some message on business to transact with you? loan of a plough or a horse, or something like that? andy (_uneasily_). that's so, of course. daniel. ah, yes. that's so, of course. andy. but i seen him with his arm round her the night of the social at the school house. daniel. andy. that's a wee failing of john's. i often warned him about doing that sort of thing indiscriminately. a bit of a ladies' man, john, in his way. i saw him do the same nonsense four or five times that night with other girls. john likes to think himself a bit of a gay dog, you know. it's not right--i don't think myself it's a bit proper to put your arm round a girl's waist on every occasion, but sometimes it's quite allowable. a night like a social, for instance. andy. aye. of course a social's different. daniel. aye, andy, a social's different. well, now. no love, no letters, no courting, no photographs exchanged? (_he looks at_ andy _inquiringly_). no photographs exchanged? (_he notes it down._) no ring? in fact, andy, no nothing. andy. but he proposed to her right enough. daniel. who said so? andy (_astonished_). what? do you mean to deny he didn't? daniel. my dear andy, i don't know. there was no one there but the two, i suppose, when he asked her--if he did ask her. there's only her word for it. andy. he wouldn't deny it himself? daniel. well. that depends on whether he really asked her to marry him of course. and it's likely enough that john would be inclined to deny it if his memory was at all bad--it is a bad memory he has, you know. he forgets often to return your ploughs and that sort of thing. andy (_blankly_). aye. he has a bad memory. daniel. yes. just so. and the fact that a verdict of one thousand pounds would hang on it would hardly make it any better. would it? you've a bad case against us, andy. a rotten case! in fact, looking over the whole thing carefully, do you really believe you'd make even a ten pound note out of us? andy (_despairingly_). i wish sarah had come and settled the case herself. daniel. ah, no. you've a better head, andy, for seeing the sensible side of a thing, far better. (mary _comes out of the workshop smiling gaily._) well? mary. uncle dan, he's delighted with it. andy. what with? the bellows? mary. yes. go in, andy, till you see it. andy. is it true, daniel, you were offered two thousand for it? daniel. we'll just go in and have a look at it. (andy _and he go into workshop._) mary (_looking across at_ alick). what's the matter? alick. nothing. i'm going home. (_he goes across to the yard door._) mary. alick! mccready. goodbye. mary. and i was going to go to all the trouble of baking a big plum cake for you, you big ungrateful thing. mccready (_stopping at the door_). i know what your plum cakes would be like. (_he opens the door and stops again before going out._) mary. well, get that big, ugly maggie murphy to bake them for you then. mccready (_looking out through door and then coming inside again_). i say, here's kate and your father coming and a load of flour. mary (_in a frightened voice_). kate and father? mccready. he seems to be in a bit of a temper. mary (_in a frightened voice_). he's caught her with the flour! mccready (_laughing_). flour? aye--she's carrying about three stone of it! boys, but that would make a powerful pudding! mary. it was to have been the nicest one i could have baked. mccready (_coming in and going over to her_). mary. mary. what? mccready. you wouldn't come to my house where there would be no stint of flour or raisins or anything else, and i'd eat all you cooked for me no matter if i was dying after it. mary. go to your house! alick. aye. look here, wee girl. i got this----(_he fumbles and produces a ring._) let me put that on your wee finger, won't you? mary. oh, alick, what a lovely wee ring. (_she allows him to put it on her finger, and is shyly kissing him when_ john _enters, followed by_ kate, _who is trying vainly to stop a leak in the bag of flour which she is carrying._ kate _goes to the dresser and places the bag on it._) john (_severely to_ mary). mary. did you send her for more flour? mary (_meekly_). yes, father. john. and didn't i leave word there was no more to be got without my orders? (mary _hangs her head._) it's lamentable the waste in this house! i was just looking at the pass book last night, and you'd think this house was a bakery to see the amount of flour comes into it. mary (_submissively_). i'm sorry, father. john. when i was out on the road, i seen a trail of flour leading up our loaning, and says i to myself, jeminy' father, are they getting some more! so i followed up the mark and just caught up on her coming through the gate. mary (_a little defiantly_). it's paid for, kate, anyway. isn't it? kate. it is, miss. (_she busies herself putting the flour into a box, and then slips out during the next speech._) john. eh? who give you the money? mary (_going over to her father and whispering_). uncle dan is in there, father, with andy mcminn and mr. mackenzie, the scotch engineer, looking at his bellows. john (_amazed_). eh? andy mcminn? is dan settling the case? mary. i believe he'll do it yet. john (_admiringly_). he has a great head on him, daniel. mackenzie (_coming out of workshop and going over to_ mary). mary, i'm sorry. that bellows is such an absolutely rotten thing--so useless and so absolutely rotten that i can't--(_he sees_ john.) how are you, mr. murray? john. fine day. mary (_appealingly_). mr. mackenzie, what did you say to andy about it? mackenzie. what did i say? oh, ma perjured conscience--i said it was a grand thing. (daniel _and_ andy mcminn _come in from workshop._) andy (_nervously_). brave day, john. john. aye. it is. andy. sarah gave me power to settle the case. john. i'm glad to hear it. mackenzie. i tell you what it is, mr. daniel murray. it's a good thing that--a right good thing, and i'll make you an offer for it. andy (_eagerly_). what's it worth? mackenzie (_with a look at_ mary). it's worth--it's worth more than all the damages your sister will get from mr. murray. daniel (_suddenly_). i tell you what it is, andy, and believe me when i tell you, i'm sacrificing a great deal. i'll make a deal with you. instead of a lump sum cash down, i'll hand over all the rights and royalties of that same bellows to you to settle the case. andy (_dubiously_). i--i don't know. daniel. you will have all the expense of the law, the bad name that your sister will be having over the head of being in a breach of promise, and all the expenses of solicitors and lawyers. then, after that, trying to get the money out of us, and, mind you, we will fight you to the last ditch. won't we, john? john. aye. daniel. there now. what do you say, mr. mackenzie? mackenzie. i tell you what it is, mr. murray. i'll make you an offer for---andy (_hastily_). i'll take your offer, daniel. daniel. one second. i drew up a wee agreement for you to sign, and i'll fetch the bellows. (_he goes into the workshop._) andy. i don't like signing my name to agreements or things like that unless i'm quite certain they're all right, mr. mackenzie. mackenzie (_with a sly look at_ mary). well, if you have any compunction about signing, i'll do it myself. mary. i think uncle dan's a fool to throw away the thing that way. i do indeed. (daniel _comes out with the parcel and the pen, ink and paper._) daniel. just sign your name to that, andy. it's a sort of agreement to settle the case--you can read it for yourself. (_he hands a sheet of paper to_ andy _with the pen._) it's to show that the whole thing is fixed up to the satisfaction of everybody. (andy _looks at it and then signs._) ah. good! now, alick, and you, mr. mackenzie, just witness it and the date. (_they both sign._) and now, andy, there's your bellows. (andy _looks at it, and then takes it under his arm._) and may you have the best of luck with it. (andy _looks wonderingly at the parcel in his arms and moves slowly towards the door._) mackenzie. noo, my reward, miss murray--mary rather. (_he goes forward and she stretches out her hand for him to shake, when he notices the ring, and stops short._) john. i hope you're satisfied, andy. andy. i'm just wondering, mr. mackenzie, do you think---mackenzie. i think nothing for a year. i'll--i'll--i'm for scotland in the morning. (_he goes out morosely through the door._) daniel. there, andy. there's company home for you, and good luck to you. it's a sad heart i'll have this night. andy. i'm wondering what sarah would say--(_he goes to the door._) ach! she couldn't do better herself. no courting. daniel. no. no courting. andy. and no love and no letters. daniel. no. no love and no letters. andy. and no ring nor nothing, and a thousand pound bellows. daniel. yes, andy. and a thousand pound bellows. (_he wanders out abstractedly._ daniel _follows him to the door and shouts after him_)--goodbye, andy. and may you have the best of luck with it. andy (_without_). thank ye, daniel. goodbye. (daniel _closes the door after him and looks sadly but triumphantly across at_ john. alick _and_ mary _go to the window together and look out after_ andy.) daniel. well, john? john (_with a sigh of intense relief and gratitude_). dan, i've said it before, and i'll say it again, you've a great head on you, daniel. (curtain.) ulster folklore [illustration: plate i. [_r. welch, photo._ harvest knot.] ulster folklore by elizabeth andrews, f.r.a.i. with fourteen illustrations london: elliot stock 7, paternoster row, e.c. 1913 introduction in 1894 i was at the meeting of the british association at oxford, and had the good fortune to hear professor julius kollmann give his paper on "pygmies in europe," in which he described the skeletons which had then recently been discovered near schaffhausen. as i listened to his account of these small people, whose average height was about four and a half feet, i recalled the description of irish fairies given to me by an old woman from galway, and it appeared to me that our traditional "wee-folk" were about the size of these swiss dwarfs. i determined to collect what information i could, and the result is given in the following pages. i found that the fairies are, indeed, regarded as small; but their height may be that of a well-grown boy or girl, or they may not be larger than a child beginning to walk. i once asked a woman if they were as small as cocks and hens, but she laughed at the suggestion. i had collected a number of stories, and had become convinced that in these tales we had a reminiscence of a dwarf race, when i read some of mr. david macritchie's works, and was gratified to find that the traditions i had gathered were in accordance with the conclusions he had drawn from his investigations in scotland. a little later i made his acquaintance, and owe him many thanks for his great kindness and the encouragement he has given me in my work. as will be seen in the following pages, tradition records several small races in ulster: the grogachs, who are closely allied to the fairies, and also to the scotch and english brownies; the short danes, whom i am inclined to identify with the tuatha de danann; the pechts, or picts; and also the small finns. my belief is that all these, including the fairies, represent primitive races of mankind, and that in the stories of women, children, and men being carried off by the fairies, we have a record of warfare, when stealthy raids were made and captives brought to the dark souterrain. these souterrains, or, as the country people call them, "coves," are very numerous. they are underground structures, built of rough stones without mortar, and roofed with large flat slabs. plate ii. shows a fine one at ardtole, near ardglass, co. down. the total length of this souterrain is about one hundred and eight feet, its width three feet, and its height five feet three inches.[1] the entrance to another souterrain is shown in the sweathouse at maghera[2] (plate iii.). as a rule, although the fairies are regarded as "fallen angels," they are said to be kind to the poor, and to possess many good qualities. "it was better for the land before they went away" is an expression i have heard more than once. the belief in the fairy changeling has, however, led to many acts of cruelty. we know of the terrible cases which occurred in the south of ireland some years ago, and i met with the same superstition in the north. i was told a man believed his sick wife was not herself, but a fairy who had been substituted for her. fortunately the poor woman was in hospital, so no harm could come to her. much of primitive belief has gathered round the fairy--we have the fairy well and the fairy thorn. it is said that fairies can make themselves so small that they can creep through keyholes, and they are generally invisible to ordinary mortals. they can shoot their arrows at cattle and human beings, and by their magic powers bring disease on both. they seldom, however, partake of the nature of ghosts, and i do not think belief in fairies is connected with ancestral worship. sometimes i have been asked if the people did not invent these stories to please me. the best answer to this question is to be found in the diverse localities from which the same tale comes. i have heard of the making of heather ale by the danes, and the tragic fate of the father and son, the last of this race, in down, antrim, londonderry, and kerry. the same story is told in many parts of scotland, although there it is the picts who make the heather ale. i have been told of the woman attending the fairy-man's wife, acquiring the power of seeing the fairies, and subsequently having her eye put out, in donegal and derry, and variants of the story come to us from wales and the holy land. i am aware that i labour under a disadvantage in not being an irish scholar, but most of those in down, antrim, and derry from whom i heard the tales spoke only english, and in donegal the peasants who related the stories knew both languages well, and i believe gave me a faithful version of their irish tales. some of these essays appeared in the _antiquary_, others were read to the archæological section of the belfast naturalists' field club, but are now published for the first time _in extenso_. all have been revised, and additional notes introduced. to these chapters on folklore i have added an article on the rev. william hamilton, who, in his "letters on the north-east coast of antrim," written towards the close of the eighteenth century, gives an account of the geology, antiquities, and customs of the country. the plan of the souterrain at ballymagreehan fort, co. down, was kindly drawn for me by mr. arthur birch. i am much indebted to the council of the royal anthropological institute for their kindness in allowing me to reproduce the plan of the souterrain at knockdhu from mrs. hobson's paper, "some ulster souterrains," published in the _journal_ of the institute, vol. xxxix., january to june, 1909. my best thanks are also due to mrs. hobson for allowing me to make use of her photograph of the entrance to this souterrain. the other illustrations are from photographs by mr. robert welch, m.r.i.a., who has done so much to make the scenery, geology, and antiquities of the north of ireland better known to the english public. belfast, _august, 1913_. footnotes: [1] see "ardtole souterrain, co. down," by f. j. bigger and w. j. fennell in _ulster journal of archæology_, 1898-99, pp. 146, 147. [2] i am much indebted to mr. s. d. lytle of that town for kind permission to reproduce this view. contents page introduction v fairies and their dwelling-places 1 a day at maghera, co. londonderry 14 ulster fairies, danes, and pechts 24 folklore connected with ulster raths and souterrains 36 traditions of dwarf races in ireland and in switzerland 47 folklore from donegal 64 giants and dwarfs 84 the rev. william hamilton, d.d. 105 list of illustrations plates i. harvest knot _frontispiece_ facing page ii. souterrain at ardtole, ardglass, co. down 1 iii. entrance to sweathouse, maghera 14 iv. rush and straw crosses 17 v. harvest knots 19 vi. "churn" 20 vii. entrance to souterrain at knockdhu 30 viii. the old fort, antrim 36 ix. grey man's path, fair head 49 x. tormore, tory island 73 xi. valley near armoy, whence, according to legend, earth was taken to form rathlin 90 xii. flint spearhead and basalt axes found under fort in lenagh townland 97 plans souterrain at ballymagreehan 6 souterrain at knockdhu 30 [illustration: plate ii. [_r. welch, photo._ souterrain at ardtole, ardglass co. down.] fairies and their dwelling-places[3] in the following notes i have recorded a few traditions gathered from the peasantry in co. down and other parts of ireland regarding the fairies. the belief is general that these little people were at one time very numerous throughout the country, but have now disappeared from many of their former haunts. at ballynahinch i was told they had been blown away fifty years ago by a great storm, and the caretaker of the old church and graveyard of killevy said they had gone to scotland. they are, however, supposed still to inhabit the more remote parts of the country, and the old people have many stories of fairy visitors, and of what happened in their own youth and in the time of their fathers and grandfathers. we must not, however, think of irish fairies as tiny creatures who could hide under a mushroom or dance on a blade of grass. i remember well how strongly an old woman from galway repudiated such an idea. the fairies, according to her, were indeed small people, but no mushroom could give them shelter. she described them as about the size of children, and as far as i can ascertain from inquiries made in many parts of ulster and munster, this is the almost universal belief among the peasantry. sometimes i was told the fairies were as large as a well-grown boy or girl, sometimes that they were as small as children beginning to walk; the height of a chair or a table was often used as a comparison, and on one occasion an old woman spoke of them as being about the size of monkeys. the colour red appears to be closely associated with these little people. in co. waterford, if a child has a red handkerchief on its head, it is said to be wearing a fairy cap. i have frequently been told of the small men in red jackets running about the forts; the fairy women sometimes appear in red cloaks; and i have heard more than once that fairies have red hair. a farmer living in one of the valleys of the mourne mountains said he had seen one stormy night little creatures with red hair, about the size of children. i asked him if they might not have been really children from some of the cottages, but his reply was that no child could have been out in such weather. an old woman living near tullamore park, co. down, described vividly how, going out to look after her goat and its young kid, she had heard loud screams and seen wild-looking figures with scanty clothing whose hair stood up like the mane of a horse. she spoke with much respect of the fairies as the gentry, said they formerly inhabited hills in tullamore park, and that care was taken not to destroy their thorn-bushes. she related the following story: as a friend of hers was sitting alone one night, a small old woman, dressed in a white cap and apron, came in and borrowed a bowl of meal. the debt was repaid, and the meal brought by the fairy put in the barrel. the woman kept the matter secret, and was surprised to find her barrel did not need replenishing. at last her husband asked if her store of meal was not coming to an end; she replied that she would show him she had sufficient, and lifted the cover of the barrel. to her astonishment it was almost empty; no doubt, had she kept her secret, she would have had an unlimited supply of meal. i have heard several similar stories, and have not found that any evil consequences were supposed to follow from partaking of food brought by the fairies. men have been carried off by them, have heard their beautiful music, seen them dancing, or witnessed a fairy battle without bringing any misfortune on themselves. on the other hand, according to a story i heard at buncrana, co. donegal, a little herd-boy paid dearly for having entered one of their dwellings. as he was climbing among the rocks, he saw a cleft, and creeping through it came to where a fairy woman was spinning with her "weans," or children, around her. his sister missed him, and after searching for a time, she too, came to the cleft, and looking down saw her brother, and called to him to come out. he came, but was never able to speak again. in another case deafness followed intercourse with the fairies. an elderly man at maghera, co. down, told me that his brother when four or five years old went out with his father. the child lay down on the grass. after a while the father heard a great noise, and looking up saw little men about two feet in height dancing round his son. he called to them to be gone, and they ran towards a fort and disappeared. the child became deaf, and did not recover his hearing for ten years. he died at the age of seventeen. to cut down a fairy thorn or to injure the house of a fairy is regarded as certain to bring misfortune. an old woman also living at maghera, related how her great-grandmother had received a visit from a small old woman, who forbade the building of a certain turf-stack, saying that evil would befall anyone who injured the chimneys of her house. the warning was disregarded, the turf-stack built, and before long four cows died. i was told that when a certain fort in co. fermanagh was levelled to the ground misfortune overtook the men who did the work, although, apparently, they were only labourers, many of them dying suddenly. it was also said that where this fort had stood there were caves or hollows in the ground into which the oxen would fall when ploughing. an attempt to bring a fort near newcastle under cultivation is believed to have caused the sudden death of the owner. the fairies are celebrated as fine musicians; they ride on small horses; the women grind meal, and the sound of their spinning is often heard at night in the peasants' cottages. the following story is related as having occurred at camlough, near newry. a woman was spinning one evening when three fairies came into the house, each bringing a spinning-wheel. they said they would help her with her work, and one of them asked for a drink of water. the woman went to the well to fetch it. when there she was warned, apparently by a friendly fairy, that the others had come only to mock and harm her. acting on the advice of this friend, the woman, as soon as she had given water to the three, turned again to the open door, and stood looking intently towards a fort. they asked what she was gazing at, and the reply was: "at the blaze on the fort." no sooner had she uttered these words than the three fairies rushed out with such haste that one of them left her spinning-wheel behind, which, according to the story, is now to be seen in dublin castle. the woman then shut her door, and put a pin in the keyhole, thus effectually preventing the return of her visitors. in this story we have probably an allusion to the signal fires which are believed by the peasantry to have been lit on the forts in time of danger, one fort being always within view of another. these forts, or raths, appear to have been the favourite abode of the fairies. to use the language of the peasantry, these little people live in the "coves of the forths," an expression which puzzled me until i found that coves, or caves, meant underground passages--in other words, souterrains. there are a number of these souterrains in the neighbourhood of castlewellan, and with a young friend, who helped me to take a few rough measurements, i explored several. [illustration: plan of ballymagreehan souterrain.] ballymagreehan fort is a short distance from castlewellan, near the newry road. it is a small fort, and on the top we saw the narrow entrance to the souterrain. passing down through this, we found ourselves in a short passage, or chamber, which led us to another passage at right angles to the first. it is about forty feet in length and three feet in width; the height varies from four to five feet. the roof is formed of flat slabs, and the walls are carefully built of round stones, but without mortar. at one end this passage appeared to terminate in a wall, but at the other it was only choked with fallen stones and débris, and i should think had formerly extended farther. herman's fort is another small fort on the opposite side of castlewellan, in the townland of clarkill. climbing to the top of it, we came to an enclosure where several thorn-bushes were growing. the farmer who kindly acted as our guide showed us two openings. one of these led to a narrow chamber fully six feet high, the other to a passage more than thirty feet in length and about three feet wide, while the height varied from three and a half feet in one part to more than five feet in another. i was told that water is always to be found near these forts, and was shown a well which had existed from time immemorial; the sides were built of round stones without mortar, in the same way as the walls of the passage. we heard here of another souterrain about a mile distant, called backaderry cove. it is on the side of a hill close to the road leading from castlewellan to dromara. a number of thorn-bushes grow near the place, but there is no mound, either natural or artificial. creeping through the opening, we found ourselves in a passage about forty feet in length; a chamber opens off it nine feet in length, and between five and six feet in height, while the height of the passage varies from four and a half to five and a half feet. there is a tradition that this passage formerly connected backaderry with herman's fort. ballyginney fort is near maghera. i only saw the entrance to the souterrain, but from what i heard i believe that here also there is a chamber opening off the passage. the farmer on whose land the fort is situated told me that one dry summer he had planted flax in the field adjoining the fort. the small depth of soil above the flat slabs affected the crop, so that by the difference in the flax it was easy to trace where the passage ran below the field. we have seen that the fairies are believed to inhabit the souterrains; they are also said to live inside certain hills, and in forts where, so far as is known, no underground structure exists. i may mention as an example the large fort on the shimna river, near newcastle, where i was told their music was often to be heard. there may be many souterrains whose entrance has been choked up, and of which no record has been preserved. mr. bigger gave last session an interesting account of one discovered at stranocum; another was accidentally found last september in a field about three miles from newry. mr. mann harbison, who visited the souterrain, writes to me that the excavation has been made in a circular portion which is six feet wide and five feet high. a gallery opens out of this chamber, and is in some places not more than three feet six inches high. the building of the forts and souterrains is ascribed by the country people to the danes, a race of whom various traditions exist. they are said to have had red hair; sometimes they are spoken of as large men, sometimes as short men. one old woman, who had little belief in fairies, told me that in the old troubled times in ireland people lived inside the forts; these people were the danes, and they used to light fires on the top as a signal from one fort to another. i heard from an elderly man of danes having encamped on his grandmother's farm. smoke was seen rising from an unfrequented spot, and when an uncle went to investigate the matter he found small huts with no doors, only a bundle of sticks laid across the entrance. in one of the huts he saw a pot boiling on the fire, and going forward he began to stir the contents. immediately a red-haired man and woman rushed in; they appeared angry at the intrusion, and when he went out threw a plate after him. the traditions in regard both to danes and fairies are very similar in different parts of ireland. in co. cavan the country people spoke of the beautiful music of the fairies, and told me of their living in a fort near lough oughter. one woman said they were sometimes called ganelochs, and were about the size of children, and an old man described them as little people about one or two feet high, riding on small horses. in co. waterford i was told that the fairies were not ghosts: they lived in the air. one man might see them while they would be invisible to others. in an interesting lecture on the "customs and superstitions of the southern irish," the rev. j. b. leslie, who has kindly allowed me to quote from his manuscript, describes the fairies as "a species of beings neither men nor angels nor ghosts.... they are connected in the popular imagination with the danish forts which are common in the country. in these they seem to have their abode underground. at night they hold here high revels--in grand banqueting-halls--and in these revels there must always, i believe, be a living human being. the fairies are often called the 'good people'; some think they are 'fallen angels.' they are usually thought of as harmless creatures, unless, of course, they are interfered with, when the power they wield is very great. they are very fond of games; some testify that they have seen them play football, others hurley, while playing at marbles is a special pastime, and i have even heard of persons who have discovered 'fairy marbles' near or in these forts. no one will interfere with the forts; they fear the power and anger of the fairies." while the fairies are generally associated with the forts, i heard both in co. down and co. kerry of their living in caves in the mountains, and a lad whom i met near the gap of dunloe described them as having cloven feet and black hair. a boatman at killarney spoke of the leprechauns as little men about three feet in height, wearing red caps. he thought the fairies might be taller, and spoke of their living in the forts. he said these forts had been built by the danes, who must have been small men, when they made the passages so low. we thus see that fairies and danes are both associated with these ancient structures. although the irish peasant speaks of these danes having been conquered by brian boru, the structure and position of the raths and souterrains point to their having been the work of one of the earlier irish races rather than of the medieval norsemen. their name appears to identify them with the tuatha de danann whose necromantic power is celebrated in irish tales, and of whom, according to o'curry, one class of fairies are the representatives. i know that some high authorities regard the tuatha de danann and the fairies as alike mythological beings. the latter are certainly in popular legend endowed with superhuman attributes; they can transport people long distances, creep through keyholes, and the fairy changeling, when placed on the fire, can escape up the chimney and grin at his tormentors. if we ask the country people who are the fairies, the reply is frequently, "fallen angels." according to an old woman in donegal, these angels fell, some on the sea, some on the earth, while some remained in the air; the fairies were those who fell on the earth. these "fallen angels" may be the representatives of the spirits whom the pagan irish worshipped and strove to propitiate, and some of the tales relating to the fairies may have their origin in the mythology of a primitive people. but the raths and souterrains are certainly the work of human hands, and i would suggest that in the legends connected with them we have a reminiscence of a dwarf race who rode on ponies, were good musicians, could spin and weave, and grind corn. the traditions would point to their being red-haired. mr. mann harbison has kindly written to me on this subject, and expresses his belief that the souterrains "were constructed by a diminutive race, probably allied to the modern lapps, who seem to be the survivors of a widely distributed race." in another letter he says: "the universal idea of fairies is very suggestive. the tall celts, when they arrived, saw the small people disappear in a mysterious way, and, without stopping to investigate, imagined they had become invisible. if they had had the courage or the patience to investigate, they would have found that they had passed into their souterrain." in his work "fians, fairies, and picts," mr. david macritchie argues that these three names belong to similar if not identical dwarf races in scotland. the tuatha de danann he also regards as of the same race as the fairies, or, to give them their irish name, the fir sidhe, the men of the green mounds. the remains of the ancient cave-dwellers point to a primitive race of small size inhabiting europe. dr. munro, in his work "prehistoric problems," refers to the skeletons discovered at spy in belgium by mm. lohest and de pudzt. he describes them as examples of a very early and low type of the human race, and states that professor fraipont, who examined them anatomically, "came to the conclusion that the spy men belonged to a race relatively of small stature, analogous to the modern laplanders, having voluminous heads, massive bodies, short arms, and bent legs. they led a sedentary life, frequented caves, manufactured flint implements after the type known as moustérien, and were contemporary with the mammoth."[4] let us compare this description with that in the ballad of "the wee, wee man":[5] "his legs were scarce a shathmont's[6] length, and thick and thimber was his thigh; between his brows there was a span, and between his shoulders there was three." i do not, however, mean to suggest that the builders of the raths and souterrains were contemporary with the men of spy, but rather that a small race of primitive men may have existed until a comparatively late period in this country. leading a desultory warfare with their neighbours, they would carry off women and children, and injure the cattle with their stone weapons. we should note that in the traditions of the peasantry, and also in the old ballads, those who have been carried off by the fairies can frequently be released from captivity, and they return, not as ghosts, but as living men or women. may we not see in these legends traces of a struggle between a primitive race, whose gods may have been, like themselves, of diminutive stature, and their more civilized neighbours, who accepted the teaching of the early christian missionaries? footnotes: [3] communicated to belfast naturalists' field club, january 18, 1898. [4] p. 141. [5] "ancient and modern scottish songs," published anonymously, but known to have been collected by david herd (vol. i., p. 95, ed. 1776). [6] the fist closed with thumb extended, and may be considered a measure of about six inches. a day at maghera, co. londonderry[7] one fine morning last august i found myself in the quaint old town of maghera. my first visit was to the post-office, where i bought some picture-cards, and inquired my way to killelagh church, the cromlech, and the sweat-house, as it is called, where formerly people indulged in a vapour-bath to cure rheumatism and other complaints. i was told to follow the main street. this i did, and when i came to the outskirts of the town i tried to get a guide, and spoke to a boy at one of the cottages. he, however, knew very little, but fortunately saw an elderly man coming down the road, who consented to show me the way, and proved an excellent guide. his name is daniel mckenna, a coach-builder by trade. his father, who was teacher in maghera national school for thirty-five years, knew irish well, and i understand gave dr. joyce information in regard to some of the place-names in co. derry. taking a road which led in a north-westerly direction, we came to the cromlech, and a few yards farther on saw the old church of killelagh. [illustration: plate iii. entrance to sweathouse, maghera.] my guide pointed out that the doorstep was much worn, doubtless by the feet of those who during many centuries had passed over it; he showed me, too, the strong walls, and said the mortar had been cemented with the blood of bullocks. this probably recalls an ancient custom, when an animal--in still earlier times it might be a human being[8]--was slain to propitiate or drive away the evil spirits and secure the stability of the building. a similar tradition exists in regard to roughan castle, the stronghold of phelim o'neill, in co. tyrone. leaving killelagh church, we continued our walk, and i asked my guide about the customs and traditions of the country. he told me that on hallow eve night salt is put on the heads of children to protect them from the fairies. these fairies, or wee folk, are about three feet in height, some not so tall; they are of different races or tribes, and have pitched battles at the pecht's graveyard. this is a place covered with rough mounds and very rough stones, and is looked on as a great playground of the fairies; people passing through it are often led astray by them. the pechts, or picts, were described to me as having long black hair, which grew in tufts; they were small people, about four feet six inches in height, thick set, nearly as broad as they were long, strong in arms and shoulders, and with very large feet. when a shower of rain came on, they would stand on their heads and shelter themselves under their feet. some years ago i was told a similar story in co. antrim of the pechts lying down and using their feet as umbrellas.[9] i regretted we had not time to visit a large fort we passed on the way to ballyknock farmhouse. here we left the road, and, passing through some fields, came to the old sweat-house. as you will see from the photograph kindly given to me by mr. lytle of maghera, the entrance is on the side of a bank. it is a much more primitive structure than those at the struel wells, near downpatrick. no mortar has been used in its construction, and i should say it is an old souterrain, or part of a souterrain. the following are rough measurements: height of entrance 2 feet. width of entrance 15 inches. height of interior 5 feet 5 inches. width of interior 3 feet. length of interior 9 feet. [illustration: plate iv. [_r. welch, photo._ rush and straw crosses.] this building, as already mentioned, was used by those suffering from rheumatism, and near the entrance is a well in which the patients bathed to complete the cure. while we were resting i asked about rush crosses, which are put up in many cottages at maghera, and, gathering some rushes, daniel mckenna showed me how they were made. he told me that on st. bridget's eve, january 31, children are sent out to pull rushes, which must not be cut with a knife. when these rushes are brought in, the family gather round the fire and make the crosses, which are sprinkled with holy water. the wife or eldest daughter prepares tea and pancakes, and the plate of pancakes is laid on the top of the rush cross. prayers are said, and the family partake of st. bridget's supper. the crosses are hung up over doors and beds to bring good luck. in former times sowans or flummery was eaten instead of pancakes. i have heard of similar customs in other places. at tobermore those who bring in the rushes ask at the door, "may st. bridget come in?" "yes, she may," is the answer. the rushes are put on a rail under the table while the family partake of tea. afterwards the crosses are made, and, as at maghera, hung up over doors and beds.[10] this custom probably comes to us from pre-christian times. the cross in its varied forms is a very ancient symbol, sometimes representing the sun, sometimes the four winds of heaven. schlieman discovered it on the pottery of the troad; it is found in egypt, india, china, and japan, and among the people of the bronze period it appears frequently on pottery, jewellery, and coins. now, st. bridget had a pagan predecessor, brigit, a poetess of the tuatha de danann, and whom we may perhaps regard as a female apollo. cormac, in his "glossary," tells us she was a daughter of the dagda and a goddess whom all poets adored, and whose two sisters were brigit the physician and brigit the smith. probably the three sisters represent the same divine or semi-divine person whom we may identify with the british goddess brigantia and the gaulish brigindo. may we not see, then, in these rush crosses a very ancient symbol, used in pagan times, and which was probably consecrated by early christian missionaries, and given a new significance? [illustration: plate v. [_r. welch, photo._ harvest knots.] the harvest knots or bows are connected with another old custom which was, until recently, observed at maghera. when the harvest was gathered in, the last handful of oats, the corn of this country, was left standing. it was plaited in three parts and tied at the top, and was called by the irish name "luchter." the reapers stood at some distance, and threw their sickles at the luchter, and the man who cut it was exempt from paying his share of the feast. daniel mckenna told me he had seen some fine sickles broken in trying to hit the luchter. it was afterwards carried home; the young girls plaited harvest knots and put them in their hair, while the lads wore them in their caps and buttonholes. a dance followed the feast. the knots, with the ears of corn attached, are, i am told, the true old irish type, while it is thought that the smaller ones were made after a pattern brought from england by the harvest reapers on their return home. i heard of the same custom at portstewart and also in the valley of the roe, where the last sheaf of oats was called the "hare," and the throwing of the sickles was termed the "churn." in some places the last sheaf itself was called the "churn," but by whatever name it was known the man who hit it was regarded as the victor, and was given the best seat at the feast, or a reward of some kind. an old woman above ninety years of age repeated to me a song about the churn, or kirn, and she and many others remember well the custom and the feast which followed, when both whisky and tea were served. in some districts the last sheaf is termed the "cailleagh,"[11] or old wife. a similar custom in devonshire has been described by mr. pearse chope in the _london devonian year book_ for 1910, p. 127. here corn is wheat, and a sheaf of the finest ears, termed the "neck," is carried by one of the men to an elevated spot; the reapers form themselves into a ring, and each man holding his hook above his head, they all join in "the weird cry, 'a neck! a neck! a neck! we ha' un! we ha' un! we ha' un!' this is repeated several times, with the occasional variation: 'a neck! a neck! a neck! god sa' un! god sa' un! god sa' un!' after this ceremony the man with the neck has to run to the kitchen, and get it there dry, while the maids wait with buckets and pitchers of water to 'souse' him and the neck." mr. chope adds that in most cases the neck is more or less in the form of a woman, and undoubtedly represented the spirit of the harvest, and that "the main idea of the ceremony seems to have been that in cutting the corn the spirit was gradually driven into the last handful.... as it was needful to cut the corn and bury the seed, so it was necessary to kill the corn spirit in order that it might rise again in fresh youth and vigour in the coming crop."[12] i think we may safely assume that the irish churn had a similar origin, and that in throwing the sickles the aim of the ancient reapers was to kill the spirit of the corn. [illustration: plate vi. [_r. welch, photo._ "churn"] we have seen that in the north of ireland the last sheaf is frequently termed the "hare," and in many other countries the corn spirit takes the form of an animal. in his recent volumes of the _golden bough_, entitled "spirits of the corn and the wild," dr. frazer mentions many animals, such as the wolf, goat, fox, dog, bull, cow, horse, hare, which represent the corn spirit lurking in the last patch of standing corn. he tells us that "at harvest a number of wild animals, such as hares, rabbits, and partridges, are commonly driven by the progress of the reaping into the last patch of standing corn, and make their escape from it as it is being cut down.... now, primitive man, to whom magical changes of shape seem perfectly credible, finds it most natural that the spirit of the corn, driven from his home in the ripe grain, should make his escape in the form of the animal, which is seen to rush out of the last patch of corn as it falls under the scythe of the reaper."[13] to return to maghera. the morning passed swiftly as i listened to my guide's description of these old customs, and it was after two o'clock when i said good-bye to him at his cottage, and found myself again in the main street of maghera. i now wished to visit the fort of dunglady, and after a refreshing cup of tea, engaged a car. the driver knew the country well, and, going uphill and downhill, we passed through the village of culnady, and were soon close to this fine fort. a few minutes' walk, and i stood on the outer rampart, and gazed across the inner circles at the cattle grazing on the central enclosure. this fort was visited in 1902 by the royal society of antiquaries of ireland, when a very interesting paper, written by miss jane clark of kilrea, was read. she mentions that dr. o'donovan considered this fort one of the most interesting he had met with; not so magnificent as the dun of keltar at downpatrick, but much better fortified, and states that a map of the time of charles i. represents dunglady fort as a prominent object, and shows three houses built upon it, one of considerable size. quoting from an unpublished letter of mr. j. stokes, she refers to the triple rampart, which makes the diameter of the whole to be three hundred and thirty feet. there was formerly a draw well in the middle of the fort, and at one time it was used as a burial-ground by members of the society of friends. miss clark also referred to a smaller fort at culnady, which had been demolished. the two mounds in the centre of this rath had been formed of earth on a stone foundation. a rapid drive brought me back to maghera in time for a short visit to the ruins of the church of st. lurach, popularly known in the district as st. lowry. there is a curious sculpture of the crucifixion over the west doorway, which is shown in the sketch of this doorway by petrie in lord dunraven's "notes on irish architecture."[14] i must now conclude this account of my visit to maghera, but may i mention that farther north there are other interesting antiquities? the large cromlech, called the broadstone, is some miles from kilrea. there are several forts in the neighbourhood of that town, which draws its supply of water from a fairy well. footnotes: [7] read before the archæological section of the belfast naturalists' field club, january 15, 1913. [8] in "my schools and schoolmasters" (chap. x., pp. 222-223, ed. 1854), hugh miller describes the goblin who haunted craig house, near cromarty firth, as a "grey-headed, grey-bearded, little old man," and the apparition was thus explained by a herdboy: "_oh! they're saying_ it's the spirit of the man that was killed on the foundation-stone just after it was laid, and then built intil the wa' by the masons, that he might keep the castle by coming back again; and _they're saying_ that a' the verra auld houses in the kintra had murderit men builded intil them in that way, and that they have a' o' them this bogle." in "the study of man," professor haddon gives a number of allusions to the human sacrifice in the building of bridges (pp. 347-356). [9] see p. 27. [10] in plate iv. the larger cross is of rushes, the smaller one is made of straw. [11] mr. mckean kindly informs me that he has found this name or its modification "collya" in counties armagh, monaghan, and tyrone; also near cushendall, co. antrim, where the ceremony is called "cutting the cailleagh." he was told this cailleagh was an old witch, and by "killing" her and taking her into the house you got good luck. at ballyatoge, at the back of cat carn hill, near belfast, in the descent to crumlin, the custom is called "cutting the granny." at ballycastle, co. antrim, the plait or braid is called the "car-line." [12] dr. frazer also describes this devonshire custom (see _golden bough_, "spirits of the corn and the wild," vol. i., pp. 264-267). [13] "spirits of the corn and the wild," vol. i., pp. 304, 305. [14] vol. i., p. 115. ulster fairies, danes and pechts[15] the fairy lore of ulster is doubtless dying out, but much may yet be learned about the "gentle" folk, and as we listen to the stories told by the peasantry, we may well ask ourselves what is the meaning of these old legends. fairies are regarded on the whole as a kindly race of beings, although if offended they will work dire vengeance. they have no connection with churchyards, and are quite distinct from ghosts. one old woman, who had much to say about fairies, when asked about ghosts, replied rather scornfully, that she did not believe in them. the fairies are supposed to be small--"wee folk"--but we must not think of them as tiny creatures who could hide in a foxglove. to use a north of ireland phrase, they are the size of a "lump of a boy or girl!" and have been often mistaken for ordinary men or women, until their sudden disappearance marked them as unearthly. a farmer in co. antrim told me that once when a man was taking stones from a cave in a fort, an old man came and asked him would it not be better to get his stones elsewhere than from those ancient buildings. the other, however, continued his work; but when the stranger suddenly disappeared, he became convinced that his questioner was no ordinary mortal. in after-life he often said sadly: "he was a poor man, and would always remain a poor man, because he had taken stones from that cave." the cave was no doubt a souterrain. an elderly woman in co. antrim told me that when a child she one evening saw "a little old woman with a green cloak coming over the burn." she helped her to cross, and afterwards took her to the cottage, where her mother received the stranger kindly, told her she was sorry she could not give her a bed in the house, but that she might sleep in one of the outhouses. the children made grannie as comfortable as they could, and in the morning went out early to see how she was. they found her up and ready to leave. the child who had first met her said she would again help her across the burn--"but wait," she added, "until i get my bonnet." she ran into the house, but before she came out the old woman had disappeared. when the mother heard of this she said: "god bless you, child! don't mind grannie; she is very well able to take care of herself." and so it was believed that grannie was a fairy. i have also heard of a little old man in a three-cornered hat, at first mistaken for a neighbour, but whose sudden disappearance proved him to be a fairy. in the time of the press-gang a crowd was seen approaching some cottages. great alarm ensued, and the young men fled; but it was soon discovered that these people did not come from a man-of-war--they were fairies. a terrible story, showing how the fairies can punish their captives, was told me by an old woman at armoy, in co. antrim, who vouched for it as being "candid truth." a man's wife was carried away by the fairies; he married again, but one night his first wife met him, told him where she was, and besought him to release her, saying that if he would do so she would leave that part of the country and not trouble him any more. she begged him, however, not to make the attempt unless he were confident he could carry it out, as if he failed she would die a terrible death. he promised to save her, and she told him to watch at midnight, when she would be riding past the house with the fairies; she would put her hand in at the window, and he must grasp it and hold tight. he did as she bade him, and although the fairies pulled hard, he had nearly saved her, when his second wife saw what was going on, and tore his hand away. the poor woman was dragged off, and across the fields he heard her piercing cries, and saw next morning the drops of blood where the fairies had murdered her. another woman was more fortunate; she was carried off by the fairies at cushendall, but was able to inform her friends when she and the fairies would be going on a journey, and she told them that if they stroked her with the branch of a rowan-tree she would be free. they did as she desired. she returned to them, apparently having suffered no injury, and in the course of time she married. this story was told me by a man ninety years of age, living in glenshesk, in the north of co. antrim. he spoke of the fairies as being about two feet in height, said they were dressed in green, and had been seen in daylight making hats of rushes. in donegal i was also told that the fairies wore high peaked hats made of plaited rushes; but there, as in most parts of ulster, and indeed of ireland, the fairies are said to wear red, not green. in antrim the fairies, like their scotch kinsfolk, dress in green, but even there are often said to have red or sandy hair. the pechts are spoken of as low, stout people, who built some of the "coves" in the forts. an old man, living in the townland of drumcrow, co. antrim, showed me the entrance to one of these artificial caves, and gave me a vivid description of its builders. "the pechts," he said, "were low-set, heavy-made people, broad in the feet--so broad," he added, with an expressive gesture, "that in rain they could lie down and shelter themselves under their feet." he spoke of them as clad in skins, while an old woman at armoy said they were dressed in grey. i have seldom heard of the pechts beyond the confines of antrim, although an old man in donegal spoke of them as short people with large, unwieldy feet. the traditions regarding the danes vary; sometimes they are spoken of as a tall race, sometimes as a short race. there is little doubt that the tall race were the medieval danes, while in the short men we have probably a reminiscence of an earlier race. a widespread belief exists throughout ireland that the danes made heather beer, and that the secret perished with them. according to an old woman at the foot of the mourne mountains, the danes had the land in old times, but at last they were conquered, and there remained alive only a father and son. when pressed to disclose how the heather beer was made, the father said: "kill my son, and i will tell you our secret"; but when the son was slain, he cried: "kill me also, but our secret you shall never know!" i have the authority of mr. macritchie for stating that a similar story is known in scotland from the shetlands to the mull of galloway, but there it is told of the picts. we all remember louis stevenson's ballad of heather ale--how the son was cast into the sea: "and there on the cliff stood the father, last of the dwarfish men. "true was the word i told you: only my son i feared; for i doubt the sapling courage that goes without the beard. but now in vain is the torture, fire shall never avail; here dies in my bosom the secret of heather ale." the secret appears, however, to have been preserved for many centuries. after visiting islay in 1772, the welsh traveller and naturalist, pennant, states that "ale is frequently made in this island from the tops of heath, mixing two-thirds of that plant with one of malt."[16] probably these islanders were descendants of the picts or pechts. i do not know if there is any record of the making of heather beer in ireland in later times, but i heard the story of the lost secret in down, in kerry, in donegal, in antrim, and everywhere the father and the son were the last of the danes. does not this point to the irish danes being a kindred race to the picts? if we may be allowed to hold that the tuatha de danann are not altogether mythical, i should be inclined to believe that they are the short danes of the irish peasantry, who built the forts and souterrains. i visited some danes' graves near ballygilbert, in co. antrim; it appeared to me that there were indications of a stone circle, the principal tomb was in the centre, the walls built without mortar, and i was told that formerly it had been roofed in with a flat stone. various ridges were pointed out to me as marking the small fields of these early people. i was also shown their houses, built, like the graves, without mortar. within living memory these old structures were much more perfect than at present, many of them having the characteristic flat slab as a roof; but fences were needed, and the danes' houses offered a convenient and tempting supply of stones. in the same neighbourhood i was shown a building of uncemented stone with flat slabs for the roof, and was told it had been built by the fairies. [illustration: _souterrain of knockdhu co. antrim plan drawn by florence hobson from the measurements made by m hobson_] in the same district i visited a fine souterrain at the foot of knockdhu, which was afterwards fully explored and measured by mrs. hobson. she describes it as "a souterrain containing six chambers, with a length of eighty-seven feet exclusive of a flooded chamber."[17] mrs. hobson photographed the entrance to this souterrain, which is reproduced in plate vii. [illustration: plate vii. entrance to souterrain at knockdhu.] from the foregoing traditions it will be seen that pechts, danes, and fairies are all associated with the remains of primitive man. i may add that the small pipes sometimes turned up by the plough are called in different localities danes', pechts', or fairies' pipes. the peasantry regard the pechts and the danes as thoroughly human; with the fairies it is otherwise. they are unearthly beings, fallen angels with supernatural powers; but, while quick to revenge an injury or a slight, on the whole friendly to mankind. "it was better for the country before they went away," was the remark made to me by an old woman from garvagh, co. derry, and i have heard the same sentiment expressed by others. they are always spoken of with much respect, and are often called the "gentry" or the "gentle folk." we hear of fairy men, fairy women, and fairy children. they may intermarry with mortals, and an old woman told me she had seen a fairy's funeral. now, do these stories give us only a materialistic view of the spirit world held by early man, or can we also trace in them a reminiscence of a pre-celtic race of small stature? the respect paid to the fairy thorn is no doubt a survival of tree-worship, and in the banshee we have a weird being who has little in common with mortal woman. on the other hand, the fairies are more often connected with the artificial forts and souterrains than with natural hills and caves. these forts and souterrains, as we have seen, are also the habitations of danes and pechts. they are sacred spots--to injure them is to court misfortune; but i have not heard them spoken of as sepulchres. i have already mentioned that i have rarely, if ever, found among the peasantry any tradition of fairies a few inches in height. in one of the tales in "silva gadelica" (xiv.) we read, however, of the lupracan being so small that the close-cropped grass of the green reached to the thigh of their poet, and the prize feat of their great champion was the hewing down of a thistle at a single stroke. such a race could not have built the souterrains, and probably owe their origin to the imagination of the medieval story-teller. the lupracan were not, however, always of such diminutive size. in a note to this story mr. standish h. o'grady quotes an old irish manuscript[18] in which a distinctly human origin is ascribed to these luchorpan or wee-bodies. "ham, therefore, was the first that was cursed after the deluge, and from him sprang the wee-bodies (pygmies), fomores, 'goatheads' (satyrs), and every other deformed shape that human beings wear." the old writer goes on to tell us that this was the origin of these monstrosities, "which are not, as the gael relate, of cain's seed, for of his seed nothing survived the flood."[19] it is true that in this passage the lupracan or wee-bodies are associated with goatheads; but whether these are purely fabulous beings, or point to an early race whose features were supposed to resemble those of goats, or who perhaps stood in totem relationship to goats, it would be difficult to say. what we have here are two medieval traditions, the one stating that the pygmies are descendants of cain, the other classing them among the descendants of ham. does the latter contain a germ of truth, and is it possible that at one time a people resembling the pygmies of central africa inhabited these islands? those who have visited the african dwarfs in their own haunts have been struck by the resemblance between their habits and those ascribed to the northern fairies, elves, and trolls. sir harry johnston states that anyone who has seen much of the merry, impish ways of the central african pygmies "cannot but be struck by their singular resemblance in character to the elves and gnomes and sprites of our nursery stories." he warns us, however, against reckless theorizing, and says: "it may be too much to assume that the negro species ever inhabited europe," but adds that undoubtedly to his thinking "most fairy myths arose from the contemplation of the mysterious habits of dwarf troglodyte races lingering on still in the crannies, caverns, forests, and mountains of europe after the invasion of neolithic man."[20] captain burroughs refers to the stories of these mannikins to be found in all countries, and adds that "it was of the highest interest to find some of them in their primitive and aboriginal state."[21] he speaks of the red and black akka, and sir harry johnston also describes the two types of pygmy, one being of a reddish-yellow colour, the other as black as the ordinary negro. in the yellow-skinned type there is a tendency on the part of the head hair to be reddish, more especially over the frontal part of the head. the hair is never absolutely black--it varies in colour between greyish-greenish-brown, and reddish.[22] we have seen how irish fairies and danes have red hair, but i should infer of a brighter hue than these african dwarfs. the average height of the pygmy man is four feet nine inches, of the pygmy woman four feet six inches,[23] and although we cannot measure fairies, i think the ulster expression, "a lump of a boy or girl," would correspond with this height. i do not know the size of the fairy's foot, but, as we have seen, both danes and pechts have large feet, and so has the african pygmy.[24] one of the great marks of the fairies is their vanishing and leaving no trace behind, and sir harry johnston speaks of the baboon-like adroitness of the african dwarfs in making themselves invisible in squatting immobility.[25] dr. robertson smith has shown that "primitive man has to contend not only with material difficulties, but with the superstitious terror of the unknown, paralyzing his energies and forbidding him freely to put forth his strength to subdue nature to his use."[26] in speaking of the arabian "jinn," he states "that even in modern accounts _jinn_ and various kinds of animals are closely associated, while in the older legends they are practically identified,"[27] and he adds that the stories point distinctly "to haunted spots being the places where evil beasts walk by night."[28] he also shows that totems or friendly demoniac beings rapidly develop into gods when men rise above pure savagery,[29] and he cites the ancestral god of baalbek, who was worshipped under the form of a lion.[30] if we see, then, that early man, terrified by the wild beasts, whether lions or reptiles, ascribed to them superhuman powers, may not a similar mode of thought have caused one race to invest with supernatural attributes another race, strangers to them, and possibly of inferior mental development? the big negro is often afraid to withhold his banana from the pygmy, and the dwarfish lapps and finns have long been regarded as powerful sorcerers by their more civilized neighbours. in like manner the little woman, inhabiting her underground dwelling at the foot of the sacred thorn-bush, might well be looked upon as an uncanny being, and in after-ages popular imagination might transform her into the weird banshee, the woman of the fairy mound, whose wailing cry betokens death and disaster. footnotes: [15] reprinted from the _antiquary_, august, 1906. [16] "voyage to the hebrides in 1772," p. 229. for a full discussion of the subject, see mr. macritchie's "memories of the picts," in the _scottish antiquary_ for 1900. [17] see "some ulster souterrains," _journal of the royal anthropological institute_, vol. xxxix., january-june, 1909. the plan was drawn by miss florence hobson from the measurements made by mrs. hobson. [18] rawl., 486, f.49, 2. [19] "silva gadelica" (translation and notes), pp. 563, 564. [20] "uganda protectorate," vol. ii., pp. 516, 517. [21] "land of the pygmies," pp. 173, 174. [22] "uganda protectorate," vol. ii. see pp. 527, 530; also coloured frontispiece. [23] "uganda protectorate," vol. ii., p. 532. [24] _ibid._, p. 532. [25] _ibid._, p. 513. [26] "the religion of the semites," p. 115. [27] _ibid._, pp. 122, 123. [28] _ibid._, p. 123. [29] _ibid._, note _b_, p. 424. [30] _ibid._, p. 425. folklore connected with ulster raths and souterrains[31] as the title of this paper i have given "folklore connected with ulster raths and souterrains," but if i used the language of the country-people i should speak, not of raths and souterrains, but of forths and coves. in these coves it is believed the fairies dwell, and here they keep as prisoners women, children, even men. these subterranean dwellings may not be known to mortals. i heard of a lad being kept for several days in the fort of the shimna, near newcastle, co. down, and i was told that the great rath at downpatrick had been a very gentle place, meaning one inhabited by fairies. in neither of these forts is there, as far as is known, a souterrain, nor is there one in the old fort at antrim, a typical rath. in many cases we do find the entrance to a souterrain is in a fort. i may mention ballymagreehan fort, the stone fort near altnadua lough in co. down, and crocknabroom, near ballycastle. although not in ulster, i may also refer to a fine example of a rath with a souterrain in it, the mote of greenmount, described by the rev. j. b. leslie in his "history of kilsaran, co. louth."[32] [illustration: plate viii. [_r. welch, photo._ the old fort, antrim.] many souterrains have no fort above them. take, for example, the one near scollogstown, co. down, with its numerous bridges, which it would be decidedly unpleasant to face if little men were behind them shooting arrows. also cloughnabrick cave, near ballycastle, which is not built with stones, but hollowed out of the basaltic rock. fairies are not the only race connected with raths and souterrains. we have two others, danes and pechts. it is generally believed that the danes built the forts; hence we find many of them called "danes' forts." i will describe one named from the townland in which it is situated, ballycairn fort. it stands on a high bank overlooking the bann, about a mile north of coleraine. the entire height is about twenty-six feet; at perhaps twelve feet from the ground a flat platform is reached, and at one end of this the upper part of the fort rises in a circular form for about fourteen or fifteen feet. i was told the danes who built it were short, stout people, and as they had no wheelbarrows they carried the earth in their leathern aprons. here we seem to come in contact with a very primitive people, probably wearing the skins of wild animals, and who are said, like the fairies, to have sandy or red hair. as far as is known no souterrain exists in ballycairn fort, although i was shown a stone at the side which my guide said might be the entrance to a "cove"; it appeared to me to be simply a piece of rock appearing above the sod, or possibly a boulder. there is a tradition of fairies living in this fort, as it is said that in "long ago" times the farmers used to threaten their boys if they were not doing right, that the fairies would come out of the fort and carry them away. many of the souterrains in this part of the world are now blocked up, and of some the entrance is no longer known, although they have been explored within living memory; others have been destroyed. there was a souterrain a short distance from ballycairn fort in a field opposite to cranogh national school. the master of this school told me that fifteen or sixteen years ago these underground buildings existed, but now they have been all quarried away. he also mentioned a tradition that there was a subterranean passage under the bann. on the opposite bank of the river, near portstewart, i heard of several of these underground dwellings. one was on the land of an old farmer eighty-four years of age. he told me he had been in this cave, but no one could get in now. it had been hollowed out by man, but the walls were not built of stones. there were several rooms; you dropped from one to another through a narrow hole. the rooms were large, but low in the roof; in one of them a quantity of limpet-shells were found. he added that some said that the danes had built these caves, others that the clans made them as places of refuge. he added that the danes of those days had sandy hair and were short people; not like the sturdy danes of the present day. these are well known to the seafaring population of ulster, and we sometimes find the old danes spoken of as a tall, fair race; probably this is a true description of the medieval sea-rovers. the short danes i should be inclined to identify with the tuatha de danann, and i believe that, notwithstanding the magical portents which abound in the tales that have come down to us, we have here a very early people who had made some progress in the arts. this double use of the name dane seems at times to have perplexed the older writers. the rev. william hamilton, in his "letters on the north-east coast of antrim," published towards the end of the eighteenth century, gives a description of the coal-mines of ballycastle[33] and of the very ancient galleries, with the pillars, left by the prehistoric miners, supporting the roof, which had been discovered some twelve years before he wrote. he tells us that the people of the place ascribed them to the danes, but argues that these were never peaceable possessors of ireland, and that it is not "to the tumultuary and barbarous armies of the ninth and tenth centuries ... we are to attribute the slow and toilsome operations of peace." he mentions how the stalactite pillars found in these galleries marked their antiquity, and ascribes them to some period prior to the eighth century, "when ireland enjoyed a considerable share of civilization." in the same way john windele, writing in the _ulster journal of archæology_ for 1862, speaks of the mines in waterford having been worked by the ancient inhabitants, and adds: "one almost insulated promontory is perforated like a rabbit-burrow, and is known as the 'danes' island,' the peasantry attributing these ancient mines, like all other relics of remote civilisation, to the danes."[34] from my own experience i can corroborate this statement. an artificial island in lough sessiagh, in co. donegal, was shown to me as the work of the danes. the forts on horn head and at glenties are also ascribed to them. the use of the souterrains was not confined to prehistoric times. the one at greenmount appears to have been inhabited by the medieval danes, as a runic inscription, engraved on a plate of bronze, has been discovered in it, the only one as yet found in ireland. in 1317 every man dwelling in an ooan, or caher's souterrain, was summoned to join the army of domched o'brian.[35] the french traveller, jorevin de rocheford, speaks of subterranean vaults where the peasants assembled to hear mass,[36] and in still more recent times the smuggler and the distiller of illicit whisky found them convenient places of concealment. in a former paper i referred to the lost secret of the heather beer, and the tragic ending of the last of the danes.[37] as the story was told me near ballycairn fort, the father said: "give my son the first lilt of the rope, and i will reveal our secret"; but when the son was dead the father cried: "slay me also, for none shall ever know how the heather beer was brewed!" in a paper read to this club mr. mckean[38] mentioned that this story had been told to him in kerry, where i, too, heard it. it appears to be almost universal in ulster. when visiting navan fort, the ancient emania, near armagh, i was told that on this fort the danes made heather beer. i asked if any heather grew in the neighbourhood, but the answer was, not now. there are variants of the tale. in some parts of donegal it is wine, not beer, that the danes are said to have made. as a rule the slaughter is taken for granted, and very little said about it; but a farmer in co. antrim gave me a full account of the massacre, how at a great feast a roman catholic sat beside each dane, and at a given signal plunged his dirk into his neighbour's side, until only one man and his son remained alive; then followed the usual sequel. these short danes are said to have had large feet, and one man described their arms as so long that they could pick anything off the ground without stooping. long arms are also a characteristic of the traditional dwarf of japan, probably an ancestor of the aino.[39] as i mentioned in a previous paper,[40] large feet are also a traditional characteristic of the pechts, who are generally said to have been clad in skins or in grey clothes. they have occasionally superhuman attributes ascribed to them. the same man who spoke of the long arms of the danes said the pechts could creep through keyholes--they were like "speerits"--and he evidently regarded both them and the fairies as evil spirits. at the same time he said they would thresh corn or work for a man, but if they were given food, they would be offended, and go away. i think the close connection between danes, pechts, and fairies will be apparent to all, although the fairy has more supernatural characteristics, and in the banshee assumes a very weird form. lady fanshawe has described the apparition she saw when staying, in 1649, with the lady honora o'brien, as a woman in white, with red hair and ghastly complexion, who thrice cried "ahone!" and vanished with a sigh more like wind than breath. this was apparently the ghost of a murdered woman, who was said to appear when any of the family died, and that night a cousin of their hostess had passed away.[41] similar stories, as we all know, exist at the present day. except in the case of the banshee, fairies rarely partake of the nature of ghosts, and i should note that in her description of the apparition lady fanshawe does not use the word "banshee." in many respects the fairies are akin to mortals--there are fairy men, fairy women, and fairy children. fairies often live under bushes, and i was told in co. armagh that it would be a very serious matter to cut down a "lone" thorn-bush; those growing in rows were evidently less sacred. did the thorn-bush hide the entrance to the subterranean dwelling? the fairies are quick to revenge an injury or an encroachment on their territory. a fire which occurred at dunree on lough swilly was attributed to the fairies, who were supposed to be angry because the military had carried the works of their modern fort too near the fairy rock. in some places the raths have been cultivated, but, as a rule, this is looked upon as very unlucky, and sure to bring dire misfortune on the man who attempts it. on the other hand, there appears to be no objection to growing crops on the top of a souterrain. many are, it is true, afraid to enter these dark abodes, and others consider it unwise to carry anything out of them. i have never heard them spoken of as tombs, and the fairies are regarded, not as ghosts, but as fallen angels, to whom no church holds out a hope of salvation. only in one instance did a woman tell me that as fairies were good to the poor, she thought there would be hope for them hereafter. the irish fairy remains a pagan; the ancient well of pre-christian days may be consecrated to the christian saint, and patterns held beside it, but no pious pilgrim prays on the rath or below the fairy rock. we may now ask ourselves the meaning of these legends. the rath and souterrain are undoubtedly the work of primitive man, yet here we have the sidh, inhabited by the fairy and the tuatha de danann. in the "colloquy of the ancients"[42] we are told it was out of a sidh, finn's chief musician, the dwarf cnu deiriol came, and from another sidh came blathnait, whom the small man espoused. it was fairy music which cnu taught to the musicians of the fianna. it was out of a sidh in the south that cas corach, son of the olave of the tuatha de danann, came to the king of ulidia.[43] in derrick's "image of ireland," written in 1578, and published in 1581, the olympian gods call upon certain little mountain gods, whom i should be inclined to identify with the fairies, to come to their aid: "let therefore little mountain gods a troupe (as thei maie spare) of breechlesse men at all assaies, both leauvie and prepare with mantelles down unto the shoe to lappe them in by night; with speares and swordes and little dartes to shield them from despight."[44] may i, in conclusion, express my belief that in the traditions of fairies, danes, and pechts the memory is preserved of an early race or races of short stature, but of considerable strength, who built underground dwellings, and had some skill in music and in other arts? they appear to have been spread over a great part of europe. it is possible that, as larger races advanced, these small people were driven southwards to the mountains of switzerland, westward towards the atlantic, and northward to lapland, where their descendants may still be found. no doubt there is a large supernatural element, especially in the stories of the fairies; but the same may be said of the tales of witches in the seventeenth century. the witch was undoubtedly human, yet she was believed, and sometimes believed herself, to possess superhuman powers, and to be in communication with unearthly beings. we must also remember the widespread belief in local spirits or gods, and a taller race of invaders might well fear the magic of an earlier people long settled in the country, even if the latter were inferior in bodily and mental characteristics. footnotes: [31] read before the archæological section of the belfast naturalists' field club, february 12, 1908. [32] pp. 12-20. several sections of this rath are given; also a view showing greenmount in 1748, and a plan of the same date--both from wright's "louthiana," published in that year. [33] part i., letter iv., edition 1822. [34] _ulster journal of archæology_, 1861-62, p. 212. [35] see "prehistoric stone forts of northern clare," by thomas j. westropp, m.a., m.r.i.a. (_journal of the royal society of antiquaries of ireland_, vol. vi., fifth series, 1896). [36] see "illustrations of irish history," by c. litton falkiner, p. 416. he considers it probable that jorevin de rochefort was albert jouvin de rochefort, trésorier de france. [37] see ulster fairies, danes and pechts, p. 28. [38] see annual report of belfast naturalists' field club, 1907-08, "a holiday trip to west kerry," p. 73. [39] see mr. david macritchie's "northern trolls," read at the folklore congress, chicago, 1893, p. 12. [40] see ulster fairies, danes and pechts, p. 27. [41] see "memoirs of anne, lady fanshawe," edited by herbert c. fanshawe, pp. 57-59. [42] translated by mr. s. h. o'grady in "silva gadelica," volume with translation and notes. (for cnu and blathnait, see pp. 115-117.) [43] _ibid._, pp. 187, 188. [44] p. 38, edinburgh, 1883; edited by john small, m.a., f.s.a.scot. traditions of dwarf races in ireland and in switzerland[45] in the traditions alike of switzerland and of ireland we hear of a dwarfish people, dwellers in mountain caves or in artificial souterrains, who are gifted with magical powers. the quaint figure of the swiss dwarf with his peaked cap has been made familiar to us by the carvings of the peasantry, and in antrim and donegal the irish fairy is said to wear a peaked cap of plaited rushes. with rushes he also makes a covering for his feet.[46] closely allied to the fairy is the grogach, with his large head and soft body, who appears to have no bones as he comes tumbling down the hills. these grogachs i heard of in north-east antrim, and in them, as in the fairies, the supernatural characteristics preponderate. i was told that both were full of magic, and had come from egypt. we have, however, two other small races who are usually regarded by the peasantry as strictly human, the pechts and the danes.[47] two traditions regarding danes exist: sometimes we hear of tall danes, doubtless the medieval sea-rovers; sometimes of small danes, the builders of many of the raths and souterrains. while the danes are the great builders throughout ireland, some of the raths and souterrains, especially those in north-east antrim, are said to have been made by the pechts. last summer i visited one of these, the cave of finn mccoul. it is a souterrain situated in glenshesk, about three miles from ballycastle. the ground above it is perfectly flat, no fort or any inequality to mark the spot; indeed, the farmer who kindly opened it for me had at first a difficulty in knowing in what part of the field to dig, as the entrance had been covered. on my second visit, however, i found he had discovered the spot. entering a narrow passage, i crept through an opening from one and a half to two feet high, and found myself in a narrow chamber eight or nine feet long and little over four feet in height. the roof was formed of large flat slabs, which i was told were whinstone (basalt). at the opposite end of this chamber there was another narrow opening, leading, i presume, to a passage. i did not, however, venture farther; but i understand this artificial cave extends for about twenty perches underground, and has several chambers. [illustration: plate ix. [_r. welch, photo._ grey man's path, fair head.] i was told that this cave was the hiding-place of finn mccoul. his garden was pointed out to me on rising ground at some little distance, and i was also informed that about fifty years ago his castle stood on the hill; but nothing now remains of it, the stones having been used when roads were made. the following story was related to me on the spot: a scotch giant came over to fight finn mccoul, but was conquered and slain. to celebrate this victory finn invited the grey man of the path to a feast; but as hares and rabbits would have been too small to furnish a repast for this giant, finn took his dog and went out to hunt red deer. they were unsuccessful, and in anger he slew his dog brown,[48] which afterwards caused him much sorrow. in the grey man of the path we have, doubtless, a purely mythical character, an impersonation of the mists which gather round benmore,[49] while finn mccoul, or maccumaill, is one of ireland's greatest traditional heroes. according to a well-known legend, he was a giant, and united scotland and ireland by a stupendous mole, of which the cave at staffa and the giant's causeway are the two remaining fragments. in glenshesk he is only a tall man, between seven and eight feet in height. sometimes he is said to have been chief of the pechts; sometimes he is spoken of as their master, and it is said they worked as slaves to him and the fians. according to tradition, the pechts were very numerous, and must have carried the heavy slabs for the roof of finn mccoul's cave a distance of several miles. although usually looked on as strictly human, supernatural characteristics are sometimes attributed to them. like the swiss "servan," both they and the grogachs have been known to thresh corn or do other work for the farmers. i was told at ballycastle of one man who always laid out at night the bundles of corn he expected the grogach to thresh, and each morning the appointed task was accomplished. one night he forgot to lay the corn on the floor of the barn, and threw his flail on the top of the stack. the poor grogach imagined that he was to thresh the whole, and set to work manfully; but the task was beyond his strength, and in the morning he was found dead. the farmer and his wife buried him, and mourned deeply the loss of their small friend. clough-na-murry fort is said to be a "gentle"[50] place, yet an old man living near it told me he did not believe in the grogachs; he thought it was the danes who had worked for the farmers. he said these danes were a persevering people, and that when they were in distress they would thresh corn for the farmers, if food were left out for them. others say that the danes were too proud to work. one does not hear much of brownies in ulster; but i have been told they were hairy people who did not require clothes, but would thresh or cut down a field of corn for a farmer. on one occasion, out of gratitude for the work done, some porridge was left for them on plates round the fire. they ate it, but went away crying sadly: "i got my mate an' my wages, an' they want nae mair o' me." although, according to some, the grogachs gladly accept food, others say that they and the pechts are offended if it is offered to them, and leave to return no more. i have not often heard of clothes being offered to the pechts or grogachs, but the rev. john g. campbell relates a story of a brownie in shetland who ground grain in a hand-quern at night. he was rewarded for his labours by a cloak and hood left for him at the mill. these disappeared in the morning, and with them the brownie, who never came back.[51] a similar tale is told of a swiss dwarf. at ems, in canton valais, a miller engaged the services of a "gottwerg," and the little man worked early and late, sometimes rising in the night to see that all was in order. the mill produced twice as much as formerly, and at the end of the year the dwarf was rewarded by a garment made of the best wool. he put it on, jumped for joy, and crying out, "now i am a handsome man, i have no more need to grind rye," he disappeared, and was not seen again.[52] in these tales from ireland, scotland, and switzerland, may there not be a reminiscence of a conquered race of small stature, but considerable strength, who worked either as slaves or for some small gift? no doubt they were badly fed, and their clothing would be of the scantiest. like the danes and the pechts, the fairies live underground. there is a widespread story of a fairy woman who begs a cottager not to throw water out at the doorstep, as it falls down her chimney. the request is invariably granted. some of these "wee folk" dwell in palaces under the sea. i heard a story at ballyliffan, in co. donegal, of men being out in a boat which was nearly capsized by a heavy sea raised by a fairy. at last one sailor cried out to throw a nail against the advancing wave; this was done, and the nail hit the fairy. that night a woman, skilled in healing, received a message calling upon her to go to the courts below the sea. she consented, extracted the nail, and cured the fairy woman, but was careful not to eat any food offered to her. this fairy is said to have promised a man a pot of gold if he would marry her, but he refused. an old man at culdaff told me another tale of the sea. a fishing-boat was nearly overwhelmed, when a fairy-boat was seen riding on the top of a great wave, and a voice from it cried: "do not harm that boat; an old friend of mine is in it." the voice belonged to a man who was supposed to be dead; but he had been carried off by the fairies, and would not allow them to injure his old friend. if the irish fairy has power over the waves, the swiss dwarf can divert the course of the devastating landslip. i was told by an elderly man in the bernese oberland of the destruction of burglauenen, a village near grindelwald. all the cottages were overwhelmed by a landslip except one poor hut, which had given shelter to a dwarf, who was seen, seated on a stone, directing the moving mass away from the abode of his friends. a similar story is told of the destruction of niederdorf, in the simmenthal.[53] one sunday evening a feeble little man clad in rags came to the village; he knocked at several houses, praying the inmates to give him, for the love of god, a night's shelter. everywhere he was refused--one hard-hearted woman telling him to go and break stones--until he came to a poor basket-maker and his wife, who gave him the best they had, and when he left he promised that god would reward them. a week later the village was destroyed by a terrible landslip, but here also the dwarf saved the dwelling of those who had befriended him. in this story and in many others the swiss dwarf appears as a good christian, but sometimes a rude and terrible form of paganism is attributed to him. in the tale of the "gotwergini im lötschental"[54] these dwarfs are accused of devouring children, and are said to have buried an old woman alive. she was apparently one of themselves. when they were laying her in the pit she wept bitterly, and begged that she might go free, saying she could still cook. but the dwarfs showed no pity: placing some bread and wine beside her, they covered in the grave. is this an instance of the primitive barbarism of killing those no longer able to work, which is said still to exist among the todas of india, and of which traces have been found in the customs of scandinavia and other countries?[55] the irish fairy never appears as a christian.[56] he is regarded by the peasant as a fallen angel, and no church holds out to him the hope of salvation. i was told in inishowen that a priest walking between clonmany and ballyliffan was surrounded by the "wee folk," who asked anxiously if they could be saved. he threw his book towards them, bade them catch it, and he would give them an answer; but at the sight of the breviary they scattered and fled.[57] the protestant bible and hymn-book are equally dreaded by them, and are used as a spell against their influence. i was told in the north of antrim of a woman who was nearly carried off by the fairies because her friends had omitted to leave these books beside her. luckily her husband, who was sleeping by the fire, awoke in time to save her. a pair of scissors, a darning-needle, or any piece of iron, would have been efficacious as a charm, so would the husband's trousers, if thrown across the bed. while, as we have seen, the fairies are endowed with many supernatural qualities, they have much in common with ordinary mortals; there are fairy men, fairy women, and fairy children. i have more than once heard of a fairy's funeral; they intermarry with mortals, and i have been told that those who bear the name of ferris are descended from fairies. i presume ferris is a corruption of fir sidhe. fairies are never associated with churchyards, nor are they usually looked on as the spirits of the departed. the banshee may, indeed, partake to some extent of a ghostly character. lady wilde speaks of her as the "spirit of death--the most weird and awful of all the fairy powers," and adds, "but only certain families of historic lineage or persons gifted with music and song are attended by this spirit."[58] it has often been stated that the banshee is an appanage of the great, but this is not the belief of the peasantry of ulster: many families in humble life have a banshee attached to them. when in a curragh on lough sessiagh, in co. donegal, the neighbouring hill of ben olla was pointed out to me, and i was also shown a small cottage in which a girl named olla had lived. she was carried off by the fairies, and her wailing was heard before the death of her mother, and again before the death of several members of her family. a farmer, or even a labourer, may have a banshee attached to his family--a little white creature was the description given to me by a woman who said she had seen one; others say that banshees are like birds. to leave these weird apparitions, it will be seen that the ordinary fairy, the grogach, the pecht, and the dane, all inhabit underground dwellings, although the fairy and grogach are regarded more in the light of supernatural beings. to cut down a fairy or a "skiough" bush is to court misfortune, sometimes to attempt an impossible task. in glenshesk some men tried to cut down a skiough bush, but the hatchet broke; after several failures they gave up, and the bush still flourishes. another bush was transplanted, but returned during the night. to the danes and pechts the building of all the raths and souterrains is ascribed, and in north-east antrim the pechts are said to have been so numerous that, when making a fort, they could stand in a long line, and hand the earth from one to another, no one moving a step. a similar story is told of the scotch pechts by the rev. andrew small in his "antiquities of fife" (1823).[59] speaking of the round tower of abernethy, "the story goes," he says, "that it was built by the pechts ... and that while the work was going on they stood in a row all the way from the lomond hill to the building, handing the stones from one to another.... that it has been built of freestone from the lomond hill is clear to a demonstration, as the grist or nature of the stone points out the very spot where it has been taken from--namely, a little west, and up from the ancient wood of drumdriell, about a mile straight south from meralsford." according to popular tradition in scotland, these pechts or picts were great builders, and many of the edifices ascribed to them belong to a comparatively late period. mr. macritchie suggests that in the erection of some of these the picts may have been employed as serfs or slaves.[60] he believes the pechts to be the picts of history. mr. w. c. mackenzie, on the other hand, has suggested that they are an earlier dwarf race, the pets or peti, who have been confused by the peasantry with the picts.[61] this is a matter i must leave to others to decide; but i may remark in passing that in an ancient poem on the cruithnians, preserved in the book of lecan, we have a suggestion that these cruithnians or picts were a smaller race than their enemies, the tuath fidga. we are told how "god vouchsafed unto them, in munificence, for their faithfulness--for their reward- to protect them from the poisoned arms of the repulsive horrid giants."[62] then follows an account of the cure discovered by the cruithnian druid--how he milked thrice fifty cows into one pit, and bathing in this pit appears to have healed the warriors and preserved them from harm. in an article on "the fairy mythology of europe in its relation to early history,"[63] mr. a. s. herbert identifies the early dwarf race with palæolithic man, and states that from such skeletons as have been unearthed "it is believed that they were a people of mongolian or turanian origin, short, squat, yellow-skinned, and swarthy." professor j. kollmann, of basle, speaking of dwarf races, describes "the flat, broad face, with a flat, broad, low nose and large nose roots."[64] compare these statements with the description given by harris in the eighteenth century of the native inhabitants of the northern and eastern coasts of ireland. "they are," he says, "of a squat sett stature, have short, broad faces, thick lips, hollow eyes, and noses cocked up, and seem to be a distinct people from the western irish, by whom they are called clan-galls--_i.e._, the offspring of the galls. the curious may carry these observations further. doubtless a long intercourse and various mixtures of the natives have much worn out these distinctions, of which i think there are yet visible remains."[65] we have, indeed, had in ireland from very early times a mingling of various races, but in the north we are in the home of the irish picts or cruithnians, and possibly this description of harris may indicate that some of the inhabitants in his day bore marks of a dwarfish ancestry. i have already drawn attention to a statement in an old irish manuscript[66] that the luchorpan or wee-bodies, the fomores and others, were of the race of ham. keating also speaks of the fomorians being sea-rovers of the race of cam (ham), who fared from africa,[67] and states that among the articles of tribute exacted by them from the race of neimhidh were two-thirds of the children. unless these were all slaughtered, we have here an intermingling of races, and in the same way it would be quite possible that finn mccoul might be a tall man, and yet the leader of the small pechts. the capture of women and children has been a common practice among savage races, and this i believe to be the origin of many fairy-tales, rather than any reference to the abode of the dead. throughout the "colloquy of the ancients," finn and the fianna frequently enter the green sidh--the mound where the tuatha de danann dwell, and from which the fairies derive their name "fir-sidh." sometimes they fight as allies of the inmates; frequently they intermarry with them.[68] throughout this colloquy the dwellers in the sidh possess many magical powers, but they hardly appear as gods of the ancient irish, and the verse in fiacc's hymn referring to the worship of the sidis is not among the stanzas regarded as genuine by professor bury.[69] we see that both in ireland and switzerland there are many legends of dwarf races who inhabit underground dwellings. in switzerland their skeletons have been found. those discovered by dr. nuesch at schweizersbild, near schaffhausen, have been minutely described by dr. j. kollmann, professor of anatomy at basle.[70] this burial-place dates from the early neolithic period; in it are found skeletons belonging to men of ordinary height, and in close proximity the graves of dwarfs. the neighbourhood of schaffhausen appears to be rich in the remains of early man; several skeletons have been found in the cave of dachsenbüel, two of them of small men, "such as in africa would be accounted pygmies."[71] professor kollmann mentions several other places in switzerland where skeletons of dwarfs have been found, as also in the grotte des enfants on the bay of genoa. he also speaks of dwarf races existing at the present day in sicily, sardinia, sumatra, the philippine islands, besides the well-known veddas of ceylon, the andaman islanders, and the african pygmies. he believes that these small people represent the oldest form of human beings, and that from them the taller races have been evolved. how long did these primitive people continue to exist in ireland and in switzerland? it would be difficult to say. tradition ascribes to them a strong physique, but even if they could hold their own with the taller races in the neolithic period, it must have been hard for them to contend with those who used weapons of bronze or iron, and, as we have seen, iron is specially obnoxious to the fairies. the people, however, who built the large number of souterrains dotted over antrim and down could not be easily exterminated. many of them may have been enslaved or gradually absorbed in the rest of the population; others would take refuge in retired spots, such as are still spoken of as "gentle" or haunted by fairies. if i might hazard a conjecture, i should say that both in ireland and in switzerland dwarf races had survived far into christian times, perhaps to a comparatively recent period. the irish fairy may possibly represent those who refused to accept the teaching of st. patrick and st. columbkill, while st. gall and other irish monks may have numbered swiss dwarfs among their converts. be this as it may, we have certainly in ulster the tradition of two dwarf races, the small danes and the pechts, who are undoubtedly human. we are shown their handiwork, and, primitive as are their underground dwellings, the builders of the souterrains had advanced far beyond the stage when man could only find shelter in the caves provided for him by nature. how many centuries did he take to learn the lesson? it is a far-reaching question, but here fairy-tales and popular legends are silent. they keep no count of time, although they may bring to us whispers from long-past ages. footnotes: [45] reprinted from the _antiquary_, october, 1909. [46] may it not be that cinderella's glass shoe was really green and derived its name from the irish word _glas_, denoting that colour, which is familiar to us in place-names? i make this conjecture with diffidence. i know the usual explanation is that the shoe was made of a kind of fur called in old french vair, and that a transcriber changed this word into _verre_. miss cox, in her "cinderella," mentions that she had only found six instances of a glass shoe. as littré says in the article on _vair_ in his dictionary, a _soulier de verre_ is absurd. a fur slipper, however, does not appear very suitable for a ball. [47] see ulster fairies, danes and pechts, p. 27 _et seq._ [48] this is, no doubt, a corruption of bran. [49] the grey man's path is a fissure on the face of benmore or fair head, by which a good climber can ascend the cliff. it has been suggested that this grey man is one of the old gods, possibly manannan, the irish sea-god. in the _ulster journal of archæology_ for 1858, vol. vi., p. 358, there is an account given of the grey man appearing near the mouth of the bush river to two youths, who believed they would have seen his cloven foot had he not been standing in the water. they had at first mistaken the apparition for an ordinary man. [50] a place inhabited by fairies, or "gentlefolk." [51] "superstitions of the highlands and islands of scotland," p. 188. [52] dr. j. jegerlehner, "was die sennen erzählen, märchen und sagen aus dem wallis," pp. 102, 103. [53] see "der untergang des niederdorfs" in "sagen und sagengeschichten aus dem simmenthal," vol. ii., pp. 29-44, by d. gempeler. [54] see "am herdfeuer der sennen, neue märchen und sagen aus dem wallis," pp. 26-31, by dr. j. jegerlehner. [55] see "folklore as an historical science," by sir g. laurence gomme, pp. 67-78. [56] i have heard of only one exception. [57] patrick kennedy, in "a belated priest," tells how the "good people" surrounded a priest on a dark night, and asked him to declare that at the last day their lot would not be with satan. he replied by the question, "do you adore and love the son of god?" there came no answer but weak and shrill cries, and with a rushing of wings the fairies disappeared (see "fictions of the irish celts," p. 89). in "the priest's supper," the good people are anxious to know if their souls will be saved at the last day, but when an interview with a priest is suggested to them they fly away (see "fairy legends and traditions of the south of ireland," by t. crofton croker, pp. 36-42). [58] "ancient legends, mystic charms, and superstitions of ireland," vol. i., p. 250. [59] it is quoted by mr. david macritchie in "testimony of tradition," p. 67. [60] "testimony of tradition," p. 68. [61] see "the picts and pets" in the _antiquary_ for may, 1906, p. 172. [62] "the irish version of the historia britonum of nennius," edited, with a translation and notes, by james h. todd, d.d., f.t.c. (dublin, 1848). the verse quoted is given at p. lxix, additional notes. [63] see the _nineteenth century_, february, 1908. [64] see "ein dolichokephaler schädel aus dem dachsenbüel und die bedeutung der kleinen menschenrassen für das abstammungsproblem der grossen." his words are: "in dem platten, breiten gesicht sitzt dann eine platte, breite, niedrige nase, mit breiter nasenwürzel." he is speaking of the characteristics of the present dwarf races found throughout the world, and quotes the authority of hagen. [65] sir james ware's "antiquities of ireland," translated, revised, and improved, with many material additions, by walter harris, esq., vol. ii., chap. ii., p. 17 (dublin, 1764). the above is taken from one of the additional notes by harris. [66] quoted by mr. standish h. o'grady in "silva gadelica" (translation and notes), pp. 563, 564. see ante p. 32. [67] keating's "history of ireland," book i., chap. viii. translation by p. w. joyce, ll.d., m.r.i.a. [68] see cael's "wooing of credhe" in "the colloquy of the ancients"; "silva gadelica," by standish h. o'grady, volume with translation and notes, pp. 119-122. [69] see "life of st. patrick," p. 264. [70] see der mensch, "separat-abzug aus den denkschriften der schweiz naturforschenden gesellschaft," band xxxv, 1896. [71] see the paper already referred to, "ein dolichokephaler schädel," etc. professor j. kollmann's words are: "die man in africa wohl zu den pygmäen zählen wurde." folklore from donegal[72] the stories current among the peasantry are varied, especially in donegal, where we hear of giants and fairies, of small and tall finns, of short, stout firbolgs or firwolgs, of danes who made heather ale, and sometimes of pechts with their large feet. according to one legend, the fairies were angels who had remained neutral during the great war in heaven. they are sometimes represented as kindly, but often as mischievous. near dungiven, in co. derry, i was told of a friendly fairy who, dressed as an old woman, came one evening to a cottage where a poor man and his wife lived. she said to the wife that if the stone at the foot of the table were lifted she would find something that would last her all her days. as soon as the visitor was gone, the wife called to her husband to bring a crowbar; they raised the stone, and under it was a crock of gold. the old man who related this story to me had himself found in a bog a crock covered with a slate. he hoped it might be full of gold, but it only contained bog butter, which he used for greasing cart-wheels. a carman at rosapenna told me how the fairies would lead people astray, carrying one man off to scotland. a girl had her face twisted through their influence, and had to go to the priest to be cured. "he was," the man added, "one of the old sort, who could work miracles, of whom there are not many nowadays." near finntown a girl had offended the fairies by washing clothes in a "gentle" burn, or stream haunted by the little people. her eyes were turned to the back of her head. she, too, invoked the aid of a priest, and his blessing restored them to their proper place. donegal fairies appear able to adapt themselves to modern conditions. i was told at finntown they did not interfere with the railway, as they sometimes enjoyed a ride on the top of the train. although usually only seen in secluded spots, they occasionally visit a fair or market, but are much annoyed if recognized. in the following story we have an illustration of intercourse between fairies and human beings: an old woman at glenties was called upon by a strange man to give her aid at the birth of a child. at first she refused, but he urged her, saying it was not far, and in the end she consented. when he brought her to his dwelling she saw a daughter whom she had supposed to be dead, but who was now the wife of the fairy man. the daughter begged her not to let it be known she was her mother, and, giving her a ring, bade her look on it at times and she would know when they could meet. she also added that her husband would certainly offer a reward, but she implored her mother not to accept it, but to ask that the red-haired boy might be given to her. "he will not be willing to part from him," the daughter added; "but if you beg earnestly, he will give him to you in the end." the mother attended her daughter, and when his child was born the fairy man offered her a rich reward, but she refused, praying only that the red-haired boy might be given to her. at first the father refused, but when she pleaded her loneliness, he granted her request. the daughter was well pleased, told her mother they might meet at the fair on the hill behind glenties, but warned her that even if she saw the fairy man she must never speak to him. the old woman returned to her home, taking her grandson, the red-haired boy, with her. she kept the ring carefully, and it gave her warning when she would meet her daughter on the hill at glenties. these interviews were for a long time a great comfort to mother and daughter, but one day, in the joy of her heart, the mother shook hands with and spoke to the fairy man. he turned to her angrily asking how she could see him, and with that he blew upon her eyes, so that she could no longer discern fairies. the precious ring also disappeared, and she never again saw her daughter. variants of this story were told to me by an old woman at portstewart, and by a man whom i met near lough salt during the rosapenna conference of field clubs. in these versions there is no mention of the red-haired boy, nor of the old woman being the mother of the fairy man's wife; she is simply called in to attend to her. when rubbing ointment on the infant, she accidentally draws her hand across one of her eyes and acquires the power of seeing the fairies. shortly afterwards she meets the fairy man at a market or fair, and inquires for his wife. he is annoyed at being recognized, asks with which eye she sees him, blows upon it, and puts it out.[73] in another donegal legend the fairies gain possession of a bride, and would have kept her in captivity had not their plans been frustrated by a mortal. this is the story as told to me near gweedore, and also at kincasslagh, a small seaport in the rosses. owen boyle lived with his mother near kincasslagh, and worked as a carpenter. one hallow eve, on his return home, he found a calf was missing, and went out to look for it. he was told it was behind a stone near the spink or rock of dunathaid, and when he got there he saw the calf, but it ran away and disappeared through an opening in the rock. owen was at first afraid to follow, but suddenly he was pushed in, and the door closed behind him. he found himself in a company of fairies, and heard them saying: "this is good whisky from o'donnel's still. he buried a nine-gallon keg in the bog; it burst, the hoops came off, and the whisky has come to us." one of the fairies gave owen a glass, saying he might be useful to them that night. they asked if he would be willing to go with them, and, being anxious to get out of the cave, he at once consented. they all mounted on horses, and away they went through dungloe, across the hills to dochary, then to glenties, and through mount charles to ballyshannon, and thence to connaught. they came to a house where great preparations were being made for a wedding. the fairies told owen to go in and dance with any girl who asked him. he was much pleased to see that he was now wearing a good suit of clothes, and gladly joined in the dance. after a time there was a cry that the bride would choose a partner, and the partner she chose was owen boyle. they danced until the bride fell down in a faint, and the fairies, who had crept in unseen, bore her away. they mounted their horses and took the bride with them, sometimes one carrying her and sometimes another. they had ridden thus for a time when one of the fairies said to owen: "you have done well for us to-night." "and little i have got for it," was the reply; "not even a turn of carrying the bride." "that you ought to have," said the fairy, and called out to give the bride to owen. owen took her, and, urging his horse, outstripped the fairies. they pursued him, but at bal cruit strand he drew with a black knife a circle round himself and the bride, which the fairies could not cross. one of them, however, stretched out a long arm and struck the bride on the face, so that she became deaf and dumb. when the fairies left him, owen brought the girl to his mother, and in reply to her questions, said he had brought home one to whom all kindness should be shown. they gave her the best seat by the fire; she helped in the housework, but remained speechless. a year passed, and on hallow eve owen went again to dunathaid. the door of the cave was open. he entered boldly, and found the fairies enjoying themselves as before. one of them recognized him, and said: "owen boyle, you played us a bad trick when you carried off that woman." "and a pretty woman you left with me! she can neither hear nor speak!" "oh!" said another, "if she had a taste of this bottle, she could do both!" when owen heard these words he seized the bottle, ran home with it, and, pouring a little into a glass, gave it to the poor girl to drink. hearing and speech were at once restored. owen returned the bottle to the fairies, and, before long, he set out for connaught, taking the girl with him to restore her to her parents. when he arrived, he asked for a night's lodging for himself and his companion. the mother, although she said she had little room, admitted them, and soon owen saw her looking at the girl. "why are you gazing at my companion?" he asked. "she is so like a daughter of mine who died a twelvemonth ago." "no," replied owen; "she did not die; she was carried off by the fairies, and here she is." there was great rejoicing, and before long owen was married to the girl, the former bridegroom having gone away. he brought her home to kincasslagh, and not a mile from the village, close to bal cruit strand, may be seen the ring which defended her and owen from the fairies. it is a very large fairy ring, but why the grass should grow luxuriantly on it tradition does not say. during the field club conference at rosapenna a variant of this story was told me by a lad on the heights above gortnalughoge bay. here the man who rode with the fairies was john friel, from fanad. they went to dublin and brought away a young girl from her bed, leaving something behind, which the parents believed to be their dead daughter. meanwhile the young girl was taken northwards by the fairies. as they drew near to fanad, john friel begged to be allowed to carry her, and quickly taking her to his own cottage, kept her there with his mother. the girl was deaf and dumb, but there was no mention of the magic circle or of the blow from the fairy's hand. at the end of the year john friel, like owen boyle, pays another visit to the fairies, overhears their conversation, snatches the bottle, and a few drops from it restore speech and hearing to the girl. he takes her to dublin. her parents cannot at first believe that she is truly their daughter, but the mother recognizes her by a mark on the shoulder, and the tale ends with great rejoicing.[74] in these stories we see the relations between fairies and mortals. the fairy man marries a human wife; he appears solicitous for her health, and is willing to pay a high reward to the nurse, but the caution his wife gives to her mother shows her fear of him, and when the latter forgets this warning and speaks to the husband, he effectively stops all intercourse between her and her daughter. in another story we see that it was the living girl who was carried off, and only a false image left to deceive her parents.[75] it is true that, through the magic of the fairies, she becomes deaf and dumb, but when this is overcome, she returns home safe and sound. the black knife used by owen boyle was doubtless an iron knife, that metal being always obnoxious to the fairies. stories of children being carried off by fairies are numerous. there was a man lived near croghan fort, not far from lifford, who was short, and had a cataract--or, as the country-people call it, a pearl--on his eye. he was returning home after the birth of his child, when he met the fairies carrying off the infant. they were about to change a benwood into the likeness of a child, saying: "make it wee, make it short; make it like its ain folk; put a pearl in its eye; make it like its dadie." here the man interrupted them, throwing up sand, and exclaiming: "in the name of god, this to youse and mine to me!" they flung his own child at him, but it broke its hinch, or thigh, and was a cripple all its days. [illustration: plate x. [_r. welch, photo._ tormore, tory island.] it is not often that fairies are associated with the spirits of the departed, but in tory island and in some other parts of donegal it is believed that those who are drowned become fairies. in tory island i also heard that those who exceeded in whisky met the same fate. according to the inhabitants of this island, fairies can make themselves large or small; their hair may be red, white, or black; but they dress in black--a very unusual colour for fairies to appear in. it may perhaps be explained by remembering that tory island, or toirinis, was a stronghold of the fomorians, whom keating describes as "sea rovers of the race of cam, who fared from africa."[76] i need hardly add that "cam" is an old name for "ham." i should infer that the fairies of tory island represent a dark race. king balor, it is true, is not of diminutive stature. i heard much of this chieftain with the eye at the back of his head, which, if uncovered, would kill anyone exposed to its gaze. he knew it had been said in old times that he should die by the hand of his daughter's son, and he determined his daughter should remain childless. he shut her up in tormore, with twelve ladies to wait on her. balor had no smith on the island, but at cloghanealy, on the mainland, there lived a smith who had the finest cow in the world, named glasgavlen. he kept a boy to watch it, but, notwithstanding this precaution, two of balor's servants carried off the cow. when the herd-boy saw it was gone, he wept bitterly, for the smith had told him his head would be taken off if he did not bring her back. suddenly a fairy, geea dubh, came out of the rock, and told the boy the cow was in tory, and if he followed her advice he would get it back. she made a curragh for him, and he crossed over to tory, but he did not get the cow. the tale now becomes confused. we hear of twelve children, and how balor ordered them all to be drowned, but his daughter's son was saved. the fairy told the herd-boy that, if the child were taken care of, it would grow up like a crop which, when put into the earth one day, sprouts up the next. the boy took service under balor, and the child was sent to the ladies, who brought him up for three years. at the end of that time the herd boy took him to the mainland, where he grew up a strong youth, and worked for the smith. on one occasion balor sent messengers across to the mainland, but the lad attacked them and cut out their tongues. the maimed messengers returned to tory, and when balor saw them he knew that he who had done this deed was the dreaded grandson. he set out to kill him; but when the youth saw balor approaching the forge, he drew the poker from the fire and thrust it into the eye at the back of the king's head. the wounded balor called to his grandson to come to him, and he would leave him everything. the youth was wise; he did not go too near balor, but followed him from falcarragh to gweedore. "are you near me?" was the question put by the king as he walked along, water streaming from his wounded eye; and this water formed the biggest lough in the world, three times as deep as lough foyle. i have given this story as it was told to me by an elderly man in a cottage on tory island. a version of it is related by the late most rev. dr. macdevitt in the "donegal highlands." it is referred to by mr. stephen gwynn, m.p., in "highways and byways in donegal and antrim," and a very full narrative is given by dr. o'donovan in a note in his edition of the "annals of the four masters."[77] dr. o'donovan states that he had the story from shane o'dugan, whose ancestor is said to have been living in tory in the time of st. columbkille. here we read of the stratagem by which balor, assuming the shape of a red-haired little boy, carried off the famous cow glasgavlen from the chieftain mackineely, and it is not the herdboy, but the chieftain himself, who is wafted across to tory island and introduced to balor's daughter. three sons are born; balor orders them all to be drowned, but the eldest is saved by the friendly banshee and taken to his father, who places him in fosterage under his brother, the great smith gavida. after a time mackineely falls a victim to the vengeance of balor, and is beheaded on the stone clough-an-neely, where the marks of his blood may still be seen. balor now deems himself secure. he often visits the forge of gavida, and one day, when there, boasts of his conquest of mackineely. no sooner has he uttered the proud words than the young smith seizes a glowing rod from the furnace and thrusts it through balor's basilisk eye so far that it comes out at the other side of his head. it will be noted that in this version balor's death is instantaneous; nothing is said about the deep lough formed by the water from his eye. according to o'flaherty's "ogygia," balor was killed at the second battle of moyture "by a stone thrown at him by his grandson by his daughter from a machine called tabhall (which some assert to be a sling)."[78] if balor is the grim hero of tory island, on the mainland we hear much of finn mccoul. i was informed that he had an eye at the back of his head, and was so tall his feet came out at the door of his house. how large the house was, tradition does not say. the island of carrickfinn opposite to bunbeg is said to have been a favourite hunting-ground of finn mccoul. when crossing over to this island, i was told by the boatman that the danes were stout, small, and red-haired, and that they lived in the caves. the finns, he said, were even smaller, dark yellow people. near loughros bay i saw the cashel na fian, but whether it was built by tall or small finns i do not know. part of the wall was standing, built in the usual fashion with stones without mortar. this cashel was on a height, and near it i was shown some old fields, the ridges farther apart than those of the present day, and i was told they might be the fields of those who built the cashel, or perhaps of the firbolgs. the old man who acted as my guide softened the _b_ in the irish manner, and spoke of those people as the firwolgs; he said they were short and stout, and cultivated the lands near the sea. to the danes are ascribed the kitchen-middens on rosguill, and the lad i met above gortnalughoge bay, told me they lived and had their houses on the water, i should infer after the fashion of the lake-dwellers. he could not tell me the height of these danes, but those who built the forts and cashels have often been described to me as short and red-haired. as i have stated on former occasions, i should be inclined to identify these short danes with the tuatha de danann. i visited one of their cashels above dungiven, under which there is a souterrain, and i also went to one on a hill above downey's pier at rosapenna. i believe it is the downey's fort marked on the ordnance survey map. it appeared to be regarded as an uncanny spot; treasure is said to be hidden under it, and i had a difficulty in getting anyone to take me to it. a little girl, however, acted as guide, and a young farmer, who had at first refused, joined me on the top. i took some very rough measurements of this cashel. from the outer circumference it was about 60 by 60 feet; the walls had fallen inwards, so it was impossible to say how thick they had been originally, but the space free from stones in the centre measured about 25 by 25 feet. the young farmer told me of some rocks at a place he called dooey, on which crosses were inscribed. i believe that near mevagh, in addition to the spiral markings, which were visited by many members of the conference, there is another rock on which crosses are also inscribed. firbolgs, danes, finns, and pechts, of whom i have spoken on former occasions, are all strictly human; and if the fairy has been more spiritualized, i think, in many of the traditions, we may see how closely he is allied to ancient and modern pygmies. fairies intermarry freely with the human race; they are not exempt from death, and sometimes come to a violent end. at kincasslagh a graphic story was told me by an old woman of how two banshees attacked a man when he was crossing the "banks" at mullaghderg. his faithful dog had been chained at home, but, knowing the danger, escaped, saved his master, and killed one of the banshees. her body was found next morning in the sand: she had wonderful eyes, small legs, and very large feet. i may mention that large feet are characteristic of the pechts. it is true that those who are drowned may become fairies, but if a fisherman be missing, who shall say whether he lies at the bottom of the ocean or has been carried captive to a lonely cave. in later times, when the fairies were associated with fallen angels, one who had not received the last rites of the church might naturally be supposed to become a fairy. in the tales of the giants we are brought face to face with beings of great strength, but in a low stage of civilization. balor, we have seen, had no smith on tory island, and in a story of the fight between the giant fargowan and a wild boar, his sister finglas goes to his assistance with her apron filled with stones. misled by the echo, she jumps backwards and forwards across lough finn until at last her long hair becomes entangled and she is drowned. it is believed that her coffin was found when the railway was being made; the boards were 14 feet long. sometimes the works of nature are ascribed to the giants; we have all heard of finn mccoul as the artificer of the giant's causeway, and near glenties i was shown perched blocks, which had been thrown by the giants. on the other hand, these giants, with all their magic, are often very human; perhaps we are listening to the tales of a small race, who exaggerated the feats of their large but savage neighbours. writing in 1860, j. f. campbell, in his introduction to the "tales of the west highlands," says: "probably, as it seems to me, giants are simply the nearest savage race at war with the race who tell the tales. if they performed impossible feats of strength, they did no more than rob roy, whose putting-stone is now shown to saxon tourists ... in the shape of a boulder of many tons."[79] turning to fairies, the same writer says: "i believe there was once a small race of people in these islands, who are remembered as fairies.... they are always represented as living in green mounds. they pop up their heads when disturbed by people treading on their houses. they steal children. they seem to live on familiar terms with the people about them when they treat them well, to punish them when they ill-treat them.... there are such people now. a lapp is such a man; he is a little flesh-eating mortal, having control over the beasts, and living in a green mound, when he is not living in a tent or sleeping out of doors, wrapped in his deerskin shirt."[80] since these words were written, our knowledge of dwarf races has been greatly increased; their skeletons have been found in switzerland and other parts of europe. we are all familiar with the pygmies of central africa, and the members of this club will remember the interesting photographs of them shown by sir harry johnston. besides the andamnan islanders, we have dwarf races in various parts of asia, and doubtless we have all read with interest the account of the new guinea dwarfs, sent by the members of the british expedition, who are investigating that island under many difficulties. dr. eric marshall describes these pygmies as "averaging four feet six inches to four feet eight inches in height, wild, shy, treacherous little devils; these little men wander over the heavy jungle-clad hills, subsisting on roots and jungle produce, hunting the wallaby, pig, and cassowary, and fishing in the mountain torrents.... the only metal tool they possessed was a small, wedge-shaped piece of iron, one inch by two inches, inserted into a wooden handle, and answering the purpose of an axe, and with this the whole twenty-acre clearing had been made. none but those who have worked and toiled in this dense jungle can really appreciate the perseverance and patience necessary to accomplish this, for many of the trees are from twelve to fifteen feet in circumference."[81] throughout donegal we find many traces of the primitive belief that men or women can change themselves into animals. at rosapenna i was told of a hare standing on its hind-legs like an old woman and sucking a cow, the inference being plainly that the witch had transformed herself into a hare. i heard similar stories at glenties. here i was told of a man who killed a young seal, but was startled when the mother, weeping, cried out in irish: "my child, my child!" never again did he kill a seal. a story illustrating the same belief is told by john sweeney, an inspector of national schools, who wrote about forty years ago a series of letters describing donegal and its inhabitants.[82] in his account of arranmore he says: "until lately the islanders could not be induced to attack a seal, they being strongly under the impression that these animals were human beings metamorphosed by the power of their own witchcraft. in confirmation of this notion, they used to repeat the story of one rodgers of their island, who, being alone in his skiff fishing, was overtaken by a storm, and driven on the shore of the scotch highlands. having landed, he approached a house which was close to the beach, and on entering it was accosted by name. expressing his surprise at finding himself known in a strange country, and by one whom he had never seen, the old man who addressed him bared his head, and, pointing to a scar on his skull, reminded rodgers of an encounter he had with a seal in one of the caves of arranmore. 'i was,' he said, 'that seal, and this is the mark of the wound you inflicted on me. i do not blame you, however, for you were not aware of what you were doing.'" i fear i have lingered too long over these old-world stories. to me they point to a far-distant past, when ulster was covered with forests, in which the red deer and perhaps the irish elk roamed, and inhabited by rude tribes, some of them of dwarfish stature, others tall; but these giants were apparently even less civilized than their smaller neighbours. wars were frequent; the giant could hurl the unwieldy mass of stone, and the dwarfish man could send his arrow tipped with flint. even more common was the stealthy raid, when women and children were carried off to the gloomy souterrain. how long did these rude tribes survive? it would be difficult to say; possibly until after the days of st. patrick and st. columkill. i will not, however, indulge in a fancy sketch. the pressing need is not to interpret but to collect these old tales. the antiquary of the future, with fuller knowledge at his command, may be better able to decipher them; but if they are allowed to perish, one link with the past will be irretrievably lost. footnotes: [72] read before the archæological section of the belfast naturalists' field club, february 8, 1911. [73] in "celtic folklore," vol. i., p. 210 _et seq._, sir john rhys relates a similar story. here the woman is brought to a place which appears to her to be the finest she has ever seen. when the child is born the father gives her ointment to anoint its eyes, but entreats her not to touch her own with it. inadvertently she rubs her finger across her eye, and now she sees that the wife is her former maidservant eilian, and that she lies on a bundle of rushes and withered leaves in a cave. not long afterwards the woman sees the husband in the market at carnarvon, and asks for eilian. he is angry, and, inquiring with which eye she sees him, puts it out with a bulrush. from palestine we have another variant of this story. the rev. j. e. hanauer, in "folklore of the holy land," pp. 210 _et seq._, tells of a woman at el welejeh who had spoken unkindly to a frog. the next night, on waking, she found herself in a cave surrounded by strange, angry-looking people; one of these "jân" reproached her bitterly, saying that the frog was his wife, and threatening her with dire consequences unless a son were born. she assisted at the birth of the child, who was fortunately a boy, and was given a _mukhaleh_ or _kohl_ vessel, and was bidden to rub some of this _kohl_ on the infant's eyes. when she had done this, she rubbed some on one of her own eyes, but before she had time to put any on the other the vessel was angrily taken from her. she was rewarded with onion-leaves, which in the morning turned to gold. some time afterwards this woman was shopping at el kuds, when she saw the jennizeh pilfering from shop to shop. she spoke to her and kissed the baby, but the other answered fiercely, and, poking her finger into the woman's eye, put it out. [74] in "guleesh na guss dhu," dr. douglas hyde gives us a similar tale from co. mayo. see "beside the fire," pp. 104-128. [75] in "folk tales from breffny," by b. hunt, there is a story (pp. 99-103), "the cutting of the tree," which tells of how the fairies, when baffled in their endeavour to carry off the mistress of the house, left in the kitchen a wooden image "cut into the living likeness of the woman of the house." [76] see _ante_, p. 60. [77] pp. 18-21. [78] "ogygia," part iii., chap. xii. [79] pp. xcix, c. [80] pp. c, ci. [81] see _morning post_, december 28, 1910. in his work, "pygmies and papuans," which gives the results of this expedition, mr. a. f. r. wollaston also describes these pygmies (see especially pp. 159-161). [82] i was shown a ms. copy of some of these letters by a relative of the writer at burtonport. i believe they were written for a newspaper, and were afterwards republished in "the derry people," under the title "the rosses thirty years ago." they contain much interesting information in regard to the traditions current among the peasantry. giants and dwarfs[83] the population of ulster is derived from many sources, and in its folklore we shall find traces of various tribes and people. i shall begin with a tale which may have been brought by english settlers. in "folklore as an historical science" sir g. laurence gomme has given several variants of the story of the pedlar of swaffham and london bridge. most of these come from england, scotland, and wales, but among them there are also a breton and a norse version. i have found a local variant in donegal. an elderly woman told me that at kinnagoe a "toon" or small hamlet about three miles from buncrana, there lived a man whose name, she believed, was doherty. he dreamt one night that on london bridge he should hear of a treasure. he set out at once for london, and when he came there walked up and down the bridge until he was wearied. at last a man accosted him and asked him why he loitered there. in reply, doherty told his dream, upon which the other said: "ah, man! do you believe in drames? why, i dreamt the other night that at a place called kinnagoe a pot of gold is buried. would i go to look for it? i might loss my time if i paid attention to drames." "that's true," answered doherty, who now hurried home, found the pot of gold, bought houses and land, and became a wealthy man. whether this story embodies an earlier irish legend i do not know, but i should say that the mention of london bridge points to its having been brought over by english settlers. sir g. l. gomme tells us that "the earliest version of this legend is quoted from the manuscripts of sir roger twysden, who obtained it from sir william dugdale, of blyth hall, in warwickshire, in a letter dated january 29, 1652-53. sir william says of it that 'it was the tradition of the inhabitants, as it was told me there.'" may not some of the planters brought over by the irish society have carried this legend from their english home, giving it in the name kinnagoe a local habitation? most of our folklore comes, however, from a very early period. our irish fairy, although regarded as a fallen angel, is not the medieval elf, who could sip honey from a flower, but a small old man or woman with magical powers, swift to revenge an injury, but often a kindly neighbour. no story is told more frequently than that of the old fairy woman who borrows a "noggin" of meal, repays it honestly, and rewards the peasant woman by saying that her kist will never be empty, generally adding the condition as long as the secret is kept. the woman usually observes the condition until her husband becomes too inquisitive. when she reveals the secret the kist is empty. another widespread tale is that of the fairy woman who comes to the peasant's cottage, sometimes to beg that water may not be thrown out at the door, as it comes down her chimney and puts out the fire; sometimes to ask, for a similar reason, that the "byre," or cowhouse, may be removed to another site. in some tales it is a fairy man who makes the request. if it is refused, punishment follows in sickness among the cattle; if complied with, the cows flourish and give an extra supply of milk. in one instance the "wee folk" provided money to pay a mason to build the new cowhouse. we may smile, and ask how the position of the cowhouse could affect the homes of the fairies; but if these small people lived in the souterrains, as tradition alleges, we may even at the present day find these artificial caves under inhabited houses. at a large farmhouse on the border of counties antrim and londonderry i was told one ran under the kitchen. at another farm near castlerock, co. londonderry, the owner opened a trapdoor in his yard, and allowed me to look down into a souterrain. at finvoy, co. antrim, i was shown one of these caves over which a cottage formerly stood. a souterrain also runs under the glebe house at donaghmore, co. down. the following extract is from a work[84] in preparation, by the rev. dr. cowan, rector of the parish, who, in describing this souterrain, writes: "the lintel to the main entrance is the large stone which forms the base of the old celtic cross, which stands a few yards south of the church. underneath the cross is the central chamber, which is sixty-two feet long, three feet wide and upwards of four feet high, with branches in the form of transepts about thirty feet in length. from these, again, several sections extend ... one due north terminating at the glebe house (a distance of two hundred yards) underneath the study, where, according to tradition, some rich old vicar in past times fashioned the extreme end into the dimensions of a wine-cellar." according to another tradition--an older one, no doubt--this chamber under the study was the dressing-room of the small danes, who after their toilet proceeded through the underground passages to church. they had to pass through many little doors, down stairs, through parlours, until they came to the great chamber under the cross where the minister held forth. i shall not attempt to guess to what old faith this minister or priest belonged, or what were the rites he celebrated; but the stairs probably represent the descent from one chamber to another, and the little doors the bridges found in some souterrains, and, i believe, at donaghmore, where one stone juts out from the floor, and a little farther on another comes down from the roof, leaving only a narrow passage, so that one must creep over and under these bridges to get to the end of the cave. the danes are regarded by the country people as distinctly human, and yet there is much in them that reminds us of the fairies; indeed, i was told by two old men--one in co. antrim, and the other in co. derry--that they and the wee-folk are much the same. in a former paper[85] i referred to the difference in dress ascribed to the fairies in various parts of the country. i am inclined to believe that this indicates a variety of tribes among the aboriginal inhabitants. in the fairies who dress in green may we not have a tradition of people who stained themselves with woad or some other plant? these fairies are chiefly heard of in north-east antrim. in some parts of that county they are said to wear tartan, but in other parts of ulster the fairies are usually, although not universally, described as dressing in red. do these represent a people who dyed themselves with red ochre, or who simply went naked? in tory island i was told the fairies dressed in black; and keating informs us that the fomorians, who had their headquarters at toirinis, or tory island, were "sea-rovers of the race of cam, who fared from africa."[86] stories of the fairies or wee-folk are to be found everywhere in ulster, and the danes are also universally known; but one hears of the pechts, chiefly in the north-east of antrim, where the grogach is also known. the following story was told to me in glenariff, co. antrim: a grogach herded the cattle of a farmer, and drove them home in the evening. he was about the size of a child, and was naked. a fire was left burning at night so that he might warm himself, and after a time the daughter of the house made him a shirt. when the grogach saw this he thought it was a "billet" for him to go, and, crying bitterly, he took his departure, and left the shirt behind him. as i pointed out on a former occasion,[87] in many respects the grogach resembles the swiss dwarf. the likeness to the brownie is also very marked. at ballycastle i was told the grogach was a hairy man about four feet in height, who could bear heat or cold without clothing. patrick kennedy has described a gruagach as a giant, and states that the word "gruagach" has for root _gruach_--"hair," giants and magicians being "furnished with a large provision of that appendage."[88] this gruagach was closely related to the fairies, and, indeed, we shall find later in a donegal story a giant ogress spoken of as a fairy woman. in scotland, as well as in the south of ireland, the name is gruagach, but in antrim i heard it pronounced "grogach." i was also told near cushendall that the danes were hairy people. one does not hear so much about giants in antrim as in donegal, but in glenariff i was told of four, one of whom lifted a rock at ballycastle and threw it across the sea to rathlin--a distance of five or six miles. great as this feat was, a still greater was reported to me near armoy,[89] where i was shown a valley, and was told the earth had been scooped out and thrown into the sea, where it formed the island of rathlin. the grave of the giant gig-na-gog is to be seen some miles from portrush on the road to beardiville.[90] i could not, however, hear anything of gig-na-gog, except that he was a giant. in the stories of giants we no doubt often have traditions of a tall race, who are sometimes represented as of inferior mental capacity. at other times we appear to be listening to an early interpretation of the works of nature. the donegal peasant at the present day believes that the perched block on the side of the hill has been thrown by the arm of a giant. in the compact columns of the giant's causeway and of fingal's cave at staffa primitive man saw a work of great skill and ingenuity, which he attributed to a giant artificer; and finn mccoul is credited with having made a stupendous mole, uniting scotland and ireland. this finn mccoul has many aspects. he does not show to much advantage in the following legend, which i heard on the banks of lough salt in donegal: finn was a giant but there was a bigger giant named goll, who came to fight finn, and finn was afraid. his wife bade him creep into the cradle, and she would give an answer to goll. when the latter appeared, he asked where was finn. the wife replied he was out, and she was alone with the baby in the cradle. goll looked at the child, and thought, if that is the size of finn's infant, what must finn himself be? and without more ado he turned and took his departure.[91] this finn had an eye at the back of his head, and was so tall his feet came out at the door of his house. we are not told, however, what was the size of the house. [illustration: plate xi. [_r. welch, photo._ valley near armoy, whence, according to legend, earth was taken to form rathlin.] in this tale finn shows little courage, but as a rule he is represented as a noted hero. i was told a long story at glenties in donegal of the three sons finn had by the queen of italy. he had seen her bathing in ireland, and he stole her clothes, so she had to stay until she could get them back. after a time she found them, and returned to her own country, where she gave birth to three sons--dubh, kian, and glasmait. when they were fourteen years of age the king of italy sent them away that they might go to their father finn. they arrived in ireland, and when finn saw them he said: "if those three be the sons of a king, they will come straight on; if not, they will ask their way." the lads came straight on, knelt before finn, and claimed him as their father. he asked them who was their mother, and when they said the queen of italy, finn remembered the stolen clothes, and received them as his sons. one day the followers of finn could not find his dividing knife, and dubh determined to go in search of it. he put a stick in the fire, and said he would be back before the third of it was burnt out. he followed tracks, and came to a house where there was a great feast. he sat down among the men, and saw they were cutting with finn's knife. it was passed from one to another until it came to dubh, who, holding it in his hand, sprang up and carried it off. when dubh got home he wakened kian and said: "my third of the stick is burnt, and now do you see what you can do." kian followed the tracks, and got to the same place. he found the men drinking out of a horn. one called for whisky, another for wine, and whatever was asked, the horn gave. kian heard them say it was finn's horn, and that his knife had been carried off the previous night. kian waited, and when the horn came he grasped it tightly and ran off home, where he found his third of the stick was burnt. he waked glasmait, and told him two-thirds of the night had passed, and it was now his turn to go out. glasmait followed the same tracks, but when he came to the house blood was flowing from the door, and, looking in, he saw the place full of corpses. one man only remained alive. he told glasmait how they had all been drinking when someone ran off with finn mccoul's horn. "one man blamed another," he said; "they quarrelled and fought until everyone was killed except myself. now i beseech you throw the ditch[92] upon me and bury me. i do not wish to be devoured by the fairy woman, who will soon be here. she is an awful size, and upon her back is bound finn mccoul's sword of light,[93] which gives to its possessor the strength of a hundred men." the man gave glasmait some hints to aid him in the coming fight, and added: "now i have told you all, bury me quick." glasmait threw the ditch upon him, and hid himself in a corner. the banmore, or large woman, now came in, and began her horrible repast. she chose the fat men; three times she lifted glasmait, but rejected him as too young and lean. at last she lay down to sleep. glasmait followed the advice he had received. he touched her foot, but jumped aside to avoid the kick. he touched her hand, but jumped aside to avoid her slap. when she was again asleep, he drew his sword and cut the cords which bound the sword of light to her back, and seized upon it. she roused herself, and for two hours they fought, until in the end glasmait ripped open her body, when, behold, three red-haired boys sprang out and attacked him. he slew two of them, but the third escaped. glasmait returned home with the sword of light, and found his third of the stick burnt. the three sons now presented their father with the dividing knife, the drinking horn, and the sword of light, and there was great rejoicing that these had been recovered. some time after this a red-haired boy appeared, and begged to be taken into finn's service for a twelvemonth, saying he could kill birds and do any kind of work. when asked what wages he looked for, he replied that he hoped when he died, finn and his men would put his body in a cart, which would come for it, and bury him where the cart stopped. the red-haired boy worked well, but at the end of the year he suddenly died. a cart drawn by a horse appeared, and finn and his men tried to place the body in it; but it could not be moved until the horse wheeled round and did the work itself, starting immediately afterwards with its load. finn and his men followed, but a great mist came on, so that they could not see clearly. at last they arrived at an old, black castle standing in a glen. here they found the table laid, and sat down to eat, but before long the red-haired boy appeared alive, and cried vengeance upon finn and his sons. the men tried to draw their swords, but found them fastened to the ground, and the red-haired boy cut off fifty heads. now, however, the great manannan appeared. he bade the red-haired boy drop his sword, or he would give him a slap that would turn his face to the back of his head. he also bade him replace the heads on the fifty men. the red-haired boy had to submit, and after that he troubled finn no more. manannan dispelled the mist, and brought finn and his men back to their own home, where they feasted for three days and three nights. this somewhat gruesome story contains several points of interest. the stealing of the clothes is an incident which occurs with slight variations in many folk-tales. in "the stolen veil"[94] musäus tells us how the damsel of fairy lineage was detained when her veil was carried off, and it was only after she had recovered it that she was able, in the guise of a swan, to return to her home. we have read, too, of how the shetlander captured the sealskin of the finn woman, without which she could not return as a seal to her husband.[95] it should also be noted that the fairy ogress is a large woman, apparently a giantess, while her three sons have the red hair so often associated with the fairies. at the end of the tale finn and his men are saved by manannan, the celtic god of the sea, who has given his name to the isle of man. in balor of tory island the great fomorian chief, we have another giant, with an eye at the back of his head, which dealt destruction to all who encountered its gaze. i was told in tory island that when balor was mortally wounded water fell so copiously from his eye that it formed the biggest lough in the world, deeper even than lough foyle.[96] these giants belonged to an olden time and a very primitive race. they have passed away, and are no longer like the fairies--objects of fear or awe. the fairies, being believed to be fallen angels, are especially dreaded on hallow eve night. in some places oatmeal and salt are put on the heads of the children to protect them from harm. i first heard of this custom in the valley of the roe, where there are a large number of forts said to be inhabited by the fairies. the neighbourhood of dungiven on that river is rich in antiquities. i was told there was a souterrain under the cashel or "white fort," said to have been built by the danes. there is another under carnanban fort, and not far from this there are the stone circles at aghlish. an old woman of ninety-six showed them to me, and said it was a very gentle[97] place, and it would not be safe to take away one of the stones. [illustration: plate xii. [_r. welch, photo._ flint spearhead and basalt axes found under fort in lenagh townland.] here we have an instance of the strong belief that to interfere in any way with stone, tree, or fort, belonging to the fairies is certain to bring disaster. about sixty-five years ago, when the railway was being made between belfast and ballymena, an old fort with fairy bushes in the townland of lenagh stood on the intended track, and had to be removed. the men working on the line were most unwilling to meddle with either fort or bushes. one, however, braver than the rest began to cut down a thorn, when he met with an accident which strengthened the others in their refusal. in the end the fort had to be blown up, i believe by the officials of the railway, and underneath it a very fine spearhead and other implements were found.[98] a fort near glasdrumman, co. down, was demolished by the owner, but the country-people noted that the man who struck the first blow was injured and died soon afterwards, while the owner himself became a permanent invalid. a woman living near this fort related that in the evening after the work was begun she heard an awful screech from the fort; presumably the fairies were leaving their home. a curious story was told me by an old woman in the cottage hospital at cushendall. a man at glenravel named m'combridge went out one evening to look for his heifer, but could not find it. he saw a great house in one of his fields, where no house had been before, and, wondering much at this, he went in. an old woman sat by the fire, and soon two men came in leading the heifer. they killed it with a blow on the head and put it into a pot. m'combridge was too much afraid to make any objection; he rose, however, to leave the house, but the old woman said: "wait; you must have some of the broth of your own heifer." three times she made him partake of the broth, and he was then unable to leave the house. she put him to bed, and the man gave birth to a son. he fell asleep, but was wakened by something touching his ear, and found himself on the grass near his home, and the heifer close to his ear. this fantastic story no doubt represents a dream, but does it contain a reminiscence of the couvade, where, after the birth of the child, the father goes to bed? sir e. b. tylor, in the "early history of mankind," has shown how widespread this custom was both in the old and the new world. in these stories, drawn from various parts of ulster, we seem to hear echoes of a very distant past. the giants often appear as savages of low intelligence. in the fairies, i think, we may plainly see a tradition of a dwarf race, although it is true that the country-people do not regard them as human beings; indeed, i was told in co. tyrone that when the fairies were annoying a man he threw his handkerchief at them, and asked if among them all they could show one drop of blood. this, being spirits, they could not do. in the grogach the human element is more pronounced, and both danes and pechts are usually regarded as men and women like ourselves, although of smaller stature. it will thus be seen that in ulster we have traditions of giants, fairies, grogachs, danes, and pechts; and in donegal i was also told of a small race of yellow finns. can we identify any of these with the prehistoric races of the british isles and of europe? it has been held by many that the relics of palæolithic man do not occur in ireland, but the rev. frederick smith has found his implements, some of them glaciated, at killiney[99]; and mr. lewis abbott, who has made the implements of early man a special study, believes that palæolithic man lived and worked in ireland. in a letter to me he states that this opinion is based on material in his possession. "i have," he writes, "the irish collection of my old friend, the late professor rupert jones; in this there are many immensely metamorphosed, deeply iron-stained (and the iron, again, in turn further altered), implements of palæolithic types.... they are usually very lustrous or highly 'patinated,' as it is called." in his recent paper, "on the classification of the british stone age industries,"[100] in describing the club studs, mr. abbott writes: "i have found very fine examples in the cromer forest bed, and under and in various glacial deposits in england and ireland." how long palæolithic man survived in ireland it would be difficult to say, but in such characters as the fairy ogress we are brought face to face with a very low form of savagery. it will be noted that her sons are red-haired. now, i have often found red hair ascribed to fairies and danes, but not to pechts. this persistent tradition has led me to ask whether red was the colour of the hair in some early races of mankind. the following passage in dr. beddoe's huxley lecture[101] favours an affirmative answer: "there are, of course, facts, or reported facts, which would lead one to suspect that red was the original hair colour of man in europe--at least, when living in primitive or natural conditions with much exposure, and that the development of brown pigment came later, with subjection to heat and malaria, and other influences connected with what we call 'civilisation.'" we have seen that the implements of early man are found in spots sacred to the fairies. the rev. gath whitley considers the piskey dwarfs the earliest neolithic inhabitants of cornwall, and describes them as a small race who hunted the elk and the deer, and perhaps, like the bushmen, danced and sang to the light of the moon.[102] our traditional irish fairies bear a strong resemblance to these piskey dwarfs of cornwall, and also to the welsh fairies of whom sir john rhys writes that when fairyland is cleared of its glamour there seems to be disclosed "a swarthy population of short, stumpy men, occupying the most inaccessible districts of our country.... they probably fished and hunted and kept domestic animals, including, perhaps, the pig, but they depended largely on what they could steal at night or in misty weather. their thieving, however, was not resented, as their visits were believed to bring luck and prosperity."[103] this description might apply to our ulster fairies, who in many of the stories appear as a very primitive people. in some of the tales, however, the fairies are represented in a higher state of civilisation. they can spin and weave; they inhabit underground but well-built houses, and in the irish records they are closely associated with the tuatha de danann. i believe these tuatha de danann are the small danes, who, according to tradition, built the raths and souterrains. the late mr. john gray[104] would ascribe a mongoloid origin to them. in a letter written to me shortly before his death he stated his belief that the danes and pechts "were of the same race, and were identical with a short, round-headed race which migrated into the british isles about 2,000 b.c. at the beginning of the bronze age.... the stature of these primitive danes and pechts was five feet three inches, and they must have looked very small men to the later teutonic invaders of an average stature of five feet eight and a half inches." in his papers, "who built the british stone circles?"[105] and "the origin of the devonian race,"[106] mr. gray has fully described this round-headed race, who buried in short cists, and whom he believes to have been a colony from asia minor of akkadians, sumerians, or hittites, who migrated to england by sea in order to work the cornish tin-mines and the welsh copper-mines. for a fuller exposition of these views i must refer the reader to mr. gray's very interesting articles. in regard to the tuatha de danann, according to keating,[107] they came from greece by way of scandinavia. this might lead us to infer a northern origin, or, at least, that they had taken a different route from those who came by the mediterranean to the west of europe. they appear to have known the use of metals and to have ploughed the land. dr. o'donovan, in writing of these tuatha de danann, says: "from the many monuments ascribed to this colony by tradition and in ancient irish historical tales, it is quite evident that they were a real people, and from their having been considered gods and magicians by the gaedhil or scoti who subdued them, it may be inferred that they were skilled in arts which the latter did not understand." referring to the colloquy between st. patrick and caoilte macronain, dr. o'donovan says that it appears from this ancient irish text that "there were very many places in ireland where the tuatha de dananns were then supposed to live as sprites or fairies." he adds: "the inference naturally to be drawn from these stories is that the tuatha de dananns lingered in the country for many centuries after their subjugation by the gaedhil, and that they lived in retired situations, which induced others to regard them as magicians."[108] what is here averred of the tuatha de danann may be true of other primitive races who may have survived long in ireland. it is difficult to exterminate a people, and they could not be driven farther west. it appears to me that in the traditions of the ulster peasantry we see indications of a tall, savage people, and of various races of small men. some were in all probability veritable dwarfs, like those whose skeletons have been found in switzerland, near schaffhausen. others may have been of the stature of the round-headed race described by mr. john gray, but in tradition they all--fairy, grogach, pecht, and dane--appear as little people. in these tales we have not a clear outline--the picture is often blurred--but as we see the red-haired danes carrying earth in their aprons to build the forts, the pechts handing from one to another the large slabs to roof the souterrains, and the grogachs herding cattle, we catch glimpses of the life of those who in long past ages inhabited ireland. footnotes: [83] reprinted from the _antiquary_, august, 1913. [84] "an ancient irish parish, past and present." [85] see ulster fairies, danes, and pechts, p. 27. [86] keating, "history of ireland," book i., chap. viii. (translation by p. w. joyce, ll.d., m.r.i.a.). see _ante_, p. 60. [87] see traditions of dwarf races in ireland and in switzerland, pp. 50-52. [88] "legendary fictions of the irish celts," second edition, p. 123 note. [89] a village about six miles from ballycastle, where there is a round tower. [90] it is referred to in the "guide to belfast and the adjacent counties," by the belfast naturalists' field club, 1874, pp. 205, 206; also by borlase in "dolmens of ireland," vol. i., p. 371. [91] a similar tale, but with more details, is related of finn by william carleton. it was first published in chambers' _edinburgh journal_ in january, 1841, with the title, "a legend of knockmary," and was reprinted in carleton's collected works under the title "a legend of knockmany." it is given by mr. w. b. yeates in his "irish fairy and folk tales." in carleton's tale finn's opponent is not goll, but cuchullin. in the notes first published in chambers' _journal_ reference is, however, made to scotch legends about finn mccoul and gaul, the son of morni, whom i take to be the same as goll. a version of the story is also given by patrick kennedy in "legendary fictions of the irish celts," under the title "fann maccuil and the scotch giant," pp. 179-181. this scotch giant is named far rua, and the fort to which he journeys is in the bog of allen. [92] in ireland "ditch" is used for an earth fence. [93] claive solus was the name given to it by the old woman, who narrated the story, and she translated it "sword of light." [94] see j. k. a. musäus, "volksmährchen der deutschen," edited by j. l. klee (leipzig, 1842); "der geraubte schleier," pp. 371-429. [95] see "the testimony of tradition" (london, 1890, pp. 1-25), by mr. david macritchie, f.s.a.scot.; also by the same author, "the aberdeen kayak and its congeners." proceedings of the society of antiquaries of scotland, vol. xlvi. (1911-12), pp. 213-241. mr. macritchie believes that the magic sealskin was a kayak. [96] see p. 75. [97] fairy-haunted. [98] this spearhead is in the possession of mr. robert bell, a member of the belfast naturalists' field club, from whom i heard this narrative. [99] "the stone age in north britain and ireland," by the rev. frederick smith, appendix, p. 396. [100] see _journal of the royal anthropological institute_, vol. xli., 1911, p. 462. [101] "colour and race," delivered before the anthropological institute of great britain and ireland, october 31, 1905. [102] "footprints of vanished races in cornwall," by the rev. d. gath whitley, published in the _journal of the royal institution of cornwall_, 1903, vol. xv., part ii., p. 283. [103] "celtic folklore," vol. ii., chap. xii., pp. 668, 669. [104] treasurer to the anthropological institute. [105] read before section h of the british association at the dublin meeting, september, 1908, published in _nature_, december 24, 1908, pp. 236-238. [106] published in _london devonian year-book_, 1910. [107] "history of ireland," book i., chap. x. [108] see "annals of the four masters," vol. i., note at p. 24. the rev. william hamilton, d.d.[109] an early exponent of the volcanic origin of the giant's causeway "here, hapless hamilton, lamented name! to fire volcanic traced the curious frame, and, as his soul, by sportive fancy's aid, up to the fount of time's long current strayed, far round these rocks he saw fierce craters boil, and torrent lavas flood the riven soil: saw vanquished ocean from his bounds retire, and hailed the wonders of creative fire." drummond. these lines are taken from a poem, "the giant's causeway," written in 1811, when the nature of the basaltic rocks was regarded as doubtful, and many held that their origin was to be traced to the action of water rather than fire. hamilton is rightly brought forward as a champion of the volcanic theory. in his "letters concerning the northern coast of antrim," published towards the close of the eighteenth century, he adduces strong reasons to show that the giant's causeway is no isolated freak of nature, but part of a vast lava field which covered antrim and extended far beyond the scottish islands. nor does he confine his attention to geology, but fulfils the promise on the title page, giving an account of the antiquities, manners, and customs of the country. to those who care to read of this part of the world before the days of railroads and electric tramways, when portrush was a small fishing village, and the lough which divides antrim from down bore the name of the ancient city of carrickfergus, this old volume will possess many attractions. three copies lie before me; two belong to editions published in the author's lifetime; the third was printed in belfast in 1822, and contains a short memoir and a portrait of dr. hamilton. the latter is taken from one of those black silhouettes by which, before the art of photography was known, our grandfathers strove to preserve an image of those they loved. in this imperfect likeness we can see below the wig a massive forehead, and features which betoken no small determination of character. we can well believe that we are gazing on the face of a scholar, a man of science, a divine, of one who believed that death, even in the tragic form in which it came to him, was but the laying aside of a perishable machine, the casting away of an instrument no longer able to perform its functions. william hamilton was born in december, 1757, in londonderry, where the family had resided for nearly a century, his grandfather having been one of the defenders of the city during the famous siege. little is known of his boyhood. before he was fifteen he entered the university of dublin, and after a distinguished career obtained a fellowship in 1779. it was while continuing his theological and literary studies that his attention was drawn to the new sciences of chemistry and mineralogy. we can imagine the ardent student attracting around him a band of kindred spirits, who, meeting on one evening of the week under the name of palæosophers, studied the bible and ancient writings bearing on its interpretation, and the next, calling themselves neosophers, discussed the phenomena of nature, and the discoveries of cavendish, or the views of buffon and descartes. nor did his marriage in 1780 to sarah walker interrupt these pursuits. hamilton was one of the founders of the royal irish academy, and dedicated his "letters concerning the coast of antrim" to the earl of charlemont, the first president of that body. the book opens with an account of his visit to the island of raghery or rathlin, where he was charmed with the primitive manners of the people and the friendly relations existing between them and their landlord. he examined the white cliffs, the dark basaltic columns, and the ruins of the old castle, where robert bruce is said to have made a gallant defence against his enemies. here he found cinders embedded in the mortar, showing that the lime used in building the walls had been burnt with coal. this is adduced as a proof that the coal-beds near fair head had been known at an early period, possibly at a time anterior to the danish incursions of the ninth and tenth centuries--a view confirmed by the discovery of an ancient gallery extending many hundred yards underground, and in which the remains of the tools and baskets of the prehistoric miners were found. in a later letter a history is given of the giant's causeway, and of the various opinions which have been held regarding its origin. beginning with the old tradition[110] that the stones had been cut and placed in position by the giant, fin mccool or fingal, when constructing a mighty mole to unite ireland to scotland, hamilton alludes to the crude notions exhibited in some papers published in the early transactions of the royal society. he criticizes severely "a true prospect of the giant's causeway," printed in 1696 for the dublin society, showing how the imagination of the artist had planted luxuriant forest-trees on the wild bay of port noffer, and transformed basaltic rocks into comfortable dwelling-houses. the two beautiful paintings made by mrs. susanna drury in 1740 are referred to in very different language, and anyone who has seen engravings of these will endorse his opinion, and feel that this lady has depicted, with almost photographic accuracy, the causeway and the successive galleries of basaltic columns, which lend a weird and peculiar grandeur to the headlands of bengore. a large portion of hamilton's work is occupied with a minute investigation of these headlands, and of the lofty promontory of fair head. a description is given of the jointed columns of the causeway, whose surface presents a regular and compact pavement of polygon stones; we are told that this basaltic rock contains metallic iron, and that he has himself observed how, in the semicircular bay of bengore, the compass deviates greatly from its meridian, and each pillar or fragment of a pillar acts as a natural magnet. he also points out that columnar rocks are found in many parts of antrim, and traces the basaltic plateau from the shores of lough foyle to the valley of the lagan; nay more, he bids us extend our gaze, and remember "that whatever be the reasonings that fairly apply to the formation of the basaltes in our island, the same must be extended with little interruption over the mainland and western isles of scotland, even to the frozen island of iceland, where basaltic pillars are to be found in abundance, and where the flames of hecla still continue to blaze."[111] hamilton argues, in opposition to the views of many of his contemporaries, that the vicinity of the giant's causeway to the sea has nothing whatever to do with the peculiar structure of its jointed columns, which he ascribes to their having been formed by the crystallization of a molten mass. the following are his words: "since, therefore, the basaltes and its attendant fossils[112] bear strong marks of the effects of fire, it does not seem unlikely that its pillars may have been formed by a process, exactly analogous to what is commonly denominated crystallization by fusion.... for though during the moments of an eruption nothing but a wasteful scene of tumult and disorder be presented to our view, yet, when the fury of those flames and vapours, which have been struggling for a passage, has abated, everything then returns to its original state of rest; and those various melted substances, which, but just before, were in the wildest state of chaos, will now subside and cool with a degree of regularity utterly unattainable in our laboratories."[113] it is true that modern geologists would not apply the term "crystallization" to the process by which the basaltic columns have been formed, but all would agree that they have assumed their peculiar shape during the slow cooling of the molten lava of which they consist; thus professor james thomson[114] states that the division into prisms has arisen "by splitting, through shrinkage, of a very homogeneous mass in cooling." it would be tedious to repeat the reasoning by which hamilton, following in the steps of the french geologists, desmarest and faujas de st. fond, establishes the volcanic origin of the basalt. it is true, he assumes the position of an impartial narrator, and brings forward at considerable length the objections which had been urged against this theory, but only to show that each one of them admits of a full and complete answer. thus he states that the absence of volcanic cones does not embarrass the advocates of the system: "according to them, the basaltes has been formed under the earth itself and within the bowels of those very mountains where it could never have been exposed to view until, by length of time or some violent shock of nature, the incumbent mass must have undergone a very considerable alteration, such as should go near to destroy every exterior volcanic feature. in support of this, it may be observed that the promontories of antrim do yet bear very evident marks of some violent convulsion, which has left them standing in their present abrupt situation, and that the island of raghery and some of the western isles of scotland do really appear like the surviving fragments of a country, great part of which might have been buried in the ocean."[115] we thus see that hamilton clearly perceived that great changes, sufficient to sweep away lofty mountains, had taken place since those old lava streams had flowed over the land. it is true that science has advanced since his day with gigantic strides. some things which he regarded as doubtful have become certain, and others which he regarded as certain have become doubtful, yet i trust that the preceding extracts will show that his account of the basaltic rocks of antrim may still be read with interest and profit. as an antiquarian, hamilton touches on the evidences of early culture in ireland. he mentions the large number of exquisitely wrought gold ornaments found in the bogs, and translates for us a poem of st. donatus, which, although doubtless a fancy sketch, shows the reputation enjoyed by the island in the ninth century. "far westward lies an isle of ancient fame by nature bless'd, and scotia is her name, an island rich--exhaustless is her store of veiny silver and of golden ore; her fruitful soil for ever teems with wealth, with gems her waters, and her air with health. her verdant fields with milk and honey flow, her woolly fleeces vie with virgin snow; her waving furrows float with bearded corn, and arms and arts her envy'd sons adorn. no savage bear with lawless fury roves, no rav'ning lion thro' her sacred groves; no poison there infects, no scaly snake creeps through the grass, nor frog annoys the lake. an island worthy of its pious race, in war triumphant, and unmatch'd in peace."[116] in referring to the doctrines and practices of the ancient irish church, hamilton enters on the field of controversy. it shows how widely his book was known when we find the _giornale ecclesiastico_ of rome taking exception to some of his views. this criticism led to the insertion in the second edition of the work, of a letter[117] dealing more fully with ecclesiastical matters. the reasoning, even when supported by the high authority of archbishop ussher, may possibly fail to convince us of the identity of the church of st. patrick and st. columba with the church of the reformation; but we shall find abundant proof of the vigour and independence which characterized not only the early monks, but the irish schoolmen of the middle ages. before this letter was published, hamilton had accepted the living of clondevaddock in donegal, and had taken up his abode amid the wild but beautiful scenery surrounding mulroy bay. here he expected to spend a tranquil life, watching over the education of his large family, and combining with his clerical duties the pursuit of science and literature. in a favourable situation for observing variations of temperature and the action of rain, wind, and tide, he pursued the investigation of a subject which had already engaged his attention before leaving dublin. in a memoir[118] published after his death he suggests that the cutting down of the forests may have affected a sensible change in the climate of ireland, and gives several instances of the encroachment of the sea sand on fertile and inhabited land. perhaps the most striking is that of the town of bannow in wexford. it was a flourishing borough in the early part of the seventeenth century, while in his day the site was marked only by a few ruins, appearing above heaps of barren sand, and where at the time of an election a fallen chimney was used as the council table of that ancient and loyal corporation. when we read the closing pages of this paper it is difficult to believe that troubled times were so near at hand; and even when he wrote his "letters on the french revolution," hamilton could not have foreseen that he was soon to fall before the same spirit of wild vengeance, which claimed so many noble victims on the banks of the seine and the loire. he acted as magistrate as well as clergyman, and during nearly seven years he was treated with respect and confidence by the people among whom he lived. no doubt the majority of them did not regard him as their pastor, but they appreciated his efforts for their temporal welfare; we are told that the country was advancing in industry and prosperity, and remained tranquil when other parts of ulster were greatly disturbed. at last, however, the revolutionary wave reached this remote district, and a trivial incident inflamed the minds of the inhabitants against dr. hamilton. on christmas night, 1796, while the memorable storm which in the south drove the french fleet from bantry bay was at its height, a brig, laden with wine from oporto, was shipwrecked on the coast of fanet, not far from dr. hamilton's dwelling. in those days the peasantry regarded whatever was brought to them by the sea as lawful booty, and were little disposed to brook the interference of magistrate or clergyman. we are told "that dr. hamilton's active exertions on this melancholy occasion gave rise to feelings of animosity on the part of some of his parishioners." this animosity was fomented by popular agitators. a stormy period ensued. one evening a band of insurgents surrounded the parsonage demanding the release of some prisoners, and for more than twenty-four hours the house was closely besieged. two of the servants made their way with difficulty to the beach, hoping to escape by sea and bring succour from derry, but they found holes had been bored in the boats, which rendered them unserviceable. dr. hamilton acted with much courage and coolness. he refused to accede to the demands of his assailants, saying he was not to be intimidated by men acting in open violation of the laws; at the same time, by repressing the ardour of the guard of soldiers, he showed his anxiety to prevent bloodshed. in company with a naval officer, he undertook the perilous task of passing in disguise through the rebel cordon, and returned with a body of militia. on seeing this reinforcement, the peasantry lost courage, and, throwing away their arms, dispersed quickly to their homes, so that the victory was achieved without loss of life. the country now became apparently more tranquil, and in early spring dr. hamilton paid a visit to the bishop of the diocese at raphoe. he was returning to his parish, when the roughness of the weather delayed his crossing lough swilly, and he turned aside to see a brother clergyman near fahan. he was easily prevailed upon to pass the night in the hospitable rectory of sharon, and no doubt the visit of an old college friend was hailed with delight by the crippled dr. waller, whose infirmities obliged him to lead a secluded life. probably the conversation turned on the state of the country; dr. waller, his wife, and her niece would inquire about the perils from which their guest had recently escaped. perhaps they would congratulate themselves on the security of their neighbourhood compared with the wilder parts of donegal. suddenly the tramp of a band of men was heard. it is said that dr. hamilton's quick ear first caught the sound, and knew it to be his death-knell; but he was not the only victim--his hostess fell before him. let us hear the story of that terrible tragedy as it was reported to the irish house of commons. speaking on march 6, 1797, four days after the event, dr. brown said: "as that gentleman (dr. hamilton) was sitting with the family in mr. waller's house, several shots were fired in upon them, the house was broken open, and mrs. waller, in endeavouring to protect her helpless husband by covering him with her body, was murdered. mr. hamilton, from the natural love of life, had taken refuge in the lower apartments. thence they forced him, and as he endeavoured to hold the door they held fire under his hand until they made him quit his hold. they then dragged him a few yards from the house, and murdered him in the most inhuman and barbarous manner."[119] from a letter written by dr. hall to the _gentleman's magazine_ (march, 1797), we learn that the assassins retired unmolested and undiscovered. nor were any of them ever brought to justice, although popular tradition, among both catholics and protestants, says that misfortune dogged their footsteps, and each one of them came to an untimely end. dr. hamilton's body remained exposed during the night, and was only removed the following morning, when it was taken to londonderry and interred in the cathedral graveyard. here his name is recorded on the family tombstone; and in 1890 his descendants erected a tablet to his memory in the chancel of the cathedral. hamilton obtained the degree of doctor of divinity in 1794, and shortly before his death he was elected a corresponding member of the royal society of edinburgh. we have seen how he was cut off in the full vigour of mind and body--his last memoir unprinted--and surely we may echo the lament of his contemporaries, and feel that he was one who had conferred honour on his native land. yet, while they mourned his loss as a public calamity, his friends would recall his words, and remember that to him death was but the entrance to a new life--the casting away of a covering which formed no part of his true self. footnotes: [109] reprinted from the _sun_, may, 1891. [110] see letter i., part ii., edition 1822. [111] letter vi., part ii., pp. 183, 184. compare with this passage the following enunciation of the results of modern geological investigation. "a marked feature of this period in europe was the abundance and activity of its volcanoes.... from the south of antrim, through the west coast of scotland, the faröe islands and iceland, even far into arctic greenland, a vast series of fissure eruptions poured forth successive floods of basalt, fragments of which now form the extensive volcanic plateaux of these regions." (sir a. geikie, "geological sketches at home and abroad," pp. 347, 348). [112] hamilton uses this word in its old meaning of rock or stone. he expressly states that basalt does not contain the slightest trace of animal or vegetable remains. [113] letter vii., part ii., pp. 187, 188, 189. [114] see "collected papers," p. 430, edited by sir joseph larmor, sec. r.s., m.p., and james thomson, m.a. [115] letter vii., part ii., p. 194. [116] letter iv., part i., p. 52. [117] letter v, part i. [118] see transactions of the royal irish academy, vol. vi., p. 27. [119] see report in the _belfast newsletter_, march 6-10, 1797. index abbott, w. j. lewis, f.g.s., 99, 100 abernethy round tower, 57 aino, 42 antrim, old fort at, 36 ardtole souterrain, vi armoy, 26, 90 arranmore, 82 backaderry souterrain, 7 ballycairn fort, 37, 38, 41 ballycastle, 39, 50, 89 ballyginney fort and souterrain, 7, 8 ballyliffan, 52, 55 ballymagreehan fort and souterrain, 6 balor, 73-76, 79 banshee, 31, 35, 42, 43, 56, 78 beddoe, dr., 100, 101 bell, robert, 97 boyle, owen, saves bride from fairies, 68-71 bridget, eve of st., 17, 18 brownie, 51, 89 burglauenen, destruction of, 53 bury, professor, 61 cailleagh, 19 campbell, j. f., 79, 80 castlewellan, 6, 7 chope, r. pearse, b.a., 19, 20 "churn," 19, 20 cinderella, 47 clark, miss jane, 22 coal-mines, ancient, near ballycastle, 39, 107-8 columbkill, st., 63, 83 cowan, rev. dr., 86, 87 cruithnians, 58 culdaff, 53 culnady, 21, 22 cushendall, 89, 98 danes, 8-11, 28-31, 34, 37-42, 45, 51, 57, 77, 78, 88, 89, 102, 104 derrick's image of ireland, 44, 45 donaghmore, co. down, souterrain at, 86, 87 donatus, st., poem describing scotia or ireland, 112 downpatrick, rath at, 22, 36 drumcrow, 27 drury, mrs. susanna, 108 dunglady fort, 21, 22 dunloe, gap of, 10 emania, 41 fair head, 49, 107, 108 fairies, capture of women and children by, 26, 69-73 compared with african pygmies, 33, 34 dress of, 27, 88 a dwarf race, 13, 45, 104 dwelling under sea, 52, 53 inhabit forts and souterrains, 8, 31, 36, 86 intermarriage with the human race, 65 _et seq._ vanish, 25, 34 fanshawe, lady, 42, 43 fargowan, 79 fiacc's hymn, 61 finglas, 79 finn mccoul, 48-50, 76, 79, 90-95, 108 finn, lough, 79 finns, 64, 78 finntown, 65 finvoy, 86 frazer, j. g., d.c.l., 20, 21 friel, john, saves young girl from the fairies, 71 gempeler, d., 53 giants, 79, 89, 90, 96, 99 giant's causeway, 50, 90, 105, 108-111 glasdrumman fort, 97, 98 glenties, 65, 66, 79 goll, 91 gomme, sir g. l., 54, 84, 85 gottwerg and gottwergini, 52, 54 gray, john, b.sc., 102, 104 greenmount, mote at, 36, 37, 40 grey man of the path, 49 grogach, 47, 50, 51, 57, 89, 99, 104 gweedore, 68, 75 ham, 32, 60, 73 hamilton, rev. w., d.d., f.t.c.d., 39, 105-118 hanauer, rev. j. e., 67 harbison, mann, 8, 11, 12 harris, 59, 60 harvest knots, 18, 19 heather ale, 28, 29, 41 herd (david), 13 herman's fort and souterrain, 6, 7 hobson, mrs., viii, 30 hunt, b., 72 hyde, dr. douglas, 71 infant carried off by fairies, but saved by father, 72, 73 jegerlehner, dr. j., 52, 54 johnston, sir harry, 33, 34, 80 keating, 60, 88, 103 killelagh church, 14, 15 kilrea, 23 kincasslagh, 68, 70, 78 knockdhu, souterrain at, 30 kollmann, professor julius, v, 59, 61, 62 lenagh townland, fort blown up, 97 leprechaun, lupracan, luchorpan, 10, 32 leslie, rev. j. b., 9, 37 london bridge legend, 84, 85 luchter, 18 lurach, st., church of, 22 lytle, s. d., vi, 16 maghera, co. down, 4, 7 maghera, co. londonderry, 14-23 manannan, 49, 95, 96 mckean, e. j., b.a., 19, 41 mckenna, daniel, 14, 17, 18 mackenzie, w. c., f.s.a.scot., 58 macritchie, david, f.s.a.scot., v, 12, 28, 29, 42, 57, 58, 96 marshall, dr. eric, 81 mortar, cemented with the blood of bullocks, 15 mourne mountains, 2, 28 munro, dr., 12 neosophers, 107 new guinea, pygmies in, 80, 81 niederdorf, destruction of, 53, 54 nuesch, dr., 61 o'donovan, dr., 22, 75, 76, 103 o'grady, standish h., 32, 44, 61 o'neill, phelim, castle of, 15 oughter, lough, 9 palæolithic man, 59, 99, 100 palæosophers, 107 patrick, st., 61, 63, 83 pechts, 15, 16, 27, 31, 50, 57, 78, 99, 102, 104 pennant, 29 piskey dwarfs of cornwall, 101 portstewart, 19, 38, 67 rathlin island, 90, 107 red hair ascribed to fairies and danes, 2, 9, 34, 37, 100 possibly the original hair colour in europe, 100 rhys, sir john, 67, 101 rochefort, jorevin de, 40, 41 roe, valley of the, 19, 96, 97 rosapenna, 65, 67, 71 roughan castle, 15 rowan tree, 27 rush crosses, 17, 18 schaffhausen, skeletons of dwarfs discovered near, v, 61, 62, 104 seals, belief that human beings could change into, 81, 82 sealskin of finn woman, 96 sea sand, encroachment on land, 114 smith, dr. robertson, 34, 35 smith, rev. frederick, 99 sidh, 44, 61 sidis, 61 silva gadelica, 32, 44, 61 souterrains, 6-8, 16, 30, 31, 36-41, 86, 87 spy, men of, 12, 13 staffa, 50 stone circles at aghlish, 97 stranocum, souterrain at, 8 sweeney, john, 82 sword of light, 93, 94 thomson, professor james, 110 tobermore, 17 todas, 54 tormore, 73 tory island, 73-76, 88, 96 tuatha de danann, 11, 12, 18, 29, 77, 102, 103 tullamore park, 2, 3 wee, wee man, 13 whitley, rev. gath, 101 windele, john, 40 the end elliot stock, 7, paternoster row, london, e.c. transcriber's note illustrations have been moved near the relevant section of the text. inconsistencies have been retained in spelling, hyphenation and grammar, except where indicated in the list below: "fairhead" changed to "fair head" on page xiii period added after "inches" on page 16 bracket added after "1854" in footnote 8 period changed to comma after "304" in footnote 13 comma changed to period after "1906" in footnote 15 quote added before "furnished" on page 89 period added after "669" in footnote 103 period and quote added after "regions" in footnote 111 period removed after "104" in page 119 period added after "b" on page 120 "niederdorff" changed to "niederdorf" on page 120 the open secret of ireland by t. m. kettle with an introduction by j. e. redmond, m.p. "also it is a proverbe of olde date, 'the pride of fraunce, the treason of inglande, and the warre of irelande, shall never have ende.' which proverbe, touching the warre of irelande, is like alwaie to continue, without god sette in men's breasts to find some new remedy that never was found before." _state papers_, reign of henry viii. london w. j. ham-smith 1912 contents introduction by j. e. redmond, m.p. vii preliminary. xi chap. i. an exercise in humility. 1 ii. history _(a) coloured_. 17 iii. history _(b) plain_. 31 iv. the obviousness of home rule. 47 v. the ravages of unionism (1). 65 vi. the ravages of unionism (2). 80 vii. the hallucination of "ulster". 98 viii. the mechanics of home rule. 120 ix. after home rule. 144 x. an epilogue on "loyalty". 161 introduction the object of mr kettle, in writing this book, is, i take it, to reveal to english readers what he not inaptly terms as "the open secret of ireland," in order to bring about a better understanding between the two nations, and to smoothe the way to a just and final settlement of their old-time differences. any work undertaken on such lines commends itself to a ready welcome and a careful study, and i feel sure that both await mr kettle's latest contribution to the literature of the irish question. as the son of one of the founders of the land league, and as, for some years, one of the most brilliant members of the irish party, and, later, professor in the school of economics in the new national university in dublin, he has won his way to recognition as an eloquent exponent of irish national ideas; whilst the novelty of his point of view, and the freshness, vigour, and picturesque attractiveness of his style ensure for his work a cordial reception on its literary merits, apart from its political value. undoubtedly, one of the main sources of the anglo-irish difficulty has been mutual misunderstanding, generating mutual mistrust and hatred. but the root of the difficulty goes deeper. it is to be sought in the system of misgovernment and oppression which successive generations of british rulers have imposed upon what, with cruel irony, british historians and statesmen have been wont to call "the sister country." this is the real "open secret" of ireland, a secret that all who run may read, and the effective bearing of which is: that tyranny begets hatred, and that freedom and justice are the only sure foundations of contentment and goodwill between nations. during the past thirty years, and especially since 1886, when mr gladstone threw the weight of his unrivalled genius and influence into the scale in favour of justice to ireland, a great deal has been done to erase the bitter memories of the past, and to enable the english and the irish peoples to regard each other in the light of truth, and with a more just appreciation of what is essential to the establishment of genuine and lasting friendly relations between them. but it would be idle to ignore the fact that, to a considerable section of the english people, ireland is still a country of which they possess less knowledge than they do of the most insignificant and remote of the many islands over which the british flag floats. mr kettle's book ought to be of service in dispelling this ignorance, and in enabling englishmen to view the anglo-irish question from the standpoint of an educated and friendly irish opinion. the output of purely political literature on the irish problem has been increasing during the past few years, and there is room for a book which aims at focussing attention upon some aspects of it which the mere politician is apt to pass lightly over or to ignore altogether. like most of mr kettle's work, the book bears the impress of his individuality, and, to many of his readers, this will constitute much of its charm and merit. at the same time, in order to prevent misunderstanding, it is necessary for me to state that i do not commit myself to acceptance or endorsement of everything which the book contains. i content myself with stating, from personal experience, that nothing which mr kettle writes about ireland can fail to be worthy of notice by everyone interested in the home rule controversy, and that i believe the circulation of this volume will serve to stimulate thought about ireland, and so to hasten the advent of that brighter day when the grant of full self-government to ireland will reveal to england the open secret of making ireland her friend and helpmate, the brightest jewel in her crown of empire. j. e. redmond. _12th december, 1911_. preliminary after an intermission of nearly twenty years ireland once again blocks the way. "finally rejected" by the house of commons and the english electorate in 1886, "finally rejected" by the house of lords in 1893, the home rule idea has not only survived but waxed stronger in the wilderness. time and events have altered its shape only to clothe it with a richer significance. will great britain decide wisely in the choice to which she is now put? naturally, i do not speak of the parliamentary future of the home rule bill: that is safe. i have in mind rather that profound moral settlement, that generous reconciliation which we have seen in south africa, and desire to see in ireland. what of it? did reason and the candid vision of things, as they are, control public affairs, there could be little doubt as to the issue in this choice between friendship and hatred, between the formula of freedom and that of domination. but, unhappily, we have no assurance that philip sober rather than philip drunk will sign the warrant. there exists in england, in respect of all things irish, a monstrous residuum of prejudice. it lies ambushed in the blood even when it has been dismissed from the mind, and constitutes the real peril of the situation. no effort will be spared to reawaken it. the motto of militant unionism has always been: when in doubt throw mud. such a programme naturally begets a predilection for ditches, and when certain orators speak of the "last ditch" they must be taken to mean that which has most mud in it. the old methods are already once more in operation. the wicked lying of previous campaigns no doubt cannot be repeated: bigotry will make no further experiments in pigottry. but a resolute attempt, lavishly financed and directed by masters of the art of defamation, will be made to blacken ireland. every newspaper in every remotest country-town in england will be deluged with syndicated venom. the shop-keeper will wrap up his parcels in orange posters, and the working-man will, i hope, light his pipe for years to come with pamphlets of the same clamant colour. irishmen, or at all events persons born in ireland, will be found to testify that they belong to a barbarous people which has never ceased from barbarism, and that they are not fit to govern themselves. politicians who were never known to risk a five-pound note in helping to develop ireland will toss down their fifties to help to defame her. such is the outlook. against this campaign of malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness it is the duty of every good citizen to say his word, and in the following pages i say mine. this little book is not a compendium of facts, and so does not trench on the province of mr stephen gwynn m.p.'s admirable "case for home rule." it does not discuss the details, financial or otherwise, of a statesmanlike settlement. such suggestions as i had to make i have already made in "home rule finance," and the reader will find much ampler treatment of the whole subject in "the framework of home rule," by mr erskine childers, and "home rule problems," edited by mr basil williams. in general, my aim has been to aid in humanising the irish question. the interpretation of various aspects of it, here offered, is intended to be not exhaustive but provocative, a mere set of shorthand rubrics any one of which might have been expanded into a chapter. addressing the english reader with complete candour, i have attempted to recommend to him that method of approach, that mental attitude which alone can divest him of his preconceptions, and put him in rapport with the true spirit of the ireland of actuality. to that end the various lines of discussion converge:-chapter i is an outline of the pathology of the english mind in ireland. chapters ii and iii present the history of ireland as the epic, not of a futile and defeated, but of an indomitable and victorious people. chapter iv exhibits the home rule idea as a fundamental law of nature, human nature, and government. chapters v and vi contain a very brief account of the more obvious economic crimes and blunders of unionism. chapter vii discusses the queer ideas of "ulster," and the queer reasons for the survival of these ideas. chapter viii demonstrates that, as a mere matter of political technique, home rule must be conceded if any real government is ever to exist again, whether in great britain, in ireland, or in the empire. chapter ix dips into the future, and indicates that a home rule ireland will have so much interesting work to do as to have no time for civil war or religious oppression. chapter x shows that everybody who values "loyalty" must of necessity be a home ruler. the only moral commended to the reader is that expressed by browning in a firm and inevitable line, which has been disastrously forgotten in so many passages of english history:- "it's fitter being sane than mad." i have tried also to convey to him, with what success others must judge, something of the "pride and passion" of irish nationality. that is, in truth, the dream that comes through the multitude of business. if you think that home rule is a little thing which must be done in a little way for little reasons, your feet are set on the path to failure. home rule is one of those fundamental reforms that are not achieved at all unless they are achieved greatly. t.m.k. _december, 1911_. the open secret of ireland chapter i an exercise in humility in order to understand ireland we must begin by understanding england. on no other terms will that complex of facts, memories, and passions, which is called the irish question, yield up its secret. "you have always been," said a lady clanricarde to some english politician, "like a high wall standing between us and the sun." the phrase lives. it reveals in a flashlight of genius the historical relations of the two nations. it explains and justifies the principle adopted as the basis of this discussion, namely, that no examination of the irish problem is possible without a prior examination of the english mind. it used to be said that england dearly loved a lord, a dictum which may have to be modified in the light of recent events. far more than a lord does the typical englishman love a judge, and the thought of acting as a judge. confronted with ireland he says to himself: "here are these irish people; some maintain that they are nice, others that they are nasty, but everybody agrees that they are queer. very good. i will study them in a judicial spirit; i will weigh the evidence dispassionately, and give my decision. when it comes to action, i will play the honest broker between their contending parties." now this may be a very agreeable way of going about the business, but it is fatally unreal. great britain comes into court, she will be pained to hear, not as judge but rather as defendant. she comes to answer the charge that, having seized ireland as a "trustee of civilisation," she has, either through incompetence or through dishonesty, betrayed her trust. we have a habit, in everyday life, of excusing the eccentricities of a friend or an enemy by the reflection that he is, after all, as god made him. ireland is politically as great britain made her. since the twelfth century, that is to say for a great part of the middle ages and for the whole of the modern period, the mind of england and not that of ireland has been the dominant fact in irish history. this state of things--a paradox in action--carries with it certain metaphysical implications. the philosophers tell us that all morality centres in the maxim that others are to be treated as ends in themselves, and not as instruments to our ends. if they are right, then we must picture ireland as the victim of a radical immoralism. we must think of her as a personality violated in its ideals, and arrested in its development. and, indeed, that is no bad way of thinking: it is the one formula which summarises the whole of her experience. but the phrasing is perhaps too high and absolute; and the decline and fall of mr balfour are a terrible example to those of us who, being young, might otherwise take metaphysics too solemnly. it will, therefore, at this stage be enough to repeat that, in contemplating the discontent and unrest which constitute the irish difficulty, great britain is contemplating the work of her own hands, the creation of her own mind. for that reason we can make no progress until we ascertain what sort of mind we have to deal with. i do not disguise from myself the extremely unpleasant nature of this inquiry. it is as if a counsel were to open his address by saying: "gentlemen of the jury, before discussing the facts of the case i will examine briefly the mental flaws, gaps, kinks, and distortions of you twelve gentlemen." there is, however, this difference. in the analysis upon which we are engaged the mental attitude of the jury is not merely a fact in the case, it is the whole case. let me reinforce my weaker appeal by a passage from the wisest pen in contemporary english letters, that of mr chesterton. there is in his mere sanity a touch of magic so potent that, although incapable of dullness, he has achieved authority, and although convinced that faith is more romantic than doubt, or even sin, he has got himself published and read. summarising the "drift" of matthew arnold, mr chesterton observes: "the chief of his services may perhaps be stated thus, that he discovered (for the modern english) the purely intellectual importance of humility. he had none of that hot humility which is the fascination of saints and good men. but he had a cold humility which he had discovered to be a mere essential of the intelligence." such a humility, purely hygienic in character, is for englishmen the beginning of wisdom on the irish question. it is the needle's eye by which alone they can enter a city otherwise forbidden to them. let there be no misunderstanding. the attitude of mind commended to them is not without its agreeable features. closely scrutinised, it is seen to be a sort of inverted vanity. the student begins by studying himself, an exercise in self-appraisal which need not by any means involve self-depreciation. what sort of a mind, then, is the english mind? if there is anything in regard to which the love of friends corroborates the malice of enemies it is in ascribing to the english an individualism, hard-shelled beyond all human parallel. the englishman's country is an impregnable island, his house is a castle, his temperament is a suit of armour. the function common to all three is to keep things out, and most admirably has he used them to that end. at first, indeed, he let everybody in; he had a perfect passion for being conquered, and romans, teutons, danes, and normans in succession plucked and ate the apple of england. but with the coming of age of that national consciousness, the bonds of which have never been snapped, the english entered on their lucky and courageous career of keeping things out. they possess in london the only european capital that has never in the modern period been captured by an invader. they withstood the intellectual grandeur of roman law, and developed their own medley of customs into the most eccentric and most equitable system in the world. they kept out the council of trent, and the spanish armada. they kept out the french revolution, and napoleon. they kept out for a long time the kantian philosophy, romanticism, pessimism, higher criticism, german music, french painting, and one knows not how many other of the intellectual experiments that made life worth living, or not worth living, to nineteenth-century europe. their insularity, spiritual as well as geographical, has whetted the edge of a thousand flouts and gibes. "those stupid french!" exclaims the sailor, as reported by de morgan: "why do they go on calling a cabbage a _shoe_ when they must know that it is a _cabbage?_" this was in general the attitude of what mr newbolt has styled the "island race" when on its travels. everybody has laughed at the comedy of it, but no one has sufficiently applauded its success. the english tourist declined to be at the trouble of speaking any foreign tongue whatsoever; instantly every hotel and restaurant on the continent was forced to learn english. he refused to read their books; a leipsic firm at once started to publish his own, and sold him his six-shilling clapham novels in lucerne for two francs. he dismissed with indignation the idea of breakfasting on a roll, and bacon and eggs were added unto him. in short, by a straightforward policy of studying nobody else, he compelled everybody else to study him. now it is idle to deny this performance the applause which it plainly deserves. the self-evolution of england, as it may perhaps be called, in its economic, political, and literary life, offers an admirable model of concentration and energy. even where it is a case of obtuseness to other civilisations, at least as high but of a different type, the verdict cannot be wholly unfavourable. the kingdom of earth is to the thick-skinned, and bad manners have a distinct vital value. a man, too sensitive to the rights and the charms of others, is in grave danger of futility. either he will become a dilettante, which is the french way, or he will take to drink and mystical nihilism, a career very popular in russian fiction. bad manners have indeed a distinct ethical value. we all experience moods in which we politely assent to the thing that is not, because of the fatigue of fighting for the thing that is. a temperament such as has been delineated is therefore, as human types go, an excellent type. but it has its peculiar perils. to ignore the point of view of those in whose country you eat, drink, sleep, and sight-see may breed only minor discords, and after all you will pay for your manners in your bill. but to ignore the point of view of those whose country you govern may let loose a red torrent of tragedy. such a temper of mind may, at the first touch of resistance, transform your stolid, laudable, laughable englishman into the beastliest of tyrants. it may drive him into a delirium of cruelty and injustice. it may sweep away, in one ruin of war, wealth, culture, and the whole fabric of civilisation. it may darken counsel, and corrupt thought. in fact, it may give you something very like the history of the english in ireland. now it is not denied that most englishmen believe the english mind to be incapable of such excesses. this, they say, is the russian in warsaw, the austrian in budapest, the belgian in the congo, the blind fool-fury of the seine. but it is not the english way. nor is it suggested that this illusion is sheer and mere hypocrisy. it is simply an hallucination of jingoism. take a trivial instance in point. we have all read in the newspapers derisive accounts of disorderly scenes in the french chamber or the austrian reichstag; we all know the complacent sigh with which england is wont on such occasions to thank god that she is not as one of those. does anybody think that this attitude will be at all modified by recent occurrences at westminster? by no means. lord hugh cecil, his gibbering and gesticulating quite forgotten, will be assuring the house next year that the irish are so deficient in self-restraint as to be unfit for home rule. mr smith will be deploring that intolerant temper which always impels a nationalist to shout down, and not to argue down an opponent. mr walter long will be vindicating the cause of law and order in one sentence, and inciting "ulster" to bloodshed in the next. this is not hypocrisy, it is genius. it is also, by the way, the genesis of the irish question. if anyone is disposed to underrate the mad passions of which race hatred can slip the leash, let him recall the crucial examples which we have had in our own time. we have in our own time seen great britain inflamed by two frenzies--against france, and against the boer republics. in the history of public opinion there are no two chapters more discreditable. in the days of fashoda the frenchman was a degenerate _tigre-singe,_ the sworn enemy of religion and soap. he had contributed nothing to civilisation except a loathsome science of sensuality, and the taint of decay was in his bones. in the days of spion kop the boer was an unlaundered savage, fit only to be a target for pig-stickers. his ignorance seemed the most appalling thing in the world until one remembered his hypocrisy and his cowardice. the newspaper which led the campaign of denigration against france has come to another view. its proprietor now divides his time between signing â£10,000 cheques for triumphant french aviators, and delivering speeches in which their nation is hailed as the pioneer of all great ideas. as regards the boers, the same reversal of the verdict of ten years ago has taken place. the crowd which in 1900 asked only for a sour appletree on which to hang general botha, adopts him in 1911 as the idol of the coronation. at this progress towards sanity we must all rejoice. but most of all we have to ask that these two sinister pageants of race hatred shall not be suffered to dissolve without leaving some wrack of wisdom behind. writers on psychology have made many studies of what they call the collective illusion. this strange malady, which consists in all the world seeing something which in fact does not exist, wrought more potently on the mind of england than did reason and justice in the home rule controversies of 1886 and 1893. what has occurred may recur. and since we are to speak here with all the candour of private conversation i confess that i cannot devise or imagine any specific against such a recurrence except an exercise in humility of the kind suggested by mr chesterton. my own argument in that direction is perhaps compromised by the fact that i am an irishman. let us therefore fall back on other testimony. out of the cloud of witnesses let us choose two or three, and in the first place m. alfred fouillã©e. m. fouillã©e is a platonist--the last platonist in europe--and consequently an amiable man. he is universally regarded as the leader of philosophy in france, a position not in the least shaken by bergson's brief authority. in a charming and lucid study of the "psychology of the peoples of europe" fouillã©e has many pages that might serve for an introduction to the irish question. the point of interest in his analysis is this: he exhibits irish history as a tragedy of character, a tragedy which flows with sad, inevitable logic from a certain weakness which he notes, not in the irish, but in the english character. "'in the eyes of the english,' says taine who had studied them so minutely, 'there is but one reasonable civilisation, namely their own. every other way of living is that of inferior beings, every other religion is extravagant.' so that, one might add, the englishman is doubly personal, first as an individual and again as a member of the most highly individualised of nations. the moment the national interest is involved all dissensions cease, there is on the scene but one single man, one single englishman, who shrinks from no expedient that may advance his ends. morality for him reduces itself to one precept: safeguard at any cost the interest of england." like all foreigners he takes ireland as the one conspicuous and flaming failure of england. in that instance she has muddled, as usual, but she has not muddled through. "the anglo-saxons, those great colonisers of far-off lands, have in their own united kingdom succeeded only in inflicting a long martyrdom on ireland. the insular situation of england had for pendant the insular situation of ireland; the two islands lie there face to face. the english and the irish, although intellectually very much alike, have preserved different characters. and this difference cannot be due essentially to the racial element, for nearly half ireland is germanic. it is due to traditions and customs developed by english oppression." having summarised the main lines of british policy in ireland, he concludes: "it is not easy to detect here any sign of the 'superiority of the anglo-saxons.'" with fouillã©e we may associate emile boutmy. in his "political psychology of the english" he declares that the haughty, taciturn, solitary, unassimilative temperament of england, so admirable from the point of view of self-development, shows its worst side and comes to a malign florescence in the history of ireland. it explains why "the relations of ireland with england have been, for so many centuries, those of a captive with his jailer, those of a victim with his torturer." i pass over de beaumont, von raumer, perraud, paul-dubois, filon, bonn. the considerations already adduced ought to be enough to lead the english reader to certain conclusions which are fundamental. for the sake of clearness they may be repeated in all their nudity: england has failed in ireland. her failure has been due to defects of her own character, and limitations of her outlook. the same defects which corrupted her policy in the past distort her vision in the present. therefore, if she is to understand and to solve the irish question, she must begin by breaking the hard shell of her individualism, and trying to think herself into the skin, the soul, and the ideals of the irish nation. now the english reader is after all human. if he has endured so far the outrage on his most sacred prejudices perpetrated in this chapter he must at this moment be hot with resentment. he must feel as if, proposing to his imagination pear de melba, he had in truth swallowed sand. let me end with a more comfortable word. we have seen that irish history is what the dramatists call an internal tragedy, the secular disclosure and slow working-out of certain flaws in the english character. i am not to be understood as ascribing horns to england and a halo to ireland. we irish are not only imperfect but even modest; for every beam that we detect in another eye we are willing to confess a mote in our own. the english on the other hand have been not monsters or demons, but men unstrung. "in tragic life, god wot, no villain need be, passions spin the plot; we are betrayed by what is false within." least of all am i to be understood as ascribing to modern englishmen any sort of planned, aforethought malice in regard to ireland. it is what bacon might have called a mere idol of the platform to suppose that they are filled with a burning desire to oppress ireland. the dream of their lives is to ignore her, to eliminate from their calculations this variable constant which sheds bewilderment upon every problem. could they but succeed in that, a very sabbath of peace would have dawned for them. the modern englishman is too much worried to plan the oppression of anybody. "did you ever," asked lord salisbury on a remembered occasion, "have a boil on your neck?" to the englishman of 1911--that troubled man whose old self-sufficiency has in our own time been shattered beyond repair by boer rifles, german shipyards, french aeroplanes--ireland is the boil on the neck of his political system. it is the one _pã©chã© de jeunesse_ of his nation that will not sleep in the grave of the past. like the ghost in "hamlet" it pursues and plagues him without respite. shunned on the battlements it invades his most private chamber, or, finding him in talk with friends, shames and scares him with subterranean mutterings. is there no way out of a situation so troublesome and humiliating? there is. ireland cannot be ignored, but she can easily be appeased. the boil is due to no natural and incurable condition. it is the direct result of certain artificial ligatures and compressions; remove these and it disappears. this spectre haunts the conscience of england to incite her not to a deed of blood but to a deed of justice; every wind is favourable and every omen. it is, indeed, true that if she is to succeed, england must do violence to certain prejudices which now afflict her like a blindness; she must deal with us as a man with men. but is not the kingdom of heaven taken by violence? chapter ii history _(a) coloured_ mendacity follows the flag. there never yet was an invader who did not, in obedience to a kindly human instinct, lie abundantly respecting the people whose country he had invaded. the reason is very plain. in all ages men delight to acquire property by expedients other than that of honest labour. in the period of private war the most obvious alternative to working is fighting, or hiring servants to fight; the sword is mightier than the spade. if we add that an expedition into a foreign country offers the additional advantages of escape from your exacting creditors, and your still more exacting king, we have something very like the economics of the invasion of anywhere in early feudal times. had the leaders of these invasions, or rather their clerkly secretaries, written the plain tale of their doings they would have left some such record as this: "there were we, a band of able-bodied, daring, needy men. our only trade was war; our only capital our suits of armour, our swords and battle-axes. we heard that there was good land and rich booty to be had in anywhere; we went and fought for it. our opponents were brave men, too, but badly organised. in some places we won. there we substituted our own law for the queer sort of law under which these people had lived; when they resisted too strongly we had, of course, no option but to kill them. in other places we got mixed up completely by alliances and marriages with the old stock, and lived most agreeably with them. in others again the natives killed us, and remained in possession. such was the invasion of anywhere." but (i had almost said unhappily) the invaders were not content with having swords, they had also consciences. they were christians, and thought it necessary to justify themselves before the high court of christian europe. consequently the clerks had to write up the record in quite a different fashion. they discovered that their bluff, hard-bitten, rather likeable employers, scarcely one of whom could read or write, had really invaded anywhere as the trustees of civilisation. now it may be said in general--and the observation extends to our own time--that the moment an invader discovers that he is the trustee of civilisation he is irretrievably lost to the truth. he is forced by his own pose to become not an unprincipled liar, but that much more disgusting object, a liar on principle. he is bound, in order to legitimise his own position, to prove that "the natives" are savages, living in a morass of nastiness and ignorance. all facts must be adapted to this conclusion. the clerks, having made this startling discovery, went on to supplement it by the further discovery that their masters had invaded anywhere in order to please the pope, and introduce true religion. this second role completes the dedication of the invaders on the altar of mendacity. it was leo xiii. himself who, with that charming humour of his, deprecated the attitude of certain _a priori_ historians who, said he, if they were writing the gospel story would, in their anxiety to please the pope, probably suppress the denial of peter. these things which might have happened anywhere did, in fact, happen in ireland. out of the footprints of the invaders there sprang up a legion of fictionists, professional cooks of history. beginning with giraldus cambrensis they ought to have ended, but, as we shall see, did not end with froude. the significance of these mercenaries of literature can hardly be exaggerated; it is not too much to say that they found ireland a nation, and left her a question. it is not at all that they put on record the thing that was not as regards the events of their own period. that might be and has been amended by the labours of impartial scholarship. the real crime of the fabulists lies in this, that their tainted testimony constituted for honest englishmen the only information about ireland easily obtainable. the average englishman (that is to say, the forty millions of him who do not read learned books of any kind) comes to the consideration of contemporary ireland with a vision distorted almost beyond hope of cure. the treasured lies of seven hundred years are in his heart to-day. for time runs against the cause of truth as well as with it. once create a frankenstein of race hatred, and he will gather strength in going. the chronicler's fable of this century becomes the accredited historical fact of the next. give it what billiard-players call "legs" enough and it will mature into a tradition, a proverb, a spontaneous instinct. there is a whole department of research concerned with the growth of myths, stage by stage, from a little nebulous blotch into a peopled world of illusion. the strange evolution there set forth finds an exact parallel in the development of english opinion on ireland. and, indeed, the more you study "the irish question," as it is envisaged by the ruling mind of great britain, the more conscious are you of moving in the realm not of reason but of mythology. all this will seem obvious even to the point of weariness. but it is of interest as furnishing a clue to the english attitude towards irish history; i should rather say attitudes, for there are two. the first is that of the man of feeling. his mode of procedure recalls inevitably an exquisite story which is to be found somewhere in rousseau. during country walks, jean jacques tells us, his father would suddenly say: "my son, we will speak of your dear, dead mother." and jean jacques was expected to reply: "wait, then, a moment, my dear father. i will first search for my handkerchief, for i perceive that we are going to weep." in precisely such a mood of deliberate melancholy does the sentimentalist address himself to the confiscations and the penal laws. he is ready to praise without stint any irish leader who happens to be sufficiently dead. he is ready to confess that all his own british forerunners were abominable blackguards. he admits, not only with candour but even with a certain enthusiastic remorse, that england oppressed ireland in every phase of their relations. then comes the conclusion. so terrible have been the sins of his fathers that he feels bound to make restitution. and in order to make restitution, to be kind and helpful and remedial, he must retain the management of irish affairs in his benevolent hands. in order to expiate the crimes of the past he must repeat the basal blunder that was the cause and source of them. for this kind of sympathy we have only to say, in a somewhat vulgar phrase, that we have no use whatever. the englishman who "sympathises" with ireland is lost. but the more general attitude differs widely from this. confronting us with a bluff and not unkindly demeanour, worthy of the nation that invented cold baths as a tonic against all spiritual anguish, the practical, modern englishman speaks out his mind in straight-flung words and few. "you fellows," he says, "brood too much over the past. after all, this is the twentieth century, not the twelfth. what does it matter whether my ancestors murdered yours or not? both would be dead now in any event. what does it matter whether yours were the saints and men of letters and mine the savages, or whether the boot was on the other leg? that's all over and done with. imitate me. let bygones be bygones." now this is, in some respects, the authentic voice of health. undoubtedly the most characteristic thing about the past is that it is not present, and to lavish on it too tragic and intense a devotion is to love death more than life. and yet our bluff englishman can learn in two words how it comes about that his invitation represents a demand for the impossible. in the first place, the bygones have not gone by. our complaint is made not against the crimes of his fathers, who are dead, but against the crimes of himself and his fellows, who are alive. we denounce not the repealed penal laws but the unrepealed act of union. if we recall to the memory of england the systematic baseness of the former, it is in order to remind her that she once thought them right, and now confesses that they were cruelly wrong. we irish are realists, and we hold the problems of the present as of more account than any agonies or tyrannies of the past. but our realism has the human touch in it, and that constitutes the second impossibility in the invitation tendered us. _que messieurs les assassins commencent!_ the anti-irish legend is not dead nor even sleeping, nor are the resources of calumny yet exhausted. an instance is immediately at hand. i have, at this moment, on my desk a volume lately issued--"the school history of england." it is published by the clarendon press, oxford; mr rudyard kipling contributes twenty-three pieces of verse, and a mr c. r. l. fletcher, whose qualifications are not stated, appears to be responsible for the prose. the book has been praised in most of the papers, and it will no doubt go far. this is the picture of the coming to ireland of the cymro-frankish adventurers which its pages will imprint on the minds of the youth of england: "one event of his reign (henry ii.'s) must not be forgotten, his visit to ireland in 1171-2. st patrick, you may have heard, had banished the snakes from that island, but he had not succeeded in banishing the murderers and thieves who were worse than many snakes. in spite of some few settlements of danish pirates and traders on the eastern coast, ireland had remained purely celtic and purely a pasture country. all wealth was reckoned in cows; rome had never set foot there, so there was a king for every day in the week, and the sole amusement of such persons was to drive off each other's cows and to kill all who resisted. in henry ii.'s time this had been going on for at least seven hundred years, and during the seven hundred that have followed much the same thing would have been going on, if the english government had not occasionally interfered." the english whom henry ii. left behind him soon became "as wild and barbarous as the irishmen themselves." oxford, the home of so many other lost causes, apparently aspires to be also the home of the lost cause of mendacity. the forcible-feeble malice of mr fletcher calls for no serious discussion; submit it to any continental scholar, to any honest british scholar, and he will ask contemptuously, though perhaps with a little stab of pain, how the name of oxford comes to be associated with such wicked absurdities. every other reference to ireland is marked by the same scientific composure and balanced judgment. and this document, inspired by race hatred, and apparently designed to propagate race hatred, is offered to the youth of these countries as an aid towards the consolidation of the empire. it is a case not merely of the poisoning of a well, but of the poisoning of a great river at its source. the force of cowardice can no farther go. so long as it goes thus far, so long as the froudes find fletchers to echo them, irishmen will inevitably "brood over the past." we do not share the cult of ancestor-worship, but we hold the belief that the irish nation, like any other, is an organism endowed with a life in some sort continuous and repetitive of its origins. to us it does matter something whether our forerunners were turbulent savages, destitute of all culture, or whether they were valiant, immature men labouring through the twilight of their age towards that dawn which does not yet flush our own horizon. but we are far from wishing that dead centuries should be summoned back to wake old bitterness that ought also to be dead. hand history over to the scholars, if you will; let it be marshalled as a multitudinous and coloured pageant, to incite imaginations and inspire literature. such is our desire, but when we read the clotted nonsense of persons like mr fletcher we can only repeat: _que messieurs les assassins commencent_! for the purpose of this inquiry it is inevitable that some brief account should be rendered of the past relations between england and ireland. the reader need not shrink back in alarm; it is not proposed to lead him by the reluctant nose through the whole maze and morass of irish history. the past is of value to political realists only in that residue of it which survives, namely, the wisdom which it ought to have taught us. englishmen are invited to consider the history of ireland solely from that point of view. they are prayed to purge themselves altogether of pity, indignation, and remorse; these are emotions far too beneficent to waste on things outside the ambit of our own immediate life. if they are wise they will come to irish history as to a school, and they will learn one lesson that runs through it like the refrain of a ballad. a very simple lesson it is, just this: ireland cannot be put down. ireland always has her way in the end. if the opposite view is widely held the explanation lies on the surface. two causes have co-operated to produce the illusion. everybody agrees that great britain has acted in a most blackguardly fashion towards ireland; everybody assumes that blackguardism always succeeds in this world, therefore ireland is a failure. the only flaw in this syllogism is that it is in direct conflict with every known fact. for the rest we have to thank or blame the sentimentalism of mr matthew arnold. his proud but futile celts who "went down to battle but always fell" have been mistaken for the irish of actual history. the truth is, of course, that the phrase is in the grand manner of symbolism. when ecclesiastes laments that the eye is not filled with seeing nor the ear with hearing we do not argue him deaf and blind; we take his words as a proclamation of that famine and fierce appetite of the spirit which has created all the higher religions. ireland agrees with ecclesiastes. perceiving that there is in matter no integral and permanent reality she cannot be content with material victories; her poets are subtle in what a french writer styles the innuendoes by which the soul makes its enormous claims. the formula of her aspiration has been admirably rendered by the late mrs nora chesson: "he follows after shadows when all your chase is done; he follows after shadows, the king of ireland's son." were i to read the poem, of which these lines are the motif, to certain genial englishmen of my acquaintance they would observe that the gentleman in question was a "queer cove, staying up late at night and catching cold, and that no doubt there was a woman in the case." but these are considerations a little remote from the daily dust of politics. in the sense in which every life is a failure, and the best life the worst failure, ireland is a failure. but in every other sense, in all that touches the fathomable business of daylight, she has been a conspicuous success. a certain type of fanaticism is naive enough to regard the intercourse of england with ireland as that of a superior with an inferior race. this is the sanction invoked to legitimise every adventure in invasion and colonisation. m. jules hormand, who has attempted, in his recent book, "domination et colonisation," to formulate a theory of the whole subject, touches bed-rock when he writes: "we must then accept as our point of departure the principle that there is a hierarchy of races and of civilisations, and that we belong to the higher race and civilisation.... the essential legitimation of conquest is precisely this conviction of our own superiority.... nations which do not hold this belief, because incapable of such sincerity towards themselves, should not attempt to conquer others." the late lord salisbury was grasping at such a justification when he likened the irish to hottentots; it would be a justification of a kind if it chanced to be validated by the facts. but it does not. there is so much genuine humour in the comparison that, for my part, i am unable to take offence at it. i look at the lathe painted to look like iron, and i set over against him parnell. that is enough; the lathe is smashed to fragments amid the colossal laughter of the gods. the truth is that in every shock and conflict of irish civilisation with english, it is the latter that has given way. the obscuration of this obvious fact is probably to be ascribed to the military successes of the norman, or rather the cymro-frankish invaders. if we were the higher race why did we not put them out? replying on the same plane of thought we observe that if they were the higher race they would have put us down. but a more detailed assignment of qualities between the two peoples is possible. in general it may be said that the two stood on much the same level of mentality, but that they had specialised on different subjects, the normans on war and politics, the irish on culture. of the many writers who help us to reconstruct the period we ought to signalise one, mrs a.s. green, who to a rare scholarship adds something rarer, the genius of common sense. this is not the place in which to recall the whole substance of her "making of ireland and its undoing" and her "irish nationality"; but from borrowings thence and elsewhere we can piece together a plain tale of that first chapter of the irish question. chapter iii history _(b) plain_ in those days war was the most lucrative industry open to a young man of breeding, courage, and ability. owners of capital regarded it as a sound investment. what professor oman tells us of the normans in 1066 was equally true of them in 1169: "duke william had undertaken his expedition not as a mere feudal lord of the barons of normandy but rather as the managing director of a great joint-stock company for the conquest of england, in which not only his own subjects but hundreds of adventurers, poor and rich, from all parts of western europe had taken shares." the normans, then, came to ireland with their eyes on three objects. in the first place, property. this was to be secured in the case of each individual adventurer by the overthrow of some individual irish chieftain. it necessitated war in the shape of a purely local, and indeed personal grapple. in the second place, plunder. this was to be secured by raids, incursions, and temporary alliances. in the third place, escape from the growing power and exactions of the crown. this was to be secured geographically by migration to ireland, and politically by delaying, resolutely if discreetly, the extension in that country of the over-lordship of the king. herein lies the explanation of the fact that for three and a half centuries the english penetration into ireland is a mere chaos of private appetites and egotisms. the invaders, as we have said, were specialists in war, and in the unification of states through war. this they had done for england; this they failed to do for ireland. the one ingredient which, if dropped into the seething cauldron of her life, must have produced the definite crystallisation of a new nationality, complete in structure and function, was not contributed. true, the cymro-franks proved themselves strong enough in arms to maintain their foothold; if that physical test is enough to establish their racial superiority then let us salute mr jack johnson as zarathustra, the superman. but in their one special and characteristic task they failed lamentably. instead of conquest and consolidation they gave us mere invasion and disturbance. the disastrous role played by them has been unfolded by many interpreters of history, by none with a more vivid accuracy than we find in the pages of m. paul-dubois: "had ireland," he writes, "been left to herself she would, in all human probability, have succeeded, notwithstanding her decadence, in establishing political unity under a military chief. had the country been brought into peaceful contact with continental civilisation, it must have advanced along the path of modern progress. even if it had been conquered by a powerful nation, it would at least have participated in the progress of the conquering power. but none of these things happened. england, whose political and social development had been hastened by the norman conquest, desired to extend her influence to ireland. 'she wished,' as froude strangely tells us, 'to complete the work of civilisation happily begun by the danes.' but in actual fact she only succeeded in trammelling the development of irish society, and maintaining in the country an appalling condition of decadent stagnation, as the result of three centuries and a half of intermittent invasions, never followed by conquest." on the other hand the triumph of irish culture was easy and absolute. ireland, unvisited by the legions and the law of rome, had evolved a different vision of the life of men in community, or, in other words, a different idea of the state. put very briefly the difference lay in this. the romans and their inheritors organised for purposes of war and order, the irish for purposes of culture. the one laid the emphasis on police, the other on poets. but for a detailed exposition of the contrast i must send the reader to mrs green's "irish nationality." in a world in which right is little more than a secretion of might, in which, unless a strong man armed keeps house, his enemies enter in, the weakness of the gaelic idea is obvious. but the roman pattern too had a characteristic vice which has led logically in our own time to a monstrous and sinister growth of armaments. to those who recognise in this deification of war the blackest menace of our day the vision of a culture state is not without charm. the shattering possibilities enfolded in it would have fevered nietzsche and fascinated renan. but, be that as it may, ireland played cleopatra to the antony of the invaders. some of them, indeed, the "garrison" pure and simple, had all their interests centred not only in resisting but in calumniating her. but the majority yielded gaily to her music, her poetry, her sociability, that magical quality of hers which the germans call _gemã¼tlichkeit_. in a few centuries a new and enduring phrase had designated them as more irish than the irish themselves. so far as any superiority of civilisation manifests itself in this first period it is altogether on the side of ireland. this power of assimilation has never decayed. there never was a nation, not even the united states, that so subdued and re-fashioned those who came to her shores, that so wrought them into her own blood and tissue. the norman baron is transformed in a few generations into an irish chieftain, and as often as not into an irish "rebel." the jacobite planter of the first decade of the seventeenth century is in the fifth decade found in arms against cromwell; the cromwellian settler is destined in turn to shed his blood for james ii. and catholicity. protestant colonists who, in the early eighteenth century, enforce and defend the abominable penal laws, will in 1782 demand, with drawn swords, that henceforth there shall be no longer a protestant colony but in its place an irish nation. the personal history of the captains of the irish cause in modern times is no less remarkable. o'connell begins his public career in the yeomanry called out to put down the insurrectionary movement of emmet. isaac butt comes first into note as the orator of the orange party in dublin. parnell himself steps out of a tory milieu and tradition into the central tumult of agitation. wave after incoming wave of them, her conquerors were conquered. "once again," cried parnell in the last public utterance of his life, "i am come to cast myself into the deep sea of the love of my people." in that deep sea a hundred diverse currents of blood have met and mingled; they have lost their individual drift to become part of the strong tide of national consciousness and national unity. if irish history is to be regarded as a test of racial superiority then ireland emerges with the crown and garlands of victory. we came, we the invaders, to dominate, and we remained to serve. for ireland has signed us with the oil and chrism of her human sacrament, and even though we should deny the faith with our lips she would hold our hearts to the end. but let us translate her triumph into more concrete speech. the essential lesson of experience, then, is that no device, plan, or policy adopted by england for the subjugation of ireland has ever been anything except an abject failure. and the positive of this negative is that every claim that ever formed part of the national programme of ireland has won its way against all enmities. no plough to which she ever put her hand has been turned back or stayed eternally in mid-furrow. it does not matter what period you call to the witness-box; the testimony is uniform and unvarying. until tudor times, as has been noted, there cannot be said to have been in any strict sense an english policy in ireland; there was only a scuffle of appetites. in so far as there was a policy it consisted of sporadic murder for the one half, and for the other of an attempt to prevent all intercourse that might lead to amalgamation between the two peoples. the statute of kilkenny--which is, all things considered, more important than the kilkenny cats though not so well known in england--made it a capital offence for a settler to marry an irishwoman or to adopt the irish language, law, or costume. the act no doubt provided a good many ruffians with legal and even ecclesiastical fig-leaves with which to cover their ruffianism, and promoted among the garrison such laudable objects as rape and assassination. but as a breakwater between the two races it did not fulfil expectation. the statute was passed in 1367: and two centuries later henry viii. was forced to appoint as his deputy the famous garrett fitzgerald whose life was a militant denial of every clause and letter of it. with the tudors, after some diplomatic preliminaries, a very clear and business-like policy was developed. seeing that the only sort of quiet irishman known to contemporary science was a dead irishman, english deputies and governors were instructed to pacify ireland by slaughtering or starving the entire population. the record of their conscientious effort to obey these instructions may be studied in any writer of the period, or in any historian, say mr froude. for mr froude, in his pursuit of the picturesque, was always ready to resort to the most extreme measures; he sometimes even went so far as to tell the truth. the noblest and ablest english minds lent their aids. sir walter raleigh and edmund spenser were both rather circumambulatory on paper; the work of each is 'a long monotone broken by two or three exquisite immortalities. but they were both as concise in action as an elizabethan headsman. sir walter helped lord grey, the recognised pattern in those days of the christian gentleman, to put to death seven hundred prisoners-of-war at smerwick. spenser, being no soldier, leaned rather to famine. in his famous book he recommends the destruction of crops, houses, cattle, and all necessaries of life so that the irish should "soon be compelled to devour each other." the commanders-in-chief and the deputies specialised in poison, as became men whose wealth and learning enabled them to keep in touch with the italian renaissance. bluff, straightforward troopers like mountjoy, malby, wilmot, bagenal, chichester, and the rest, not pretending to such refinements, did their best in the way of hanging, stabbing, and burning. in those days as well as ours the children had their charter. "nits," said the trustees of civilisation, "will grow to lice." and so they tossed them on the points of their swords, thus combining work with play, or fed them on the roast corpses of their relatives, and afterwards strangled them with tresses of their mother's hair. i do not recall these facts in order to show that elizabethan policy was a riot of blackguardism. that is obvious, and it is irrelevant. i mention them in order to show that the blackguardism under review was an unrelieved failure. at one time, indeed, it seemed to have succeeded. "ireland, brayed as in a mortar, to use sir john davies' phrase," writes m. paul-dubois, "at last submitted. in the last years of the century half the population had perished. elizabeth reigned over corpses and ashes. _hibernia pacata_--ireland is 'pacified.'" * * * * * the blunder discloses itself at a glance. only half the population had perished; there were still alive, according to the most probable estimate, quite two hundred thousand irishmen. the next generation helps to illustrate not only the indestructibility of ireland, but her all but miraculous power of recuperation. so abundant are the resources of his own vitality that, as dr moritz bonn declares, an irish peasant can live where a continental goat would starve. and not having read malthus--mr malthus at that time being even less readable than since--the irish remnant proceeded to develop anew into a nation. in forty years it was marching behind that _beau chevalier_ owen roe o'neill to battle and victory. o'neill, a general famous through europe, the one man who might have measured equal swords with cromwell, was removed by poison, and then came the massacres. in eleven years, sir william petty assures us, 616,000 out of a total population of 1,466,000 perished by the sword or by starvation. for the remainder the policy of root and branch extermination was abandoned in favour of a policy of state-aided migration and emigration. as an alternative to hell the irish were deported to connaught or the barbadoes. henceforth there were to be three provinces of loyal english, and one of rebelly irish. this again was not a radiant success. the transformation of the cromwellian settler has been indicated; if you were to search for him to-day you would probably find him president of the local branch of the united irish league. the story repeats itself period after period. the penal laws did not protestantise ireland. the eighteenth century may be said to mark the lowest ebb of national life, but the tide was to turn. after aughrim and the boyne, the new device of england was to sacrifice everything to the "garrison." "protestant ireland," as grattan put it, "knelt to england on the necks of her countrymen." in one aspect the garrison were tyrants; in another they were slaves. they were at once oppressors and oppressed. there was a sort of "deal" between them and the english government by which the public welfare was to be sacrificed to the english government, the irish catholics to the "garrison." a vile programme, but subtle and adroit, it bore its unnatural fruit of legislation, passed by the westminster parliament and the dublin garrison parliament alike, for the destruction of every manufacturing and commercial interest in ireland that was thought to conflict with a similar interest in england. but another debacle has to be chronicled. out of the very baseness of this regime a new patriotism was begotten. the garrison, awakening abruptly to the fact that it had no country, determined to invent one; and there was brought to birth that modern ireland, passionate for freedom, which has occupied the stage ever since. in our own time it has knit, as a fractured limb knits, into one tissue with the tradition of the gaelic peasantry. hanging and burning, torture and oppression, poison and penal laws, bribes and blackguardism so far from exterminating the irish people actually hammered them into a nation, one and indestructible, proud of its past and confident of its future. take instances still more recent and particular--the struggle for religious freedom or the struggle for the land. catholic emancipation is a leading case: obstinacy against obstinacy, the no! of england against the yes! of ireland, and the former sprawling in the ditch at the end of the tussle. "the law," ran the dictum of an eighteenth-century lord chancellor, "does not suppose any such person to exist as an irish roman catholic." at this moment a catholic holds the seals and purse of the chancellorship. never did ministers swallow their own stubborn words more incontinently than did peel and wellington. so late as 1828 peel was loudly declaring that the continuance of these bars, which excluded the catholics from the acquisition of political power, was necessary for the maintenance of the constitution and the safety of the church, and wellington was echoing his words. a year later, utterly defeated by o'connell, peel was introducing the catholic relief bill in the commons. wellington had it for his task to induce, or rather frighten the king to assent. ireland not only emancipated the catholics, she went on to emancipate the dissenters, a service of freedom of conscience which is too often forgotten. the tithe system was similarly declared to be part of the fabric of the constitution, to be upheld at the point of the bayonet. scythe in hand, the irish peasant proclaimed that it must go. it went. still more fundamental was the existence of the protestant established church. to touch it was to lay hands on the ark. orange orators threatened civil war; two hundred thousand ulstermen were to shoulder their minie rifles, and not merely slaughter the catholics but even depose queen victoria. ireland said that the establishment too must go; and, with the echoed menace of fenianism ringing in his ears, mr gladstone hauled down the official blazon of ascendancy. "ulster" did not fight. but the fierce struggle for the land affords the crucial test. landlordism of that most savage type which held for its whole gospel that a man may do what he likes with his own was conceived to be the very corner-stone of british rule in ireland. it controlled parliament, the judiciary, the schools, the press, and possessed in the royal irish constabulary an incomparable watch-dog. it had resisted the criticism and attack loosened against it by the scandal of the great famine. then suddenly ireland took the business in hand. on a certain day in october 1879, some thirty men met in a small hotel in dublin and, under the inspiration of michael davitt, founded the land league. to the programme then formulated, the expropriation of the landlords at twenty years' purchase of their rents, england as usual said no! the proposal was thundered against as confiscation, communism, naked and shameful. to any student, with patience sufficient for the task, the contemporary files of such journals as the _times_ will furnish an exquisite chapter in the literature of obtuseness. england sustained her no! with batons, bullets, plank-beds, coercion courts, and an occasional halter; ireland her yes! with "agitation." is it necessary to ask who won? is it necessary to trace step by step the complete surrender of the last ditchers of those days? the fantastic and wicked dreams of the agitators have in thirty years translated themselves into statute law and solid fact. an english statesman of the period, say mr balfour or mr wyndham, is fortunate if, with a few odd rags pilfered from the land league wardrobe, he can conceal from history his utter poverty of ideas. this, then, is the essential wisdom of irish history: ireland has won all along the line. the normans did not normanise her. the tudors did not exterminate her. she has undone the confiscations, and drawn a cancelling pen through the penal laws. the act of union, so far from suppressing her individuality or overwhelming it, has actually brought it to that full self-consciousness which constitutes the coming of age of a nation. tears, as we read in wordsworth, to human suffering are due; if there be anyone with tears at command he may shed them, with great fitness, and with no profit at all, over the long martyrdom of ireland. but let him, at least if he values facts, think twice before he goes on to apply to her that other line which speaks of human hopes defeated and overthrown. no other people in the world has held so staunchly to its inner vision; none other has, with such fiery patience, repelled the hostility of circumstances, and in the end reshaped them after the desire of her heart. hats off to success, gentlemen! your modern god may well be troubled at sight of this enigmatic ireland which at once despises him, and tumbles his faithfullest worshippers in the sand of their own amphitheatre. yet, so it is. the confederate general, seeing victory suddenly snatched from his hands, and not for the first time, by meagher's brigade, exclaimed in immortal profanity: "there comes that damned green flag again!" i have often commended that phrase to englishmen as admirably expressive of the historical role and record of ireland in british politics. the damned green flag flutters again in their eyes, and if they will but listen to the music that marches with it, they will find that the lamenting fifes are dominated wholly by the drums of victory. chapter iv the obviousness of home rule ireland, then, has made it her foible to be not only right but irresistible in her past demands. what is it that she now claims, and on what grounds? she claims the right to enter into possession of her own soul. she claims the _toga virilis_, and all the strengthening burdens of freedom. now it is difficult to represent such a demand in terms of argument. liberty is no mere conclusion of linked logic long-drawn out: it is an axiom, a flaming avatar. the arguments by which it is defended are important, but they bear to it much the same relation that a table of the wave-lengths of various rays of light bears to the immediate glory of a sunrise. there is another obstacle. self-government, like other spiritual realities, say love or civilisation, is too vast, obvious, and natural to be easily imprisoned in words. you are certainly in love; suppose you were suddenly asked "to state the case" for love? you are probably civilised; suppose you were suddenly asked "to state the case for civilisation"? so it is with the home rule idea. to ask what is the gate of entrance to it is like asking what was the gate of entrance to hundred-gated thebes. my friend, mr barry o'brien, in lecturing on ireland, used to begin by recounting a very agreeable and appropriate story. a prisoner on trial was asked whether he would accept for his case the jury which had tried the last. he objected very vehemently. "well, but," said the judge, "what is the nature of your objection? do you object to the panel or to the array?" "ah!" replied the traverser, "if you want to know, i object to the whole damned business." that is approximately our objection to the present system of government in ireland. but let me attempt to group under a series of somewhat arbitrary headings the "case for home rule," that is to say, the case for applying to ireland the plain platitudes of constitutional freedom. the whole matter roots in the fact of nationality. nationality is to political life what personality is to mental life, the mainspring, namely, of the mechanism. the two principles of organisation have this in common, that although by, through, and for them the entire pageant of our experience is unfolded, we are unable to capture either of them in a precise formula. that i am a person i know; but what is a person? that ireland is a nation i know; but what is a nation? "a community of memories and hopes," says anatole france; but that applies to a football club. something for which a man will die, says mr t. m. healy: but men will die for strange reasons; there was a french poet who shot himself because the trees were always green in the spring and never, for a change, blue or red. a cultural unit, say the anthropologists; an idea of the divine mind, declare mazzini and the mystics' of sociology. each of these formulas possesses a certain relative truth, but all of them together come short of the whole truth. nationality, which acts better perhaps than it argues, is one of the great forces of nature and of human nature that have got to be accepted. nationality will out, and where it exists it will, in spite of all resistance, strain fiercely to express itself in some sort of autonomous government. german romance depicts for us the misery and restlessness of a man who had lost his shadow. catholic theologians--if the masters of a wisdom too high and too austere for these days may be invoked--tell us that the departed soul, even though it be in paradise, hungers with a great desire for the resurrection that it may be restored to its life-long comrade, the body. "the crimson-throbbing glow into its old abode aye pants to go." look again at ireland and you will discern, under all conflicts, that unity of memory, of will, of material interest, of temperamental atmosphere which knits men into a nation. you will notice the presence of these characteristics, but it is an absence, a void that will most impress you. you will see not a body that has lost its shadow, but something more sinister--a soul that has been sundered from its natural body. she demands restoration. she sues out a _habeas corpus_ of a kind not elsewhere to be paralleled. that is the "irish question." you may not like this interpretation of things. it may seem to you fantastic, nasty, perilous to all comfort. life often does make on the tender-hearted an impression of coarse violence; life, nevertheless, always has its way. what other interpretation is possible? lancashire, to take any random contrast, is much richer than ireland in wealth and population; but lancashire is not a "question." lancashire is not a "question" because lancashire is not a nation. ireland is a "question" because ireland is a nation. her fundamental claim is a claim for the constitutional recognition of nationality. we have seen that in almost every conflict between english and irish ideas the latter have had the justification of success. this holds good also as regards our long insistence on nationality as a principle of political organisation. in various passages of the nineteenth century it seemed to be gravely compromised. capital, its mobility indefinitely increased by the improved technique of exchange, became essentially a citizen of the world. the earth was all about it where to choose; its masters, falsely identifying patriotism with the protectionism then dominant, struck at both, and the free trade movement philosophised itself into cosmopolitanism. labour, like capital, showed a rapid tendency to become international or rather supernational. "the workers," proclaimed marx, "have no fatherland." while this was the drift of ideas in the economic sphere, that in the political was no more favourable. belgium seemed on the point of extinction, italy was a mere geographical expression, hungary was abject and broken. in the narrower but even more significant sphere of british colonial policy the passion for centralisation had not yet been understood in all its folly. downing street still functioned as the dublin castle of the empire. the possibility of the overseas possessions developing that rich, strong individuality which characterises them to-day would have been dismissed with horror. the colour and texture of men's thought on these subjects has undergone a notable transformation. cosmopolitanism of the old type is a slain hallucination. capital in our time is not content to be a patriot, it is a jingo. as to labour, if we turn to its politics we find herr bebel declaring that the german socialist is first of all a german, and mr ramsay macdonald pledging his adherents to support any war necessary for the assertion of english prestige. if we turn to its theoretical sociology we find the national idea rehabilitated and triumphant. such intellectual reconstructions do not, as a rule, begin in england, or find in english their characteristic formulã¦. mr blatchford might indeed be cited, but it is in the brilliant literature of german social democracy that the most scientific expression of the new spirit is to be sought. truly marx has been indeed translated. his abstract and etiolated internationalism has been replaced by the warm humanity of writers like, say, david or pernerstorfer. the principle of nationality is vindicated by the latter in a noble passage. i quote it from sombart's "socialism and the social movement." "nationality in its highest form is ... a precious possession. it is the highest expression of human civilisation in an individual form, and mankind is the richer for its appearance. our purpose is not only to see to it that men shall be housed and fed and clothed in a manner worthy of human beings, but also that they may become humanised by participation in the culture of centuries, that they may themselves possess culture and produce it. all culture is national. it takes its rise in some special people, and reaches its highest form in national character.... socialism and the national idea are thus not opposed to each other. every attempt to weaken the national idea is an attempt to lessen the precious possessions of mankind.... socialism wants to organise, and not disintegrate, humanity. but in the organisms of mankind, not individuals, but nations are the tissues, and if the whole organism is to remain healthy it is necessary for the tissues to be healthy.... the peoples, despite the changes they undergo, are everlasting, and they add to their own greatness by helping the world upward. and so we are at one and the same time good socialists and good germans." this might almost seem to be a rhapsody, but every movement of continental politics in recent times confirms and enforces its plain truth. "the spirit of resurgent nationality," as professor bury of cambridge tells us, "has governed, as one of the most puissant forces, the political course of the last century and is still unexhausted." it has governed not only the west but the east; the twain have met in that demand for a constitutional national state which in our day has flamed up, a fire not to be put out, in turkey, persia, egypt. but it is in imperial politics that the bouleversement has been most complete. when critics now find fault with the structure of the empire they complain not that there is too much downing street in it, but that the residual power of downing street-is not visible to the naked eye. to us irish the blindness of england to the meaning of her own colonial work is a maddening miracle. a wit of the time met goldsmith at dinner. the novelist was a little more disconcerting than usual, a result, let us charitably hope, of the excellence of the claret. afterwards they asked his fellow-diner what he thought of the author. "well," he replied, "i believe that that man wrote 'the vicar of wakefield,' and, let me tell you, it takes a lot of believing." similarly when we in ireland learn that great britain has founded on the principle of local autonomy an empire on which the sun never sets, we nerve ourselves to an act of faith. it is not inappropriate to observe that a large part of the "founding" was done by irishmen. but the point of immediate interest lies in this. the foolishness of england in ireland finds an exact parallel, although on a smaller scale and for a shorter period, in the early foolishness of england in her own colonies. in both cases there is an attempt to suppress individuality and initiative, to exploit, to bully, to downing street-ify. it was a policy of unionism, the sort of unionism that linked the destiny of the lady to that of the tiger. the fruits of it were a little bitter in the eating. the colonies in which under the home rule regime "loyalty" has blossomed like the rose, were in those days most distressingly disloyal. cattle-driving and all manner of iniquities of that order in canada; the boycott adopted not as a class, but as a national, weapon in cape colony; the eureka stockade in australia; christian de wet and the crack of mausers in the transvaal--such were the propã¦deutics to the establishment of freedom and the dawn of loyalty in the overseas possessions. but in this field of government the gods gave england not only a great pioneer, lord durham, but also the grace to listen to him. his canadian policy set a headline which has been faithfully and fruitfully copied. its success was irresistible. let the "cambridge modern history" tell the tale of before and after home rule in the dominion: "provincial jealousies have dwindled to vanishing point; racial antipathies no longer imperil the prosperity of the dominion; religious animosities have lost their mischievous power in a new atmosphere of common justice and toleration. canada, as the direct outcome of confederation, has grown strong, prosperous, energetic. the unhappy divisions which prevailed at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and which darkened with actual revolt and bloodshed the dawn of the victorian era, are now only a memory. the links which bind the dominion to great britain may on paper seem slight, but they are resistless. imperial federation has still great tasks to accomplish within our widely scattered imperial domains, but its success in canada may be accepted as the pledge of its triumph elsewhere. canada is a nation within the empire, and in kipling's phrase is 'daughter in her mother's house and mistress in her own.'" this is the authentic harvest of freedom. the "unity" of the old regime which, in a bismarckian phrase, was like paper pasted over ever-widening cracks, was abandoned. the separatist programme triumphed. and the outcome? the sham unity of government has been replaced by a real unity of interest, affection and cultural affinity. we find administrators like mr lyttleton, former tory secretary for the colonies, engaged to-day not in suppressing but in celebrating the "varied individuality" of the overseas possessions. as for the political effects of the change, every english writer repeats of the colonies what grattan, in other circumstances, said of the irish: loyalty is their foible. there is indeed one notable flaw in the colonial parallel. i have spoken as if the claim of the colonies on foot of the principle of nationality was comparable to that of ireland. that of course was not the case. they were at most nations in the making; she was a nation made. home rule helped on their growth; in its benign warmth australia, canada, new zealand, and south africa have developed not only a political complexion characteristic of each but a literature, an art and even a slang equally characteristic. ireland, on the other hand, has manifested throughout her whole history an amazing faculty of assimilating and nationalising everything that came to her from without. the will to preserve her nationality motived her whole life, especially in the modern period. the declared dream of grattan was, as we have seen, to transform a protestant colony into an irish nation. wolfe tone confessed the same inspiration; emmet's speech from the dock was that and nothing else. it was the whole of davis in thought, and of o'connell in action. isaac butt yielded to its fascination, and found for it the watchword, home rule. it was formulated by parnell in a speech the capital passage of which forms the inscription on his monument. it echoes and re-echoes through the resolutions of every meeting, and constitutes for many orators their total stock of political ideas. it provides the title of the irish delegation to parliament, and is endorsed at general election after general election by a great and unchanging majority. a people such as this is not to be exterminated. an ideal such as this is not to be destroyed. recognise the one, sever the ligatures that check the free flow of blood through the veins of the other, and enrich your federation of autonomous peoples with another rich individuality. imitate in ireland your own wisdom in dealing with the colonies, and the same policy will bear the same harvest. for justice given the colonies gave you friendship, as for injustice stubbornly upheld they had given you hatred. the analogy with ireland is complete so far as the cards have been played. the same human elements are there, the same pride, the same anger, the same willingness to forget anger. why should the augury fail? i can hear in imagination the sniff of the unimaginative reader; i can figure to myself his instant dismissal of all these considerations as "sentiment." let the word stand, coloured though it is with associations that degrade it. but is "sentiment" to be ignored in the fixing of constitutions? ruskin asks a pertinent question. what is it after all but "sentiment," he inquires, that prevents a man from killing his grandmother in time of hunger? sentiment is the most respectable thing in human psychology. no one believes in it more thoroughly than your reactionary tory. but he wears his heart on his sleeve with a difference. he is so greedily patriotic that he would keep all the patriotism in the world to himself. that he should love his country is natural and noble, a theme so high as to be worthy of mr kipling or even mr alfred austin himself. that we should love ours is a sort of middle term between treason and insanity. it is as if a lover were to insist that no poems should be written to any woman except _his_ mistress. it is as if he were to put the coercion act in force against anyone found shedding tears over the sufferings of any mother except _his_ mother. in fact it is the sort of domineering thick-headedness that never fails to produce disloyalty. the national idea, then, is the foundation of the "case for home rule." it might indeed be styled the whole case, but this anthem of nationality may be transposed into many keys. translated into terms of ethics it becomes that noble epigram of sir henry campbell bannerman's for which i would exchange a whole library of gladstonian eloquence: "good government is no substitute for self-government." in ireland we have enjoyed neither. political subjection has mildewed our destiny, leaf and stem. but were it not so, had we increased in wealth like egypt, in population like poland, the vital argument for autonomy would be neither weaker nor stronger. rich or poor, a man must be master of his own fate. poor or rich, a nation must be captain of her own soul. in the suburban road in which you live there are probably at least a hundred other house-holds. now if you were all, each suppressing his individuality, to club together you could build in place of the brick-boxes in which you live a magnificent phalanstery. there you could have more air for your lungs and more art for your soul, a spacious and a gracious life, cheaper washing, cheaper food, and a royal kitchen. but you will not do it. why? because it profiteth a man nothing to gain the services of a paris _maã®tre d'hã´tel_ and to lose his own soul. in an attic fourteen feet by seven, which he can call his own, a man has room to breathe; in a renaissance palace, controlled by a committee on which he is in a permanent minority of one, he has no room to breathe. home rulers are fond of phrasing their programme as a demand on the part of ireland that she shall control the management of her domestic affairs. the language fits the facts like a glove. the difference between unionism and home rule is the difference between being compelled to live in an ostentatious and lonely hotel and being permitted to live in a simple, friendly house of one's own. translated into terms of administration the gospel of autonomy becomes the doctrine of "the man on the spot." that is the eleven rule of imperial policy, and although it has sometimes been ridden to death, in fact to murder, as in the denshawai hangings, it is a sound rule. a man who has gone to the trouble of being born, bred, and ordinarily domiciled in, say, kamskatcka is more likely to understand the affairs of kamskatcka than a man whose life oscillates daily like a pendulum between clapham and the strand. the old natural philosophers accepted the theory of _actio distans_, that is to say they assumed that a body could act effectively where it was not. this was unionism in science, and needless to say it was wrong. in politics it is equally wrong, and it has been repudiated everywhere except in ireland. physical vision is limited in range; as the distance increases the vision declines in clearness, becomes subject to illusion, finally ceases. now you in london, through mere limitations of human faculty, cannot see us in dublin. you are trying to govern ireland in the fashion in which, according to wordsworth, all bad literature has been written, that is to say, without your eye on the object. but it is time to have done with this stern, long chase of the obvious. translated into terms of economics the gospel of autonomy becomes the doctrine of a "stake in the country." england has, indeed, a stake in ireland. she has the same interest in seeing ireland prosperous that a bootmaker has in learning from his farmer client that the crops are good. each country is in great measure the economic complement of the other. but if the bootmaker were to insist on having his finger in the farmer's pie, the pie, destined for the bootmaker's own appetite, would not be improved. if he were to insist on applying to the living cow those processes which he applies with such success to the dead leather, the cow would suffer and ultimately there would be no boots. generally speaking, each of us improves his own business by declining to mind anybody else's. home rule will give england precisely this chance of sticking to her last. to ireland it will come with both hands full of new opportunities and new responsibilities. to realise that the national idea in ireland arouses an emotion, at once massive, intense, and enduring, is to understand many derivative riddles. we are all familiar with the complaint that there is in ireland too much politics and too little business. of course there is, and not only too little business but too little literature, too little philosophy, too little social effort, too little fun. we nationalists have grasped this better and proclaimed it more steadily than any unionist. there is as much truth in saying that life begins where politics end, as in saying that love begins where love-making ends. constitutional freedom is not the fifth act of the social drama in modern times, it is rather the prologue, or, better still, the theatre in which other ideas that move men find an arena for their conflict. ireland, a little exhausted by her intense efforts of the last thirty years, does assuredly need a rest-cure from agitation. but this healing peace is itself a gift of autonomy. a tooth-ache concentrates the whole mind on one particular emotion, which is a bad thing, and breeds profanity, which is worse. but it is idle to tell a man with a tooth-ache that what he needs in his life is less cursing and more business. he cannot work effectively so long as he suffers; the only way to peace is to cure the tooth-ache. and in order to get rid of politics in ireland, you must give ireland home rule. chapter v the ravages of unionism (i) ireland, as we have seen, has had the misfortune to provoke many worthy writers to a sad debauch of sentimentalism. it has pleased their fancy especially to picture her as a sphinx, mysterious, elusive, inscrutable. it is impossible to govern her, declare these theorists, because it is impossible to understand her. she is the _femme incomprise_ of modern politics. her temperament is a magnet for disaster, her soul a sanctuary of inviolable secrets. so runs the rhapsody, and many of my own countrymen have thought it good strategy to accept and exploit it. they have this to urge, indeed, that failure to make oneself understood is commonly regarded as a sign of the superior mind. lord rosebery, for example, has told us that he himself, for all his honey-dropping tongue, has never been properly understood. and hegel, the great german philosopher, who was so great a philosopher that we may without impropriety mention his name even in the brilliant vicinage of the earl of midlothian, used to sigh: "alas! in the whole of my teaching career i had but one student who understood my system, and he mis-understood it." this is all very well in its way, and a climate of incomprehension may suit orators and metaphysicians admirably; but it will not do for politics. the party or people that fails to make its programme understood is politically incompetent, and ireland is assuredly safe from any such imputation. she has her spiritual secrets, buried deep in what we may call the subliminal consciousness of the race, and to the disclosure of these secrets we may look with confidence for the inspiration of a new literature. but in politics ireland has no secrets. all her cards are on the table, decipherable at the first glance. her political demand combines the lucidity of an invoice with the axiomatic rectitude of the ten commandments. there is no doubt about what she wants, and none about why she ought to have it. in that sense the case for home rule is made, and this book, having justified its title, ought to come to an end. but convention prescribes that about the nude contour of principles there should be cast a certain drapery of details, and such conventions are better obeyed. where we are to begin is another matter. we are, as has been so often suggested, in presence of a situation in which one cannot see the trees for the forest. the principle of the government of ireland is so integrally wrong that it is difficult to signalise any one point in which it is more wrong than it is in any other. a timber-chaser, that is to say a pioneer for a lumber firm, in the western states of america once found himself out of spirits. he decided to go out of life, and being thorough in his ways he left nothing to chance. he set fire to his cabin, and, mounting the table, noosed his neck to a beam, drank a large quantity of poison, and, as he kicked over the table, simultaneously shot himself through the head and drew a razor across his throat. later on the doctor had to fill in the usual certificate. at "cause of death" he paused, pondered, and at last wrote, "causes too numerous to specify." the fable possesses a certain suggestive value upon which we need not enlarge. how, one may well ask, are we to itemise the retail iniquities of a system of government which is itself a wholesale iniquity? but since we must begin somewhere let us begin with the economics of unionism. in this often-written, and perhaps over-written story there is one feature of some little comfort. whatever quarrel there may be as to causes, the facts are not disputed. pitt and his friends promised that the union would be followed by general prosperity, development of manufacturers, and expansion of commerce. "among the great and known defects of ireland," he declared in a typical statement, "one of the most prominent features is its want of industry and of capital. how are these wants to be supplied but by blending more closely with ireland the industry and capital of great britain?" it was a witches' promise making smooth the path to damnation. in every point in which pitt had prophesied white the moving finger of history began, from the very day of the union, to write black. the injury to the whole economic tissue of ireland was immediate, cumulative, in the end crushing. we have at hand authoritative figures of the decline collected by various commissions and private inquirers. let us note some of these as summarised by monsignor o'riordan in his remarkable book, "catholicism and progress": "again, in 1800 there were 91 woollen manufacturers in dublin and 4938 hands employed; in 1840 there were only 12 manufacturers, and 682 hands employed; in 1880, only 3 manufacturers in dublin and around it. in 1800 there were 56 blanket manufacturers in kilkenny, and 3000 hands employed; in 1840 there were 12 manufacturers and 925 hands employed. in 1800 there were 900 hands employed on ratteens and friezes in roscrea; in 1840 the industry had completely disappeared. in 1800 there were 1000 flannel looms in county wicklow; in 1840 there was not one. in 1800 there were 2500 looms at work in dublin for the manufacture of silk and poplin; in 1840 there were only 250. in 1800 there were 27,000 cotton workers in belfast and around it; in 1840 there were only 12,000. in 1800 there were 61,075 tradesmen in dublin for the woollen, silk, and cotton industries; in 1834 there were only 14,446, and of these 4412 were idle, showing a decrease of 51,041 in the employed." there was, we must add, an increase in other directions. for instance, whereas there had been only seven bankruptcies decreed in dublin in 1799 there were 125 in 1810. the number of insolvent houses grew in seven years from 880 to 4719. these figures are not random but symptomatic. mr pitt had promised to blend ireland with the capital and industry of great britain; he blended them as the edge of a tomahawk is blended with the spattered brains of its victim. we have glanced at the condition of manufacture. lest it should be assumed that the tiller of land at least had profited by the napoleonic wars, with their consequent high prices, let me hasten to add that the grey commission, reporting in 1836, had to inform the government that 2,385,000 persons, nearly one-third of the population, were "in great need of food." "their habitations," the report proceeds, "are wretched hovels; several of the family sleep together on straw, or on the bare ground, sometimes with a blanket, sometimes not even so much to cover them. their food commonly consists of dry potatoes; and with these they are at times so scantily supplied as to be obliged to stint themselves to one spare meal in the day.... they sometimes get a herring or a little milk, but they never get meat except at christmas, easter, and shrovetide." but a truce to these dismal chronicles. the _post hoc_ may be taken as established; was it a _propter hoc_? was the union the cause as well as the antecedent of this decay? no economist, acquainted with the facts, can fail to answer in the affirmative. the causal connection between two realities could not be more manifest. let us examine it very briefly. i begin of necessity with the principle of freedom, for freedom is the dominating force in economic life. no instance can be cited of a modern people of european civilisation that ever prospered while held politically in subjection. "all history," writes professor marshall of cambridge, the doyen of political economy in england, "is full of the record of inefficiency caused in varying degrees by slavery, serfdom, and other forms of civil and political oppression and repression." the act of union was, as has been said, one of those spiritual outrages which, in their reactions, are like lead poured into the veins. it lowered the vital resources of ireland. it made hope an absentee, and enterprise an exile. that was its first-fruits of disaster. these commonplaces of the gospel of freedom "for which hampden died in the field and sidney on the scaffold" will possibly appear to their modern descendants mystical, sentimental, and remote from real life. for there is no one in the world so ready as your modern englishman to deny that he is a man in order to prove that he is a business-man. fortunately we can establish for this strange being, who has thus indecently stripped himself of humanity, and establish in very clear and indisputable fashion the cash nexus between unionism and decay. the argument is simple. the union came precisely in the period in which capital was beginning to dominate the organisation of industry. the union denuded ireland of the capital which would have enabled her to transform the technique of her manufactures, and so maintain the ground won under grattan's parliament. the channels through which this export of capital proceeded were absenteeism and over-taxation. the first statement in this paragraph of plaint calls for no elaboration. arnold toynbee took as the terminal dates of the industrial revolution the years 1760 and 1830. the last generation of the eighteenth century brought to birth the great inventions, but it was the first generation of the nineteenth that founded on them large scale production, and settled the structure of modern industry. not without profound disturbance and incalculable suffering was the new system established in england; the story may be read in the pages of marx, cunningham, cooke taylor, or any of the economic historians. but, for all the blood and tears, it was established. insulated from the continental turmoil, served by her titanic bondsmen coal and iron, england was able to defeat the titan, napoleon. now it is idle to deny that this period would under any government have strained ireland, as the phrase goes, to the pin of her collar. but the union made her task impossible. lord castlereagh was quite right in pointing to the accumulation of capital as the characteristic advantage of england. through centuries of political freedom that process had gone on without interruption. ireland, on the contrary, had been scientifically pillaged by the application to her of the "colonial system" from 1663 to 1779; i deliberately exclude the previous waste of war and confiscation. she had but twenty years of commercial freedom, and, despite her brilliant success in that period, she had not time to accumulate capital to any great extent. but grattan's parliament had shown itself extraordinarily astute and steady of purpose in its economic policy. had its guidance continued--conservative taxation, adroit bounties, and that close scrutiny and eager discussion of the movements of industry which stands recorded in its journal--the manufactures of ireland would have weathered the storm. but the luck was as usual against her. instead of wise leadership from dublin the gods decreed that she should have for portion the hard indifference and savage taxation of westminster. reduced to the position of a tributary nation, stripped of the capital that would have served as a commissariat of advance in that crucial struggle, she went down. i am not to make here the case for ireland in respect of over-taxation. it was made definitely in the report of the childers commission, a document which no englishman reads, lest in coming to the light he should have his sins too sharply rebuked. it has been developed and clarified in many speeches and essays and in some books. to grasp it is to find your road to damascus on the irish question. but for the moment we are concerned with but one aspect, namely, the export of capital from ireland as a result of the union, and the economic reactions of that process. since we are to use moderation of speech and banish all rhetoric from these pages, one is at a loss to characterise union arrangements and post-union finance. let it suffice to say that they combined the moral outlook of captain kidd with the mathematical technique of a super-bucket-shop. from the first great britain robbed the irish till; from the first she skimmed the cream off the irish milk, and appropriated it for her own nourishment. one has a sort of gloomy pride in remembering that although cheated in all these transactions we were not duped. mr foster, speaker of the irish house of commons--in those days the speaker actually spoke, a whimsical irish custom--tore the cloak off lord castlereagh's strutting statesmanship, and laid bare his real motives. speaking on the first union proposal in 1799 he said: "but the noble lord has told us the real motives of this scheme of union, and i thank him for stating them so fairly. ireland, he says, must contribute to every war, and the minister won't trust to interest, affection, or connection for guiding her conduct. _he must have her purse within his own grasp_. while three hundred men hold it in ireland he cannot put his hand into it, they are out of his reach, but let a hundred of you carry it over and lay it at his feet, and then he will have full and uncontrolled power." so it came about. even before the union grattan's parliament had, of its own free will and out of an extravagant loyalty, run itself into debt for the first time to help england against france. but, as foster indicated, the irish members felt that they were coming to the end of their resources. they were about to call a halt, and so the union became a necessary ingredient of pitt's foreign policy. by it ireland was swept into the vortex of his anti-french hysteria, and of what mr hartley withers so properly styles his "reckless finance." in sixteen years she was brought to the edge of bankruptcy. between 1801 and 1817 her funded debt was increased from â£28,541,157 to â£112,684,773, an augmentation of nearly 300 per cent. in the first fifteen years following the union she paid in taxes â£78,000,000 as against â£31,000,000 in the last fifteen years preceding the union. after the amalgamation of the exchequers in 1817 the case becomes clearer. in 1819-20, for instance, the revenue contributed by ireland was â£5,256,564, of which only â£1,564,880 was spent in ireland, leaving a tribute for great britain of â£3,691,684. for 1829-30 the tribute was â£4,156,576. let us now inquire how things stood with regard to absenteeism. this had existed before the union'; indeed, if the curious reader will turn to johnson's "dictionary" he will find it damned in a definition. but it was enormously intensified by the shifting of the centre of gravity of irish politics, industry, and fashion from dublin to london. the memoirs of that day abound in references to an exodus which has left other and more material evidence in those fallen and ravaged mansions which now constitute the worst slums of our capital city. one figure may be cited by way of illustration. before the union "98 peers, and a proportionate number of wealthy commoners" lived in dublin. the number of resident peers in 1825 was twelve. at present, as i learn from those who read the sixpenny illustrateds, there is one. but when they abandoned ireland they did not leave their rents behind. and it was a time of rising rents; according to toynbee they at least doubled between 1790 and 1833. precise figures are not easily arrived at, but mr d'alton in his "history of the county dublin," a book quite innocent of politics, calculates that the absentee rental of ireland was in 1804 not less than â£3,000,000, and in 1830 not less than â£4,000,000, an under-estimate. if we average these figures over the period we find that during the first thirty years of union, that is to say during the most critical phase of the industrial revolution, not less than â£105,000,000 of irish capital was "exported" from ireland to great britain through the channel of absenteeism. averaging the figures of the taxation-tribute in similar fashion, and taking the lowest estimates, i am unable to reach a less total than â£120,000,000 for the same period. in other words, the effect of the union was to withdraw from ireland during the thirty years that settled the economic structure of modern industry not less than _â£_225,000,000. let me draw the argument together in words which i have used elsewhere, and which others can no doubt easily better: "we have heard, in our day, a long-drawn denunciation of a liberal government on the score that it had, by predatory taxation, driven english capital out of the country, and compromised the industrial future of england. we have seen in our own day gilt-edged securities, bank, insurance, railway, and brewery shares in great britain, brought toppling down by a tory waste of _â£_250,000,000 on the boer war. we know that in economic history effects are, in a notable way, cumulative; so clearly marked is the line of continuity as to lead a great writer to declare that there is not a nail in all england that could not be traced back to savings made before the norman conquest. a hundred instances admonish us that, in industrial life, nothing fails like failure. when we put all these considerations together, and give them a concrete application, can we doubt that in over-taxation and the withdrawal of capital we have the prime _causa causans_ of the decay of ireland under the union?" in this wise did pitt "blend ireland with the industry and capital of great britain." cupped by his finance she gave the venal blood of her industry to strengthen the predominant partner, and to help him to exclude for a time from these islands that pernicious french democracy in which all states and peoples have since found redemption. such was the first chapter in the economics of unionism. chapter vi the ravages of unionism (2) if the reader cares to push forward the line of thought suggested in the preceding pages and to submit it to a concrete test he can do so without difficulty. he has but to compare the post-union history of linen with that of cotton. linen in ireland had been a perfect type of the state-created, spoon-fed industry characteristic of the period of mercantilism. within certain limits--such as the steady resolve to confine it, in point of religion, to protestants, and, in point of geography, to ulster--it had behind it at the union a century of encouragement. it is calculated that between 1700 and 1800 it had received bounties, english and irish, totalling more than,â£2,500,000. in other words it had a chance to accumulate capital. even linen declined after the union partly from the direct effects of that measure, partly from the growing intensity of the industrial revolution. but the capital accumulated, the commercial good name established under native government carried the manufacturers through. these were able towards 1830 to introduce the new machinery and the new processes, and to weather the tempest of competition. cotton, on the other hand, was a very recent arrival. it had developed very rapidly, and in 1800 gave promise of supplanting linen. but the weight of capital told more and more as changes in the technique of transportation and production ushered in our modern world. lacking the solid reserves of its rival, involved in all the exactions that fall on a tributary nation, the cotton manufacture of ireland lost ground, lost heart, and disappeared. but let us resume the parable. if the "business man" responds to capital, he will certainly not be obtuse to the appeal of coal. in this feeder of industry ireland was geologically at a disadvantage, and it was promised that the free trade with great britain inaugurated by the union would "blend" with her the resources of the latter country. did she obtain free trade in coal? miss murray, a unionist, in her "commercial relations between england and ireland" tells the story in part: "coals again had hitherto been exported from great britain at a duty of gd. per ton; this duty was to cease but the irish import duty on coal was to be made perpetual, and that at a time when all coasting duties in england and scotland had been abolished. dublin especially would suffer from this arrangement, for the duty there on coals imported was is. 8-4/5d. per ton, while that in the rest of ireland was only 9-1/2d. this was because a local duty of 1s. per ton existed in dublin for the internal improvement of the city; this local duty was blended by the union arrangements with the general duty on the article, and its perpetual continuance was thus enforced. all this shows how little irish affairs were understood in england." but was it a failure of the english intellect or a lapse of the english will? except through the platonic intuition which reduces all sin to terms of ignorance i cannot accept the former explanation. what is certain is that there was no lack of contemporary protest. there existed in dublin in 1828 a society for the improvement of ireland, an active body which included in its membership the lord mayor (a high tory, of course), lord cloncurry, and a long list of notable names such as latouche, sinclair, houghton, leader, grattan, smith o'brien, george moore, and daniel o'connell. in the year mentioned the society appointed a number of committees to report on the state of irish agriculture, commerce, and industry. one of these reports is full of information touching the drain of capital from the country, and its consequent decay, as registered by contemporaries; we shall learn from another how things stood with regard to coal. at the time of the union the irish parliament granted a bounty of 2s. per ton on irish coal carried coastwise to dublin, and levied a duty of 10-1/2d. per ton on coal imported from great britain. the effect of the union was to abolish the bounty and double the levy on imports. writing twenty-eight years later the committee summarise in a brief passage the disastrous effects of a policy, so foolish and so unjust. the last sentence opens up sombre vistas to any student of economic history: "severe, however, as the operation of the coal duty in arresting the progress of manufacture may have been in other parts of ireland, in dublin, under the circumstances to which your committee are about to call the attention of the society, it has produced all the effects of actual prohibition, all the mischiefs of the most rigorous exclusion. it is a singular circumstance that, in the metropolis of the country, possessing local advantages in respect to manufactures and facilities for trade with the interior, superior, probably, to any other city or town in this portion of the empire, with a population excessive as to the means of employment, in a degree which probably has not a parallel in europe, _there is not a factory for the production of either silk, linen, cotton, or woollen manufactures which is worked or propelled by a steam engine_." the writers go on to ask for the repeal of the local duty on coal in dublin, and to suggest that the necessary revenue should be raised by a duty on spirits. this course belfast had been permitted to follow--one of the numberless make-weights thrown into the scale so steadily on the side of the protestant north. in my part of the country the people used to say of any very expert thief: "why, he'd steal the fire out of your grate." under the union arrangements great britain stole the fire out of the grate of ireland. and having so dealt with capital and coal the predominant partner next proceeded by a logical development to muddle transportation. the drummond commission, appointed in 1836 to consider the question of railway construction in ireland, issued a report in 1838 which practically recommended public and not private enterprise as appropriate "to accomplish so important a national object." what came after is best related in the official terminology of the scotter commission of 1906-10: "this report was presented in july 1838, and early in the following year a great public meeting, held in dublin, passed a resolution that inasmuch as an adequate system of railways could not be constructed by private capital, the government should be urged to take the work into its own hands, thereby saving the cost of private bill legislation. promises were also made that the lands necessary for railway construction would be given free of cost. similar resolutions were adopted at another meeting held about the same time in the north of ireland. in addition, an address to the queen was presented by a number of irish peers, headed by the duke of leinster, praying that action might be taken on the drummond commission report." the government saw the light, and proceeded to sin against it. they embodied the dublin programme in resolutions which were adopted by the house of commons in march 1839, and they then abruptly abandoned the whole business. the last chance was not yet lost. during the great famine of 1847 the opposition proposed to raise, â£16,000,000 by state loans for the construction of railways as relief works. a suggestion so sane could not hope to pass. it was in fact rejected; the starving peasants were set to dig large holes and fill them up again, and to build bad roads leading nowhere. and instead of a national railway system ireland was given private enterprise with all its waste and all its clash of interests. the two most conspicuous gifts of unionism to ireland have been, as all the world knows, poverty and police. soon after 1830, that is to say when the first harvest of government from westminster was ripe to the sickle, irish destitution had assumed what politicians call men-acing proportions. one person in every three of the population never had any other alimentary experience than the difference between hunger and starvation. in these circumstances a royal commission was appointed to consider the advisability of extending the english poor law to ireland. their report is a pioneer document in the development of economic thought. just as the railway commission a few years later was to give the watchword of the future, nationalisation, so the poor law commission gave within its province the watchword of the future, prevention before relief. they pointed the contrast between the two countries. i quote the words of the later irish poor law commission of 1903-6: "having regard to the destitution and poverty that were prevalent in ireland owing to want of employment, the royal commissioners in their report of 1836 came to the conclusion that the english workhouse system would be unsuitable for ireland, because after unchecked demoralisation by profuse out-door relief _in england, the work-house system was devised in order to make the lazy and idle seek ordinary employment which could be got. the situation in ireland was, on the contrary, one in which the able-bodied and healthy were willing and anxious to work for any wages, even for twopence a day, but were unable to obtain such or any employment_." ireland at the end of a generation of unionism was suffering, as the commissioners proceed to point out, not from over-population, but from under-development. they tabled two sets of recommendations. the relief programme advised compulsory provision for the sick, aged, infirm, lunatics, and others incapable of work; in all essential matters it anticipated in 1836 that minority report which to the england of 1912 still seems extravagantly humane. the prevention programme outlined a scheme for the development of irish resources. including, as it did, demands for county fiscal boards, agricultural education, better cottages for the labourers, drainage, reclamation, and changes in the land system, it has been a sort of lucky bag into which british ministers have been dipping without acknowledgment ever since. but the report itself was, like the railway report, too sane and too irish to stand a chance. there was sent over from england a mr nicholls, who, after a six weeks flutter through the country, devised the poor law system under which we still labour. mr nicholls afterwards became sir george, and when he died it is probable that a statue was erected to him. if that is so the inscription must always remain inadequate until this is added: "having understood all about ireland in six weeks he gave her, as the one thing needful to redeem her, the workhouse." but, of course, the capital exploit of the economics of unionism was its dealing with the problem of land tenure. i shrink from inviting the reader into the desert of selfishness and stupidity which constitutes english policy, in this regard, from the union to the triumph of the land league. let him study it at large in davitt's "fall of feudalism." we are not concerned here to revive that calamitous pageant. our interest is of another kind, namely to signalise the malign influence introduced into the agrarian struggle by government from westminster as against government from dublin. even had grattan's parliament remained, the battle for the land would have had to go forward; for that parliament was an assembly controlled by landlords who, for the most part, believed as strongly in the sacredness of rent as they did in the sacredness of nationality. but by the union the conflict was embittered and befouled. the landlords invented their famous doctrine of conditional loyalty. they bargained with great britain to the effect that, if they were permitted to pillage their tenantry, they would in return uphold and maintain british rule in ireland. it was the old picture with which m. paul-dubois has acquainted us, that of the "garrison" kneeling to england on the necks of the irish poor. in this perversion, which under autonomy would have been impossible, we find the explanation of the extreme savagery of union land policy in ireland. its extreme, its bat-eyed obtuseness is to be explained in another way. souchon in his introduction to the french edition of philippovich, the great austrian economist, observes with great truth that england has not even yet developed any sort of _agrarpolitik_, that is to say any systematic economics of agriculture. in the early nineteenth century her own land problems were neglected, and her political leaders were increasingly dominated by an economic gospel of shopkeepers and urban manufacturers. forced into the context of agrarian life such a gospel was bound to manifest itself as one of folly and disaster. if we put these two elements together we are enabled to understand why the union land policy in ireland was such a portentous muddle and scandal. in 1829 the question assumed a fresh urgency, in consequence of the eviction campaign which followed the disfranchisement of the small holders under catholic emancipation. that irish opinion, which in an irish parliament would have had its way, began to grapple with the situation. between 1829 and 1858 twenty-three irish land reform bills were introduced in the house of commons; every one was rejected. in the same period thirty-five coercion bills were introduced; every one was passed. so it began, so it continued, until at last irish opinion did in some measure prevail. the westminster parliament clapped the "agitators" into prison, and while they were at work breaking stones stole their programme.... but i have promised to spare the reader the detailed hideousness of this inferno, and this section must close without a word said about that miserable triad, famine, eviction, and emigration. what may be called the centre of relevancy lies elsewhere. we have been concerned to show how unionism, having wrecked the whole manufacturing economy of ireland, went on, at its worst, to wreck, at its best, to refuse to save, its whole agricultural economy. but why recall all this "dead history"? for two reasons: first, because it illustrates the fundamental wrongness of unionism; secondly, because it is not dead. on the first point no better authority can be found than mr w.a.s. hewins, the intellect of tariff reform. the differences between england and ireland, he writes in his introduction to miss murray's book, are of "an organic character." in that phrase is concentrated the whole biology of home rule. every organism must suffer and perish unless its external circumstances echo its inner law of development. the sin of the union was that it imposed on ireland from without a sort of spiked strait-jacket which could have no effect but to squeeze the blood and breath out of every interest in the country. what was meat to england was poison to ireland, and even honest englishmen, hypnotised by the economists of the day, were unable to perceive this plain truth. let me give another illustration. the capital exploit of union economics was, as has been said, its dealing with the land question, but perhaps its most pathetic fallacy was the policy with which it met the great famine. now the singular thing about this famine is that during it there was no scarcity of food in ireland; there was only a shortage of potatoes. "in 1847 alone," writes mr michael davitt in his "fall of feudalism," "food to the value of â£44,958,000 sterling was grown in ireland according to the statistical returns for that year. but a million of people died for want of food all the same." the explanation is obvious: the peasants grew potatoes to feed themselves, they raised corn to pay their rents. a temporary suspension of rent-payments and the closing of the ports would have saved the great body of the people. but the logic of unionism worked on other lines. the government opened the ports, cheapened corn, and made rents harder to pay. at the same time they passed a new coercion act, and reorganised the police on its present basis to ensure that rents should be paid. to the wisdom of this policy, history is able to call witnesses by the million--unhappily however it has to call them from famine graveyards, and the waste womb of the atlantic. this essential wrongness of unionism, so amply illustrated in every year of its working, continues. but at least, our bluff englishman urges, the dead past can be suffered to bury those crimes and blunders of unionism which you have enumerated. let us start with a clean slate. now, as will have been gathered from a previous chapter, we recognise in this invitation an accent of soundness. we modern home rulers desire above all to be loyal to the century in which we live. we are sick of that caricature which depicts ireland as the mad heroine of a sort of perpetual suttee, in which all the interests of the present are immolated on the funeral-pyre of the past. but let us come closer to things. how do you clean a slate except by liquidating the debts of which it keeps the record? the late vicomte de voguã« wrote an admirable novel, "les morts qui parlent." the dead are always speaking; you cannot stop their strong eloquence with a mouthful of clay. the "business man" thinks no doubt that the napoleonic war is no more than hecuba to him, or he to hecuba. but he pays annual tribute to it, for he has to make annual provision for the â£600,000,000 which it added to the national debt. and just as mr pitt's foreign policy is in that respect a living reality of our own time, so also, but in a much graver form, are the past depredations and ineptitudes of unionism living realities in the present economy of ireland. the ruling fallacy of the english mind on these matters consists in the assumption that the mere repeal of an old oppression restores a people to the _status quo ante_. in the case of ireland the old oppressions have not been repealed except in two or three points, but even if they had been wholly cancelled it would be absurd to expect immediate recovery from their effects. if you have been beating a man on the head with a bludgeon for half an hour, and then leave off, there is no sense in saying to him: "there, i have given over bludgeoning you. why on earth don't you get up, and skip about like me?" if you have been robbing a man's till for ten years, and then decide--by the way you have not yet decided--to leave off, there is no sense in saying to him: "why the devil are you always hard up? look at me doing the same sort of business as you on absolutely equal terms, and i'm able to keep two motor-cars and six servants." but that is precisely what is said to us. you are eternally expecting from ireland new miracles of renaissance. but although she does possess recuperative powers, hardly to be paralleled, even she must have time to slough the corruptions of the past. you cannot, as some englishmen imagine, cancel six centuries before breakfast. your penal laws, for instance, have been long since struck out of the statute book, but they have not yet been eliminated from social habitudes or from certain areas of commercial life. you began to tax ireland beyond her capacity in 1801, and you are still overtaxing her. in the interval you withdraw from her economic life a tribute of not less than â£325,000,000. you broke her industrial tradition, injured her credit, depressed her confidence. you forced upon her a fiscal system devised to suit your needs in utter contempt of hers. to clean that slate you must first, by some measure of restitution, clean your conscience. and when that has been done you will have to wait for the curative effects of time to undo the economics of unionism. you suffered landlordism to devastate ireland unchecked. the capital that should have gone to enrich and develop the soil was squeezed out of it in rack-rents, largely absentee. the whole agricultural economy of the country was stricken with a sort of artificial anã¦mia. then very late in the day you enact in shreds and fragments a programme of reform proposed half a century before by the leaders of the irish people. to-day rural ireland is convalescent, but it is absurd to rate her if she does not at once manifest all the activities of robust health. it is even more absurd to expect her to glow with gratitude. you muddled our whole system of transportation; your muddle stands to-day in all its ruinous largeness unamended, and, it may be, beyond amendment. you muddled the poor law; and, in the workhouses which you thrust upon us, 8000 children are year by year receiving on their lives the brand of degradation. you marred education, perverting it into a discipline of denationalisation, and that virus has not yet been expelled. what economic, what intellectual problem in ireland have you not marred and muddled, england, my england (as the late mr w.e. henley used to say)? you have worsened the maledictions of the bible. the sins of _your_ fathers will lie as a _damnosa hã¦reditas_, a damnable heritage, upon the mortgaged shoulders of _our_ children. it is better, as plato taught, to suffer injustice than to inflict it. in the light of that ethical principle you are long since judged and condemned. but with the customary luck of england you are allowed what others were not allowed, the opportunity of penitence and reform. the messengers of the new gospel are at your doors, offering you in return for the plain rudiments of justice not only forgiveness but friendship. it is for you to accept or reject. we, the irish, whom you have wronged, look to your decision with interest rather than with concern. why should we be concerned? our flag has been an aaron's serpent to swallow yours. your policies, your ambitions, your administrations have passed by us like the transient and embarrassed phantoms that they were. we remain. all the roads lead to rome, and all the years to retribution. this is your year; you have met the messengers on your threshold. your soul is in your own wardship. but yet we cannot wholly separate your destiny from ours. dedicated as we are to the general progress of humanity and to all the generosities of life, we await expectantly your election between the good and the evil side. chapter vii the hallucination of "ulster" ulster unionism, in the leaders, is not so much a programme of ideas as a demand for domination. in the rank and file it is largely a phenomenon of hysteria. i do not know whether my readers have ever participated in an agreeable game known as odd man out. each player tosses a penny, and whoever disagrees with the rest, showing a head to their tails or vice versa, captures the pool. such is in all essential particulars the "ulster question." we find ourselves there in presence of a minority which, on the sole ground that it is a minority, claims that in the government of ireland it shall be not merely secure but supreme. sir edward carson as odd man out (and i do not deny that he is odd enough for anything) is to be dictator of ireland. if eighty-four irish constituencies declare for home rule, and nineteen against home rule, then, according to the mathematics of unionism, the noes have it. in their non-euclidean geometry the part is always greater than the whole. in their unnatural history the tail always wags the dog. on the plane of politics it is not necessary to press the case against "ulster" any farther than that. even majorities have their rights. if a plurality of nine to two is not sufficient to determine policy and conduct business in a modern nation, then there is no other choice except anarchy, or rather an insane atomism. not merely every party, but every household and, in last resort, every individual will end as a provisional government. separatism of this type is a very ecstasy of nonsense, and none of my readers will think so cheaply of his own intelligence as to stay to discuss it. it is in other terms that we must handle the problem of "ulster." the existence in certain nooks and corners of ireland of a democratic vote hostile to home rule is, let us confess, a conundrum. but it is a conundrum of psychology rather than of politics. it may seem rude to say so, but orangeism consists mainly of a settled hallucination and an annual brainstorm. no one who has not been present at a twelfth of july procession can realise how completely all its manifestations belong to the life of hysteria and not to that of reason. m. paul-dubois, whom we may summon out of a cloud of witnesses, writes of them as "demagogic orgies with a mixed inspiration of freemasonry and the salvation army." the twelfth of july is, or rather was, for its fine furies are now much abated, a savage carnival comparable only to the corroborees of certain primitive tribes. "a monster procession," continues m. paul-dubois, "marches through belfast, as through every town and village of orange ulster, ending up with a vast meeting at which the glories of william of orange and the reverses of james ii. are celebrated in song.... each 'lodge' sends its delegation to the procession with banners and drums. on the flags are various devices: 'diamond heroes,' 'true blues,' 'no pope.' the participants give themselves over to character dances, shouting out their favourite songs: 'the boyne water' and 'croppies lie down.' the chief part is played by the drummers, the giants of each 'lodge,' who with bared arms beat their drums with holy fury, their fists running with blood, until the first drum breaks and many more after it, until in the evening they fall half-dead in an excess of frenzy." such is the laboratory in which the mind of orange ulster is prepared to face the tasks of the twentieth century. barbaric music, the ordinary allowance of drum to fife being three to one, ritual dances, king william on his white horse, the scarlet woman on her seven hills, a grand parade of dead ideas and irrelevant ghosts called up in wild speeches by clergymen and politicians--such is orangeism in its full heat of action. can we, with this key to its intellectual history, be really astonished that shankhill road should move all its life in a red mist of superstition. the north of ireland abounds in instances, trivial and tragic, of this obsession. here it is the case of the women of a certain town who, in order to prevent their children from playing in a dangerous swamp close by, have taught them that there are "wee popes" in it. there it is a case of man picked up, maimed and all but unconscious after an accident, screwing up his lips to utter one last "to hell with the pope!" before he dies. i remember listening in court to the examination of an old orangeman who had been called as a witness to the peaceable disposition of a friend of his. "what sort of man," asked the counsel, "would you say jamie williamson is?" "a quiet, decent man." "is he the sort of man that would be likely to be breaking windows?" "no man less likely." "is he the sort of man that you would expect to find at the head of a mob shouting, 'to hell with the pope'?" witness, with great emphasis: "no. certainly not. jamie was never any ways a _religious_ man." these bewildering corruptions of sense and sanity overwhelm you at every turn. ask your neighbour offhand at a dinner in dublin: "what is so-and-so, by the way?" he will reply that so-and-so is a doctor, or a government official, or a stockbroker, as it may happen. ask him the same question at a dinner in belfast, and he will automatically tell you that so-and-so is a protestant or a "papist." the plain truth is that it would be difficult to find anywhere a more shameful exploitation, intellectual and economic, than that which has been practised on the ulster orangeman by his feudal masters. were i to retort the abuse, with which my own creed is daily bespattered, i should describe him further as the only victim of clerical obscurantism to be found in ireland. herded behind the unbridged waters of the boyne, he has been forced to live in a very tibet of intellectual isolation. whenever he moved in his thoughts a little towards that ireland to which, for all his separatism, he so inseparably belongs, the ring of blockhouses, called orange lodges, was drawn tighter to strangle his wanderings. mr robert lynd in his "home life in ireland," a book which ought to have been mentioned earlier in these pages, relates the case of a young man who was refused ordination in the presbyterian church because he had permitted himself to doubt whether the pope was in fact anti-christ. and he writes with melancholy truth: "if the presbyterian clergy had loved ireland as much as they have hated rome they could have made ulster a home of intellectual energy and spiritual buoyancy long ago. they have preferred to keep ulster dead to fine ideas rather than risk the appearance of a few unsettling ideas among the rest." it has not been, one likes to think, a death, consummated and final, but rather an interruption of consciousness from which recovery is possible. drugged with a poisonous essence, distilled from history for him by his exploiters, the orangeman of the people has lived in a world of phantoms. in politics he has never in his whole career spoken for himself. the catholic peasant comes to articulate, personal speech in davitt; the national aristocracy in parnell. the industrial worker discovers within his own camp a multitude of captains. even landlordism, although it has produced no leader, has produced many able spokesmen. every other section in ireland enriches public life with an interpreter of its mind sprung from its own ranks. orange ulster alone has never yet given to its own democracy a democratic leader. this is indeed the cardinal misfortune, as well as the central secret, of ulster unionism. the pivot on which it turns resides, not in the farms of down or the factories of belfast, but in the library of the four courts. of the nineteen representatives who speak for it in parliament no fewer than seven are king's counsel. in the whole list there is not one delegate of labour, nor one farmer. a party so constituted is bound to produce prodigies of nonsense such as those associated with sir edward carson. the leaders of the orchestra openly despise the instruments on which they play. for followers, reared in the tradition of hysteria depicted above, no raw-head is thought to be too raw, and no bloody-bones too bloody. and so we have king's counsel, learned in the law, devising provisional governments, and privy councillors wallowing in imaginative treason. as for the bishops, they will talk daggers as luridly as the rest, but they will not even threaten to use any. and so does the pagan rage, and the heathen prophesy vain things. that such a farce-tragedy can find a stage in the twentieth century is pitiable. but it is not a serious political fact. it has the same relation to reality that the cap-hunting exploits of tartarin of tarascon had to the franco-german war. it has been devised merely to make flesh creep in certain tabernacles of fanaticism in the less civilised parts of england and scotland. so far as action goes it will end in smoke, but not in gunpowder-smoke. there will no doubt be riots in belfast and portadown, for which the ultimate responsibility will rest on learned counsel of the king. but there have been riots before, and the cause of home rule has survived all the blackguardism and bloodshed. it is lamentable that ministers of the gospel of christ and leaders of public opinion should so inflame and exploit the superstitions of ignorant men; but not by these methods will justice be intimidated. and if "ulster" does fight after all? in that event we must only remember how sorry george stephenson was for the cow. the military traditions of the protestant north are not very alarming. the contribution of the enniskilleners to the battle of the boyne appears to have consisted in running away with great energy and discretion. nor did they, or their associates, in later years shed any great lustre even on imperial arms. i have never heard that the connaught rangers had many recruits from the shankhill road, or the dublin fusiliers from portadown; consequently the present situation disgusts rather than terrifies us. if rifle-levers ever click in rebellion against a home rule government, duly established by statute under the authority of the crown, it will be astonishing to find that every bullet in ireland is a member of an orange lodge. if "ulster" repudiates the arbitrament of reason, and the verdict of a free ballot, she simply puts herself outside the law. and she may be quite assured that the law, driven back on its ultimate sanction of force, will very sharply and very amply vindicate itself. but it is not courteous to the reader to detain him among such unrealities as sir edward carson's civil war. treason, that is to say platform treason, is not so much an eccentricity as a habit of orangeism. it is a way they have in the lodges, and their past history supplies a corrective to their present outburst. perhaps their most notable exploit in armed loyalty was their attempt to dethrone, or rather to defeat in succession to the throne, queen victoria. this is a chapter in their history with regard to which they are far too modest and reticent. but the leading case in recent years is of course the attitude of the lodges towards the disestablishment of the irish episcopal church in 1869. the records are singularly rich in what i may perhaps call carsonese. dukes threatened to "fight as men alone can fight who have the bible in one hand and the sword in the other." learned counsel of the queen covenanted to "seal their protest with their blood in martyrdom and battle." ministers of the gospel were all for kicking the crown into the boyne, keeping their powder dry, shouldering miniã© rifles, and finally joining the lawyers in the red grave of martyrdom. an ulster poet (a satirist one fears) wrote a famous invocation to the statue of mr walker near derry, beginning: "come down out o' that, mr walker, there's work to be done by-and-by, and this is no time to stand glowerin' betwixt the bog-side and the sky." but mr walker did not come down: he remained on his safe pinnacle of immortality. and of course there was no civil war. that period was wiser than our own in one respect: nobody of any common sense thought of spoiling such exquisite blague by taking it seriously. its motive was universally understood in ireland. the orators of the movement never for a moment dreamed of levying war on mr gladstone, but they were determined to levy blackmail. they saw that they could bluff english opinion into granting all manner of extravagant compensation for the extinction of their privileges and their ascendancy, if only the orange drum was beaten loudly enough. it was a case of the more cry the more wool. and in point of fact they succeeded. they obtained financial arrangements of the most generous character, and, thereafter, the battle-flags were furled. within five years of disestablishment the episcopalian synod was praising it as the happiest event in the life of that church. the lawyers, being denied the martyrdom of the battlefield, stolidly accepted that of promotion to the judicial bench, and a holy silence descended on the divines. this strategy having succeeded so admirably in 1868 is repeated in 1912. "ulster" has not the least intention of raising war or the sinews of war; her interest is in the sinews of peace. although she does not hold a winning card in her hand she hopes to scoop the pool by a superb bluff. by menaces of rebellion she expects to be able to insist that under home rule she shall continue encased in an impenetrable armour of privileges, preferences, and safeguards. she is all the more likely to succeed because of the tenderness of nationalist ireland in her regard. short of the absolute surrender by the majority of every shred of its rights (which is, of course, what is demanded) there are very few safeguards that we are not prepared to concede to the superstition, the egotism, or even the actual greed of the orangemen. but it may as well be understood that we are not to be either duped or bullied. if the policy of ulster unionism is unreal there is no word in any language that can describe the phantasmal nature of the grounds on which it professes to fear national freedom. home rule, declare the orators, will obviously mean rome rule. the _ne temere_ decree will de-legitimise every protestant in the country. the dublin parliament will tax every "ulster" industry out of existence. one is told that not only do many people say, but that some people even believe things of this kind. but then there are people who believe that they are made of dresden china, and will break if they knock against a chair. these latter are to be found in lunatic asylums. it is indeed particularly worth noting that when a man begins to see in the whole movement of the world a conspiracy to oppress and injure him our first step is to inquire not into his grievance but into his sanity. one finds the same difficulty in discussing irish politics in terms of the three hallucinations specified that one finds in discussing, say, rugby football with a dresden-china fellow-citizen. it is better not to make the attempt, but to substitute a plain statement of obvious facts. in the first place, even if any policy of oppression were in our minds, it is not in our power. the overlordship of the imperial parliament remains in any scheme of home rule unimpaired, and any man damnified because of his religion can appeal in last resort to the imperial army and navy. shankhill road is mathematically safe. after all there are in england some forty millions of protestants who, whatever their religious temperature may be, will certainly decline to see protestantism penalised. the protestants in ireland have a million and a quarter, and they make noise enough for twice the number. there are about three and a quarter millions of irish catholics. history concedes to catholic ireland the cleanest record in respect of religious tolerance to be found anywhere in europe. we never martyred a saint, and amid all the witch-hunting devilries of scotland and england we burned only one witch, a namesake of my own. deny or suppress all this. imagine into the eyes of every catholic neighbour the slumbering but unquenched fires of smithfield. but be good enough to respect mathematics. do not suggest that the martial qualities induced by the two religions are so dissimilar that two catholics are capable of imposing home rule on twenty-five protestants. the suggestion that we shall overtax "ulster" is even more captivating. but how are we to do it? of course we might schedule the sites given up to protestant church buildings as undeveloped land. or we might issue income-tax forms with an assessment printed on one side, and the decrees of the council of trent on the other. or we might insist on every orator desirous of uttering that ennobling sentiment, "to hell with the pope!" taking out a licence, and charge him a small fee. positive treason, such as the proclamation of provisional governments, would of course pay a higher rate. all these would be most interesting experiments, and would add a picturesque touch to the conventionality of modern administration. but if we were to overtax sugar or coffee, corn or butter, flax or wool, beer or spirits, land or houses, i fear that we should be beating ourselves rather severely with our own sticks. our revenge on "ulster" would be rather like that of savage, the poet, who revenged himself on a friend by sleeping out the whole of a december night on a bridge. the whole suggestion is, of course, futile and fantastic. it is a bubble that has been pricked, and by no one so thoroughly as by lord pirrie, the head of harland and wolff, that is to say the leader of the industrial north. the clamour of the exploiters of "ulster" is motived on this point by two considerations, the one an illusion, the other a reality. the illusion, or rather the pretence, consists in representing the unionists as the sole holders of wealth in ireland. it would be a sufficient refutation of this view to quote those other passages in which the same orators assert with equal eloquence that the tory policy of land purchase and resolute government from westminster has brought enormous prosperity to the rest of the country. on _per capita_ valuation the highest northern county ranks only twelfth in ireland. it is the reality, however, that supplies the clue. while the masters of orangeism do not represent the wealth of ireland they do certainly represent the largest, or, at least, the most intense concentration of unearned incomes. what they fear is not unjust but democratic taxation. they cling to the union as a bulwark against the reform movement which in every modern state is resuming for society a small part of certain vast fortunes which in their essence have been socially created. but even on the plane of their own selfishness they are following a foolish line of action. the union did not save them from the land tax budget, nor, as regards the future, is salvation of the english tories. should they ever return to power they will repeat their action respecting the death duties. having in opposition denounced the land taxes with indecent bitterness they will, when back in office, confirm and extend them. "ulster" had far better cast in her lot with ireland. she will find an irish assembly not only strikingly but, one might almost add, sinfully conservative in matters of taxation. as to the conflict between the agrarian and the manufacturing interests, that also exists in every nation on the earth. but neither has any greater temptation to plan the destruction of the other than a merchant has to murder his best customer. there remains the weltering problem of mixed marriages and the _ne temere_ decree. it is perhaps worth observing that marriages get mixed in other countries as well as in ireland. it grieves one that men should differ as to the true religious interpretation of life. but they do in fact differ, and wherever two human beings, holding strongly to different faiths, fall in love there is tragic material. but they do in fact fall in love. the theme recurs, with a thousand reverberations, in the novel literature of england, france, and germany. the situation occurs also in ireland. but i am bewildered to know in what way it is an argument for or against home rule. let us appeal once more to colonial experience and practice. there is a catholic majority in canada and an overwhelming catholic majority in quebec. the policy of the catholic church towards mixed marriages is precisely the same there as in ireland. does protestantism demand that the constitutions of the dominion and the province respectively shall be withdrawn? since no such claim is made we must conclude that the outcry on orange platforms is designed not to enforce a principle but to awaken all the slumbering fires of prejudice. the _ne temere_ decree introduces no new departure. now, as always, the catholic church requires simply that her members shall consecrate the supreme adventure of life with the sacrament of their fathers before the altar of their fathers. it is strange that the orangemen, believing as they do that the pope is anti-christ, should be so annoyed at finding that the pope teaches a doctrine different from theirs on the subject of marriage. the pope can inflict no spiritual penalties on them since they are outside his flock. he can inflict no civil penalties on anybody. there is undoubtedly in the matter of divorce a sharp conflict between catholic ideas and the practice and opinion of protestant countries. that exists, and will continue, under every variation of government. it is an eternal antinomy. but whom does it aggrieve? we catholics voluntarily abjure the blessings of divorce, but we should never dream of using the civil law to impose our abnegation on those of another belief. if there is any doubt upon that point it can very easily be removed. the civil law of marriage can be conserved under one of the "safeguards." the truth is that in order to test our tolerance orangeism proposes to us a series of exercises which are a very delirium of intolerance. "sever yourselves," it says in effect to us, "from all allegiance to that italian cardinal. consign him, as portadown does, to hell. bait your bishops. deride the spiritual authority of your priests. then shall we know that you are men and masters of your own consciences. elect a unionist council in every county, a unionist corporation in dublin, then shall we know that you are brothers. disown your dead leaders. spit on the grave of emmet. teach your children that every fenian was a murderer. erase from your chronicles the name of parnell. then shall we know that you are loyal." it has been occasionally urged by writers who prefer phrases to actualities that home rule must wait on the conversion of "ulster." therein the patient must minister to himself. miracles of that order cannot be accomplished from without. great is diana of the ephesians, and the servitude of tradition is at an end only when the hands that fashioned the idols shatter them on the altars of a new nobleness. let us distinguish. the orangeism which is merely an instrument of exploitation and domination will not yield to reason. the orangeism which is an inherited hysteria will not yield to reason. it bourbonises too much. it lives in the past, learning nothing and forgetting nothing. argument runs off it like rain off a duck's back. these two types of thought we must leave to the grace of god, and the education of the accomplished fact. they represent a declining cause, and a decaying party. the lodges once mustered more than 200,000 members; they have now less than 10,000. there is another kind of orangeism, that which has begun to think, and the orangeism that has begun to think is already converted. i said that protestant "ulster" had never given to its own democracy a leader, but to say that is to forget john mitchel. master in prose of a passion as intense as carlyle's and far less cloudy, of an irony not excelled by swift, mitchel flung into the tabernacles of his own people during the great famine a sentence that meant not peace but a sword. he taught them, as no one since, that orangeism was merely a weapon of exploitation. while the band played "the boyne water" and the people cheered it, the landlords were picking the pockets of the ecstatic crowd. "the pope, we know, is the 'man of sin,'" wrote mitchel, "and the 'antichrist,' and also, if you like, the 'mystery of iniquity,' and all that, but he brings no ejectments in ireland." mitchel travelled too fast for co-religionists whose shoulders had not yet slipped the burden of old superstitions. the ã©lan of genius and the call of freedom drew him out of the home of his fathers to consort with papists, rebels, and transported convicts. but his failure was the seed of later success. in a few years the league of north and south was able to unite protestant and catholic on the plain economic issue that landlordism must go. that too failed, but the stream of democratic thought had been merely driven underground to reappear further on in the century. in the elections that shook the fortress of toryism in ulster in the seventies catholic priests marched at the head of processions side by side with grand masters of orange lodges. in the first years of the land league, michael davitt was able to secure the enthusiastic support of purely orange meetings in armagh. still later, mr t. w. russell, at the head of a democratic coalition, smashed the old ascendancy on the question of compulsory purchase, and mr lindsay crawford founded his independent order, a portent if not yet a power. so much has been done in the country. but it is in the cities, those workshops of the society of the future, that the change is most marked. the new movement finds an apt epitome in the political career of mr joseph devlin. the workers of belfast had been accustomed to see labour problems treated by the old type of unionist member of parliament either with cowardice or with contempt. _enfin malesherbes vint_. at last a man rose up out of their own class, although a catholic and a nationalist. he spoke with an awakening eloquence, and he made good his words. in every industrial struggle in that sweated city he interposed his strong word to demand justice for the wage-earner. this was a new sort of politics. it bore fruit where ulster unionism had been but a barren fig-tree. the democracy of belfast accepted their leader. they gave him a majority of 16 in west belfast in 1906 and in four years they had multiplied it by forty. the boyne was bridged, and everything that has since happened has but added a new stay or girder to the strength of the bridge. and not only labour but capital has passed across that estranging river to firm ground of patriotism and national unity. lord pirrie, the head of the greatest manufacturing enterprise in belfast, is an ardent home ruler. business men, ministers of religion, even lawyers, are thinking out things quietly beneath the surface. the new "ulster" is breaking its shell. parties are forming on the basis of economic realities, not on that of "religious" phantasms. as for the old "ulster," it remains a problem not for the war office, but for the department of education. chapter viii the mechanics of home rule the inevitableness of home rule resides in the fact that it is, as one might say, a biped among ideas. it marches to triumph on two feet, an irish and an imperial foot. if there were in ireland no demand whatever for self-government it would, nevertheless, be necessary in the interests of the empire to force it on her. the human, or as some people may prefer to call it, the sociological case for home rule, and the historical case for it have already been outlined. we now turn to consideration, of another order, derived from political mechanics, or rather bearing on the mere mechanism of politics. let us approach the problem first from the imperial side. on the whole, the most remarkable thing about the british empire is that there is no british empire. we are in presence of the familiar distinction between the raw material and the finished article. there are, indeed, on the surface of the globe a number of self-governing colonies, founded and peopled by men of irish and english blood. in each of these the united kingdom is represented by a governor whose whole duty consists in being seen on formal occasions, but never heard in counsel or rebuke. the only other connecting links are those of law and finance. the privy council acts as a court of appeal in certain causes, and colonial governments borrow money in the london market. these communities widely seperated in geography and in temperament, have no common fiscal policy, no common foreign policy, no common scheme of defence, no common council to discuss and decide imperial affairs. now this may be a very wise arrangement, but you must not call it an empire. from the point of view of unity, if from no other, it presents an unfavourable contrast to french imperialism, under which all the oversea colonies are represented in the chamber of deputies in paris. in the english plan the oversea colonies are unrelated atoms. you may say that they afford all the materials for a grandiose federation; but if you have flour in one bag, and raisins in another, and candied peel in another, and suet in another you must not call them a christmas pudding until they have been mixed together and cooked. those areas of the globe, coloured red on the maps, may have all the resources requisite for a great, self-sufficing, economic unit of a new order. their peoples may desire that new order. but until it is achieved you must remember that the british empire belongs to the region of dream and not to that of fact. for many years now, apostles of reconstruction have been hammering out the details of a scheme that shall unify the empire on some sort of federal basis. for the new organism which they desire to create they need a brain. is this to be found in the westminster assembly, sometimes loosely styled the "imperial parliament"? as things stand at present such a suggestion is a mere counter-sense. that body has come to such a pass as would seem to indicate the final bankruptcy of the governing genius of england. all the penalties of political gluttony have accumulated on it. parliament, to put the truth a little brutally, has broken down under a long debauch of over-feeding. every day of every session it bites off far more in the way of bills and estimates than it even pretends to have time to chew. results follow which it would be indiscreet to express in terms of physiology. tens of millions are shovelled out of the treasury by an offhand, undiscussed, perfunctory resolution. the attempt to compress infinite issues in a space too little has altered and, as some critics think, degraded the whole tenor of public life. parliament is no longer the grand inquest of the nation, at least not in the ancient and proper meaning of the words. the declaration of edmund burke to the effect that a member has no right to sacrifice his "unbiassed opinion, his mature judgment, his enlightened conscience" to any set of men living may be echoed by the judges in our day, but to anyone who knows the house of commons it is a piece of pure irony. party discipline cracks every session a more compelling whip; and our shepherded, regimented, and automatised representatives themselves realise that, whatever more desirable status they may have attained, they have certainly lost that of individual freedom. out of their own ranks a movement has arisen to put an end altogether to party government. this proposal i myself believe to be futile, but its very futility testifies to the existence of an intolerable situation. all this turns on the inadequacy of the time of the house of commons to its business. but the distribution of such time as there is, is a revel of ineptitudes. it resembles the drawing of a schoolboy who has not yet learned perspective. a stranger dropping into the chamber will find it spending two hours in helping to determine whether russia is to have a czar, and the next four hours helping to determine whether rathmines is to have, let us say, a new sewer. the affairs of india, involving the political welfare of three hundred millions of human beings, get one day; egypt, that test case in international ethics, has to be content with a few scattered hours. and, despite all this, local questions are not considered at sufficient length or with sufficient knowledge. the parish pump is close enough to spoil st stephen's as an imperial council, and yet so far away as to destroy its effectiveness as an organ of local government. such an assembly is clearly unfitted to function as the cerebrum of empire. it must be relieved of burdens which in the complexity of modern politics it is no longer able to bear. how is this to be done? in one way and in one way only, by leaving local business to local bodies. but that is home rule, or, as the learned, envisaging the idea from another point of view, sometimes prefer to call it, devolution. through the principle of autonomy, incompletely applied, the british possessions have so far evolved. through the principle of autonomy, completely applied, and in no other wise, can they evolve into an ordered system worthy of the imperial name. this is at first blush a singular development. here lie ireland and england separated by a mountain of misunderstanding. we irish nationalists have for a century been trying to bore a tunnel through from one side. and suddenly we become aware of the tapping of picks not our own, and encounter midway the tunnel which the party of imperial reconstruction have driven through from the other side. here are all the materials for a _tableau_. justice falls on the neck of expediency. imperialism recognises in nationality no rebel but a son of the house. toryism rubs its eyes, and finds that it is home rule. but, sounded to its depths, this new current of thought appears not only not eccentric but inevitable. ample explanation is to be found in the history of the irish fight for self-government. on this subject there has been in ireland a marked evolution of ideas. o'connell began by demanding simple repeal of the union and the restoration of grattan's parliament. but by 1844 he had advanced towards a federal programme. "beside the local parliament in ireland having full and perfect local authority," he writes in that year, "there should be, for questions of imperial concern, colonial, military, and naval, and of foreign alliance and policy, a congressional or federal parliament, in which ireland should have a fair share and proportion of representation and power." the proposed change of programme came in a questionable shape to a suspicious time. it was not received with universal favour, and, to avert dissension, it was represented as a mere _ballon d'essai_ and was abandoned. o'connell died, and repeal and federation alike were swallowed up in the great famine. but time was to renew its urgency. the essential facts, and the logic of the facts, remained unaltered. when isaac butt came to formulate his scheme at the home rule conference in 1873 he renewed the federal proposal in terms almost verbally the same. the conference resolved: "that, in claiming these rights and privileges for our country, we adopt the principle of a federal arrangement, which would secure to the irish parliament the right of legislating for and regulating all matters relating to the internal affairs of ireland, while _leaving to the imperial parliament the power of dealing with all questions affecting the imperial and government, legislation regarding the colonies and other dependencies of the crown, the relations of the empire with foreign states, and all matters appertaining to the defence and stability of the empire at large; as well as the power of granting and providing the supplies necessary for imperial purposes_." parnell, who was a supreme master of the art of doing one thing at a time, naturally laid the emphasis on ireland. but when he was asked by mr cecil rhodes to agree to the retention of irish representatives at westminster in the interests of imperial federation, he declared himself in very definite terms: "it does not come so much within my province to express a full opinion upon the larger question of imperial federation, but i agree with you that the continued irish representation at westminster immensely facilitates such a step, while the contrary provision in the bill of 1886 would have been a bar. undoubtedly this is a matter which should be dealt with largely in accordance with the opinion of the colonies themselves, and if they should desire to share in the cost of imperial matters, as undoubtedly they now do in the responsibility, and should express a wish for representation at westminster, i certainly think it should be accorded to them, and that public opinion in these islands would unanimously concur in the necessary constitutional modifications." that is, if you will, thinking imperially. mr redmond stands where parnell stood. he claims for the irish people "the legislative and executive control of all purely irish affairs." but he is altogether friendly to a later and larger application of the principle of autonomy. but where, asks the triumphant critic not quite ingenuously, is the line to be drawn between local and imperial affairs? problems far more perplexed than this have been solved by the wit of man. the line was drawn by o'connell and butt, by parnell and gladstone. it can be drawn to meet the circumstances of to-day by men of goodwill, after discussion and mutual adjustment. but why not postpone the case of ireland until a scheme of home rule all round either for the united kingdom or for the whole empire has been worked out? we answer that ireland comes first on grounds both of ethics and of expediency. through all the blackness of dismal years we have laboured to preserve the twin ideas of nationality and autonomy, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. but a home rule assembly, functioning in dublin, may well furnish the germ of a reorganisation of the empire. if so, let it be remembered that it was not mr chamberlain but daniel o'connell who first in these countries gave to imperialism a definite and articulate form. in any event home rule is the only remedy for the present congestion of st stephen's. it is the only tonic that can restore to english public life its old vigour of independence. such are the necessities and such is the future of the empire merely as a problem in what has been called political mechanics. we have now, from the same point of view, to examine very cursorily the present government of ireland. the phrasing, let me interpose, is inaccurate. ireland, in our day, is not governed; it is only administered. a modern government, if it wishes to be real, must above all else explain itself. for such luxuries, so far as ireland is concerned, there is no time in the house of commons. a modern government must exercise active control over every department of public business. for such an effort there is, so far as ireland is concerned, no energy in the house of commons. once in a blue moon it does of course become necessary to pass an irish bill, a university or a land bill. the party shepherds round up their flocks, and, for a reluctant day or two, they have to feed sparely in unaccustomed pastures. or again, as in 1886, 1893, or 1912, ireland dominates british politics, and the english members descend on her with a heavy flop of hatred or sympathy as it may happen. but at all other times the union parliament abdicates, or at least it "governs" ireland as men are said sometimes to drive motor-cars, in a drowse. three days--or is it two?--are given to irish estimates, and on each of these occasions the chamber is as desolate as a grazing ranch in meath. honourable members snatch at the opportunity of cultivating their souls in the theatres, clubs, restaurants, and other centres of culture in which london abounds. the irish party is compelled by the elemental necessities of the situation to speak with one voice on matters regarding which there would properly be at least two voices in an irish parliament, precisely identical in personnel. ulster unionism presents a similar solidarity. whenever a point of any novelty is made, the chief secretary's secretary slips over to one of the irish officials who on these occasions lie ambushed at the back of the speaker's chair, and returns with all the elation of a honey-laden bee. his little burden of wisdom is gratefully noted on the margin of the typewritten brief which has been already prepared in dublin by the board under discussion, and, entrenched behind this, the right honourable gentleman winds up the debate. sometimes his solemnity wrings laughter from men, sometimes his flippancy wrings tears from the gods, but it does not in the least matter what he says. the division bells ring; the absentees come trooping in, learn at the door of the lobby, each from his respective whip, whether his spontaneous, independent judgment has made him a yes! or a no! and vote accordingly in the light of an unsullied conscience. the irish officials, with a sigh of relief or a shrug of contempt, collect their hats and umbrellas, and retire to their hotels to erase from their minds by slumber the babblings of a mis-spent evening. and the course of administration in ireland is as much affected by the whole proceedings as the course of an 80 h.p. mercã©dã¨s is affected by a cabman's oath. so much for exclusively irish affairs. when ireland comes into some "general" scheme of legislation the parody of government becomes if possible more fantastic in character. let me take just three instances--old age pensions, insurance, and the budget. in regard to the first it was perhaps a matter of course that no attempt should be made to allow for the difference in economic levels between great britain and ireland. this is the very principle of unionism: to apply like methods to things which are unlike. but in the calculation of details an ignorance was exhibited which passed the bounds of decency. mistakes of five or six per cent are, in these complex affairs, not only to be expected but almost to be desired; they help to depress ministerial cocksureness. but in this case there was an error of 200 per cent, a circumstance which incidentally established in the english mind a pleasing legend of irish dishonesty. the insurance bill was ushered in with greater prudence. the "government," recognising its own inability to lead opinion, had the grace to refrain from misleading it. no special irish memorandum was issued, and no attempt was made to adjust the scheme to irish social and economic conditions. but budgets afford on the whole the capital instance of what we may call legislation by accident. the act of union solemnly prescribes the principles on which these measures are to be framed, and points to the chancellor of the exchequer as the trustee of irish interests. but nobody of this generation ever knew a chancellor of the exchequer who had even read the act of union; mr lloyd george, on his own admission, had certainly not read it in 1909. what has happened is very simple. the fulfilment of treaty obligations required differential taxation, but administrative convenience was best served by a uniform system of taxation. in the struggle between the two, conscience was as usual defeated. the chancellor, according to the practice which has overridden the act of union budgets for great britain, drags the schedule of taxes so fixed through ireland like a net, and counts the take. that, in the process, the pledge of england should be broken, and her honour betrayed, is not regarded by the best authorities as an objection or even as a relevant fact. in the more sacred name of uniformity ireland is swamped in the westminster parliament like a fishing-smack in the wash of a great merchantman. but let one illusion be buried. if ireland does not govern herself it is quite certain that the british parliament does not govern her. changing the venue of inquiry from london to dublin we find ourselves still in regions of the fantastic. from the sober and unemotional pages of "whitaker's almanack" one learns, to begin with, that "the government of ireland is semi-independent." the separatism of geography has in this case triumphed. the _de facto_ rulers of ireland in ordinary slack times, and in the daily round of business, are the heads of the great departments. some of these are not even nominally responsible to parliament. the intermediate board, for instance, has for thirty years controlled secondary education, but it has never explained itself to parliament and, because of the source from which its funds are derived, it is not open to criticism in parliament. but none of the heads are really responsible to any authority except their own iron-clad consciences and the officials of the treasury, with whom, for the sake of appearances, they wage an unreal war. in theory, the chief secretary answers to parliament for the misdeeds of them all. in practice, this fines itself down to reading typewritten sophistications in reply to original questions, and improvising jokes, of a well-recognised pattern, to turn the point of supplementary questions for forty minutes on one day in the week during session. in its own internal economy the government of ireland is a form of pantheism, with the chief secretary as underlying principle. he is the source of everything, good and evil, light and darkness, benignity and malignity, with the unfortunate result that he is in perpetual contradiction with himself. as we know, the equilibrium of modern governments is maintained by mutual strain between the various ministers. sometimes, as in the case of lord randolph churchill, a strong personality, moved by a new idea, tears the structure to pieces. but the chief secretary knows no such limitations from without. theoretically, he may be produced to infinity in any direction; he is all in every part. but, as a matter of fact, through the mere necessity of filling so much space his control becomes rarefied to an invisible vapour; he ends by becoming nothing in any part. with its ultimate principle reduced to the status of a _dieu fainã©ant_ political pantheism is transformed into political atheism. responsible government is perceived not to exist in ireland. mr barry o'brien in his admirable book, "dublin castle and the irish people," confesses himself unable to find a better characterisation of the whole system than is contained in a well-known passage from "the mikado." i make no apology for conveying it from him. "one cannot help recalling the memory of pooh-bah, 'lord high-everything-else' of the mikado of japan. who forgets the memorable scene between him and ko-ko, the lord high executioner, on an occasion of supreme importance? _ko-ko_. pooh-bah, it seems that the festivities in connection with my approaching marriage must last a week. i should like to do it handsomely, and i want to consult you as to the amount i ought to spend upon them. _pooh-bah_. certainly. in which of my capacities? as first lord of the treasury, lord chamberlain, attorney-general, chancellor of the exchequer, privy purse, or private secretary? _ko-ko_. suppose we say as private secretary. _pooh-bah_. speaking as your private secretary, i should say that as the city will have to pay for it, don't stint yourself; do it well. _ko-ko_. exactly--as the city will have to pay for it. that is your advice? _pooh-bah_. as private secretary. of course you will understand that, as chancellor of the exchequer, i am bound to see that due economy is observed. _ko-ko_. oh, but you said just now, 'don't stint yourself; do it well.' _pooh-bah_. as private secretary. _ko-ko_. and now you say that due economy must be observed. _pooh-bah_. as chancellor of the exchequer. _ko-ko_. i see. come over here where the chancellor can't hear us. _(they cross stage.)_ now, as my solicitor, how do you advise me to deal with this difficulty? _pooh-bah_. oh, as your solicitor, i should have no hesitation in saying chance it. _ko-ko_. thank you _(shaking his head)_; i will. _pooh-bah_. if it were not that, as lord chief justice, i am bound to see that the law isn't violated. _ko-ko_. i see. come over here where the chief justice can't hear us. (_they cross the stage_.) now, then, as first lord of the treasury? _pooh-bah_. of course, as first lord of the treasury, i could propose a special vote that would cover all expenses if it were not that, as leader of the opposition, it would be my duty to resist it, tooth and nail. or, as paymaster-general, i could so cook the accounts that, as lord high auditor, i should never discover the fraud. but then, as archbishop of jitipu, it would be my duty to denounce my dishonesty, and give myself into my own custody as commissioner of police." under such arrangements as these the inevitable happens. the chief secretary accepts his rã´le. he is, no doubt, consoled to discover that in one sphere, namely in that of patronage, his supremacy is effective. he discovers further that he can hamstring certain obnoxious acts, as mr walter long hamstrung the land act, by the issue of regulations. the rest of his official career depends on his politics. if a tory, he learns that the irish civil service is a whispering gallery along which his lightest word is carried to approving ears, and loyally acted upon. further "ulster" expects law and order to be vindicated by the occasional proclamation of nationalist meetings, and batoning of nationalist skulls. and he absolutely must say from time to time in public that the irish question in essence is not political but economic. this is the whole duty of a tory chief secretary. a liberal chief secretary functions on somewhat different lines. administration presents itself to him as a colossal heap of recalcitrant, wet sand out of which he has to fashion a statue of fair-play. having, with great labour, left his personal impress on two or three handfuls, the weary titan abandons his impossible task. he falls back in good order on the house of commons, where his party majority enables him to pass an irish bill from time to time. his spare time he divides between commending dublin castle to the seven devils that made it, and praying for the advent of home rule. in either case the sovereignty of ireland relapses into the hands of the permanent officials, that camarilla of olympians. to the official lives of these gentlemen, regarded as works of art, i raise my hat in respectful envy. they have realised the vision of lucretius. from the secure remoteness of their ivory towers they look down unmoved on the stormy and drifting tides below, and they enjoy the privilege, so rare in ireland, of knowing the causes of things. to the ordinary man their political origins are shrouded in twilight. they seem to him to have come like water, but unhappily it cannot be said that they go like wind. while they are with us they are absolute, seen by nobody, felt by all the world, the manchu mandarins of the west. they have been attacked on many foolish counts; let us in justice to them and ourselves be quite clear as to what is wrong with them. some people say that there are too many boards, but it is to be remembered that for every new function with which we endow the state it must have a new organ. others say that they are over-staffed; but all government departments in the world are over-staffed. still others say that they are stupid and corrupt. as for corruption, it certainly does exist under many discreet veils, but its old glory is fading. incompetent the great officials never were. a poet tells us that there are only two people in the world who ever understand a man--the woman who loves him, and the enemy who hates him best. in one of these ways, if not in the other, dublin castle understands ireland. did it not know what the people of ireland want, it could not so infallibly have maintained its tradition of giving them the opposite. other critics again find the deadly disease of the boards to reside in the fact that they are a bureaucracy. this diagnosis comes closer to the truth, but it is not yet the truth. bureaucracies of trained experts are becoming more and not less necessary. what is really wrong with the castle is that it is a bureaucracy which has usurped the throne of the nation. "in england," declared mr gladstone, "when the nation attends, it can prevail." in ireland, though it should attend seven days in the week, it could never under present arrangements stamp the image of its will on public policy. the real sin of the castle regime is that it is a sham, a rococo, a despotism painted to look like representative government. to quote a radiant commonplace, the rich significance of which few of us adequately grasp, it does not rest on the consent of the governed. "from whatever point of view we envisage the english government in ireland," writes mr paul-dubois, "we are confronted with the same appearance of constitutional forms masking a state of things which is a compound of autocracy, oppression, and corruption." such a system does not possess within itself the seed of continuance. disraeli announced, somewhat prematurely, the advent of an age in which institutions that could not bear discussion would have to go. matthew arnold yearned for a time in which the manifestly absurd would be abandoned. in the flame of either dictum the present "government" of ireland shrivels to ashes, and affairs are ripe for the application of both. here, as in the colonies, the people must enter into its heritage. the days are for ever dead in which a nation could be ruled in daily disregard of its history, its ideals, its definite programme. on the minutiae of administration i do not mean to touch. when the whole spirit, atmosphere, and ethos are anti-moral it is idle to chronicle any chance rectitude of detail. if a man is a murderer it is not much to his credit to observe that he has triumphed over the primitive temptation to eat peas with his knife. if a government is based on contempt for public opinion, as its fundamental principle, no useful purpose is served by a record of the occasions on which a policeman has been known to pass a citizen in the street without beating him. but there is one further confirmation of the view, here advanced, to omit which would be to ignore the most significant fact of our time. certain departments such as the congested districts board and the department of agriculture, recent creations, have been freshened by the introduction of a representative, non-official element. others such as the estates commission have been under the control of officials of a new type, able men who do not conceal the fact that they believe in ireland. all of these new boards have struck root in the national life to a depth never reached by any of their predecessors. the lesson of this change is the lesson of freedom. in the precise degree in which government trusts the people will the people trust government. it remains to complete the process by a scheme of autonomy that shall make every administrator a trustee and executant of the will of the nation. there are other organs of "government" in ireland of which the reader may reasonably expect to hear something. he will permit me to discharge my obligations by copying out certain paragraphs from an old note-book: "_judges_.--it is a mistake to suppose that none of the irish judges know any law. our judiciary includes many masterly lawyers, and many adroit men of the world. but all of them are political appointments. hence in ordinary cases a man will get clean justice. but the moment politics flutter on the breeze, the masked battery on the bench is uncurtained to bellow forth anti-nationalist shrapnel. irish judges, in fact, are very like the horse in the schoolboy's essay: 'the horse is a noble and useful quadruped, but, when irritated, he ceases to do so." "_police_.--the royal irish constabulary was formerly an army of occupation. now, owing to the all but complete disappearance of crime, it is an army of no occupation." "_dublin castle in general_.--must be seen to be disbelieved." since there does not exist a british empire, it is necessary to invent one. since there does not exist an irish government, in any modern and intelligible sense of the word, it is necessary to invent one. the common creative mould out of which both must be struck is the principle of home rule. chapter ix after home rule the advocates of home rule are invited to many ordeals by way of verifying their good faith; perhaps the heaviest ordeal is that of prophecy. very well, people say, what are you going to do with home rule when you get it? what will irish politics be like in, say, 1920? if we show embarrassment or offer conflicting answers, the querist is persuaded that we are, as indeed he thought, vapouring sentimentalists, not at all accustomed to live in a world of clear ideas and unyielding facts. the demand, like many others made upon us, is unreal and unreasonable. what are the english going to do with home rule when they get it? what will german or japanese or american politics be like in 1920? these are all what matthew arnold calls "undiscovered things." the future resolutely declines to speak out of her turn. she has a trick of keeping her secrets well, better than she keeps her promises. professor dicey wrote a unionist tract, very vehement and thunderous, in which he sought to injure home rule by styling it a leap in the dark. but the whole conduct of life, in its gravest and its lightest issues alike, is a perpetual leap in the dark. every change of public policy is a raid across the frontiers of the unknown; or rather, as i prefer to put it, every fundamental reform is essentially an act of faith in to-morrow, and so it is with home rule. but while none of us can prophesy all of us can conjecture, and in this case with a great deal of confidence. on the one hand, ireland is a country of very definite habits of thought; on the other, her immediate problems are obvious. these two circumstances facilitate the process which the learned describe as an attempt to produce the present curve of evolution into the future. first, then, as to the temper of mind in which an autonomous ireland will face the world. the one clear certainty is that it will not be rhetorical or utopian. of all the libels with which we are pelted the most injurious to our repute is a kindly libel, that which represents us as a nation of orators. to the primitive tory the nationalist "agitator" appears in the guise of a stormy and intractable fiend, with futility in his soul, and a college green peroration on his lips. the sources of this superstition are easily traced. the english have created the noblest literature in the world, and are candidly ashamed of the fact. in their view anybody who succeeds in words must necessarily fail in business. the irishman on the contrary luxuriates, like the artist that he is, in that _splendor verborum_ celebrated by dante. if a speech has to be made he thinks that it should be well made, and refuses altogether to accept hums and haws as a token of genius. he expects an orator not merely to expound facts, but to stimulate the vital forces of his audience. these contrary conceptions of the relation of art to life have, throughout the home rule campaign, clashed in the english mind much to our disadvantage. and there has been another agent of confusion, more widely human in character. every idea strongly held and, on the other side, strongly challenged, kindles spontaneously into passion, and every great cause has its poetry as well as its dialetics. men, forced to concentrate all their thought on one reform, come to see it edged with strange, mystical colours. let justice only triumph in this one regard, and our keel will grate on the shore of the fortunate islands, the earthly paradise. all the harshness of life will be dulcified; we shall lie dreaming on golden sands, dipping full goblets out of a sea that has been transmuted into lemonade. this, the utopian mood of humanity, is inextinguishable, and it has embroidered the home rule idea in common with all others. before the complexity of modern economic organisation was as well understood as is now the case, there is no doubt that certain sections of opinion in ireland did regard self-government as a sort of aladdin's lamp, capable of any miracle. the necessity of pressing all the energy of the nation into one channel had the effect of imposing on political life a simplicity which does not belong to it. but all that is over and past. the ireland of to-day does not pay herself with words. she is safe from that reaction and disillusionment which some prophets have discerned as the first harvest of home rule, because she is already disillusioned. looking into the future we see no hope for rhetoricians; what we do see is a strong, shrewd, indomitable people, at once clear-sighted and idealistic, going about its business "in the light of day in the domain of reality." no signs or wonders blaze out a trail for them. the past sags on their shoulders and in their veins, a grievous burden and a grievous malady. they make mistakes during their apprenticeship to freedom, for, as flaubert says, men have got to learn everything from eating to dying. but a few years farther on we see the recuperative powers of the nation once more triumphant. the past is at last dead enough to be buried, the virus of oppression has been expelled. the creative impulse in industry, literature, social habit, working in an atmosphere of freedom, has added to the wealth of humanity not only an old nation renascent, but a new and kindlier civilisation. in other words, political autonomy is to us not the epilogue but the prologue to our national drama. it rings the curtain up on that task to which all politics are merely instrumental, namely the vindication of justice and the betterment of human life. from the first, the economic note will predominate in a home rule assembly, not only in the sense in which so much can be said of every country in the world, but in a very special sense. for the past decade ireland has been thinking in terms of woollens and linens, turnips and fat cattle, eggs and butter, banks and railways. the conviction that the country is under-developed, and in consequence under-populated, has been growing both in area and in depth. with it there has been growing the further conviction that poverty, in the midst of untapped resources, is a national crime. the propagation of these two beliefs by journals of the newer school such as _the leader, sinn fein,_ and _the irish homestead_ has leavened the whole mass of irish life in our time. the industrial development associations, founded on them as basis, have long ago "bridged the boyne." at their annual conferences belfast sits side by side with cork, derry with dublin. it is not merely that the manufacturers and traders have joined hands to advance a movement beneficial to themselves; the best thought of every class in the country has given enthusiastic support to the programme on grounds not of personal interest but of national duty. we may therefore take it that the watchword of the second empire, _enrichissez-vous,_ will be the watchword of a self-governing ireland. what parliament and the state can do to forward that aim will naturally be a subject of controversy. to free traders and tariff reformers, alike, the power that controls the customs' tariff of a country controls its economic destiny. both would seem bound to apply the logic of their respective gospels to ireland. but as it is not the aim of this book to anticipate the debates of next year, but rather to explain the foundations of the home rule idea, we may leave that burning question for the present untouched. apart from it we can anticipate the trend of policy in ireland. the first great task of a home rule parliament would be above controversy; it would be neither more nor less than a scientific exploration of the country. no such economic survey has ever been made, and the results are lamentable. there has been no mapping out of the soil areas from the point of view of agricultural economics, and, for the lack of such impartial information, the fundamental conflict between tillage and grazing goes on in the dark. we know where coal is to be found in ireland; we do not know with any assurance where it is and where it is not profitably workable. the same is true of granite, marble, and indeed all our mineral resources. the woollen industry flourishes in one district and fails in another, to all appearance as favourably situated; it seems capable of great expansion and yet it does not expand greatly. what then are the conditions of success? here is a typical case that calls for scientific analysis. one can pick at random a dozen such instances. ireland, admirably adapted to the production of meat, does not produce meat, but only the raw material of it, store cattle. is this state of things immutable? or is a remedy for it to be found, say, in a redistribution of the incidence of local taxation so as to favour well-used land as against ill-used land? is the decline in the area under flax to be applauded or deplored? can irish-grown wool be improved up to the fineness of the australian article? and so on, and so on. it is to be noted that of the statistics which we do possess many of the most important are, to say the least, involved in doubt. the export and import figures are little better than volunteer estimates; there is no compulsion to accuracy. as to the yield of crops, all that can be said is that our present information is not as bad as it used to be. but above all we have no comprehensive notion of the condition of the people. whenever there has been an inquiry into wages, cost of living, or any other fundamental fact, ireland has come in as a mere tail-piece to a british volume. all this we must change. the first business of an irish parliament will be to take stock; and this will be effected by the establishment of a commission of a new kind, representative of science, industry, agriculture, and finance, acceptable and authoritative in the eyes of the whole nation, and charged with the duty of ascertaining the actual state of things in ireland and the wisest line of economic development. such an undertaking will amount to a unification of irish life altogether without precedent. it will draw the great personalities of industry for the first time into the central current of public affairs. it will furnish them with a platform upon which they will have to talk in terms of the plough, the loom, and the ledger, and not in terms of the wolf-dog and the orange-lily, and will render fruitful for the service of the country innumerable talents, now unknown or estranged by political superstitions. it will do all that state action can do to generate a boom in irish enterprises, and to tempt irish capital into them in a more abundant stream. and the proceedings and conclusions of such a body, circulated broadcast somewhat after the washington plan, will provide for all classes in the community a liberal education in economics. will "ulster" fight against such an attempt to increase its prosperity? will the shipbuilders, the spinners, and the weavers close down their works in order to patronise sir edward carson's performance on a pop-gun? it is not probable. work is the best remedy against such vapours, and an ireland, occupied in this fashion-with wealth-producing labour, will have no time for civil war or "religious" riots. as for concrete projects, the irish parliament will not be able to begin on a very ambitious scale. but there are two or three matters which it must at once put in hand. there is, for instance, the drainage of the barrow and the bann. these two rivers are in a remarkable degree non-political and non-sectarian. just as the rain falls on the just and the unjust, so do their rain-swollen floods spoil with serene impartiality nationalist hay and orange hay, catholic oats and presbyterian oats. will "ulster" fight against an effort to check the mischief? then there is re-afforestation. as the result mainly of the waste of war, ireland, which ought to be a richly wooded country, is very poor in that regard. in consequence of this, a climate, moister than need be, distributes colds and consumption among the population, without any religious test, and unchecked winds lodge the corn of all denominations. re-afforestation, as offering a profit certain but a little remote, and promising a climatic advantage diffused over the whole area of the country, is eminently a matter for public enterprise. are we to be denied the hope that fir, and spruce, and austrian pine may conceivably be lifted out of the plane of party politics? further, to take instances at haphazard, the state, whatever else its economic functions may be, will be one of the largest purchasers of commodities in the country. it is thinkable that the irish state may give its civil servants irish-made paper to write on in their offices. it may even so arrange things that when captain craig comes to the house of commons at college green he shall sit on an irish-made bench, dine off a cloth of belfast linen, and be ruthlessly compelled to eat meath beef, dublin potatoes, and tipperary butter. in such horrible manifestations of home rule i do not discern the material for a revolution. again, it may be proposed that in order to develop manufactures, municipalities and county councils may be given power to remit local rates on newly established factories for an initial period of, say, ten years. it may occur to evil-minded people to increase the provision for technical instruction in certain centres for the same end. the irish state may think it well to maintain agents in london, new york, and some of the continental capitals with a view to widening the external market for irish products. i do not say that a home rule parliament will do all these things, but they are the sort of thing that it will do. and the mere naked enumeration of them is sufficient to show that such an assembly will have ample matter of economic development upon which to keep its teeth polished without devouring either priests or protestants. there are other urgent questions upon which unanimity exists even at present, for example poor law reform. i have outlined in an earlier chapter the honourable record of ireland in this regard. we were agreed in 1836 that the workhouse should never have come; we are now agreed that it must go. whether in antrim or in clare, the same vicious system has produced the same vicious results. uniform experience has issued in unanimous agreement as to the lines upon which reform ought to proceed. at the same time there are differences as to detail, and the task of fusing together various views and hammering out of them a workable bill will be an ideal task for a representative assembly. but it is difficult to believe that the discussion will be, in all particulars, governed either by the council of trent, or by the westminster confession. then there is education. english public men have been brought up to assume that in ireland education must be a battleground inevitably, and from the first. it would be a mere paradox to say that this question, which sunders parties the world over as with a sword, will leave opinion in ireland inviolately unanimous. but our march to the field of controversy will be over a non-controversial road. union policy has left us a rich inheritance of obvious evils. the position of the primary teachers is unsatisfactory, that of the secondary teachers is impossible. when we attempt improvement of both will "ulster" fight? and there is something even more human and poignant. the national schools of this country are in many cases no better than ramshackle barns. unless the teacher and the manager, out of their own pockets, mend the broken glass, put plaster on the walls, and a fire in the grate, the children have got to shiver and cough for it. winter in ireland, like the king in constitutional theory, is above politics. when its frosts get at the noses, and fingers, and sometimes the bare toes, of the children it leaves them neither green nor orange but simply blue. then again other schools, especially in belfast, are shamefully over-crowded. classes are held on the stairs, in the cloak-room, the hall, or the yard. for the more fortunate, class-rooms are provided with an air-space per individual only slightly less than that available in the black hole of calcutta. all over the country, children go to school breakfastless and stupid with hunger, and the local authorities have no power to feed them as in england, and in most european countries. then again, even where the physical conditions are reasonable, the programme lacks actuality. it is unpractical, out of touch with the facts of life and locality, a veritable castle hung absurdly in the air and not based on any solid foundation. the view still lingers in high places that the business of education is to break the spirit of a people, to put them down and not to lift them up. in token of this, the teachers are denied the civil rights of freemen. now all these ineptitudes are contrary to the humane tradition of ireland. go they must, but, when an irish parliament starts to remove them, i cannot imagine captain craig, with a union jack wrapped around his bosom, straddling like apollyon across the path. the captain has far too much sense, and too much feeling in him. it will be observed that we are getting on. a nation so busy with realities will have no time to waste on civil war. _inter leges arma silent_. but this is a mere outline sketch of the preliminary task of the initial sessions of an irish parliament. problems with a far heavier fist will thunder at its doors, the problems of labour. the democratic group in ireland, that group which everywhere holds the commission of the future, has long since declared that, to it, home rule would be a barren counter-sense unless it meant the redemption of the back streets. the titanic conflict between what is called capital and what is called labour, shaking the pillars of our modern society, has not passed ireland by like the unregarded wind. we can no longer think of ourselves as insulated from the world, immune from strikes, socialists, and syndicalism. the problems of labour have got to be faced. but will they be solved by a grapple between the orange lodges and the ancient order of hibernians? it is obvious that under their pressure the old order must change, yielding place to a new. every trade union has already bridged the boyne. every strike has already torn the orange flag and the green flag into two pieces, and stitched them together again after a new and portentous pattern. what does it all come to? simply this, that ireland under home rule will be most painfully like every other modern country of western civilisation. some unionists think that, if they could only get rid of the irish party, all would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. why then are they not home rulers? for home rule will most assuredly get rid of the irish party. it will shatter the old political combinations like a waggon-load of dynamite. new groups will crystallise about new principles. the future in ireland belongs to no old fidelity: it may belong to any new courage. assuredly we must not seem to suggest that, in an autonomous ireland, public life will be all nougat, velvet, and soft music. there will be conflicts, and vehement conflicts, for that is the way of the twentieth century, and they will no doubt centre, for the most part, about taxation and education. but the political forces of the country will have moved into totally new formations. one foresees plainly a vertical section of parties into agrarian and urban, a cross section into labour and capitalistic. each of these economic groupings is indefinitely criss-crossed by an indefinite number of antagonisms, spiritual and material. in a situation so complicated it is idle to speculate as to the conditions of the future. a box of bricks so large, and so multi-coloured, may be arranged and re-arranged in an infinity of architectures. the one thing quite certain is that all the arrangements will be new. in taxation, as i have suggested, a highly conservative policy will prevail. in education the secularist programme, if advanced at all, will be overwhelmed by a junction of catholic and protestant. for religion, to the _anima naturaliter christiana_, of ireland is not an argument but an intuition. it seems to us as reasonable to prepare children for their moral life by excluding religion as to prepare them for their physical life by removing the most important lobe of their brains. the only other prognostication that appears to emerge is the probable predominance in a home rule ireland of the present ulster unionist party. that group is likely, for many reasons, to retain its solidarity after ours has been dissipated. should that prove to be the case, self-government will put the balance of power on almost all great conflicts of opinion into the hands of sir edward carson and his successors. the "minority," adroitly handled, will exploit the majority almost as effectively after home rule as before it. captain craig will dictate terms to us not from the last ditch, but from a far more agreeable and powerful position, the treasury bench. and we undertake not to grumble, for these are the chances of freedom. chapter x an epilogue on "loyalty" according to precedent, well-established if not wise, no discussion of political ireland must end without some observations on "loyalty." the passion of the english people for assurances on this point is in curious contrast with their own record. it is not rhetoric, but crude history, to say that the title-deeds of english freedom are in great part written in blood, and that the seal which gave validity to all the capital documents was the seal of "treason." no other nation in the world has so clearly recognised and so stoutly insisted that, in the ritual game of loyalty, the first move is with governments. with that premised, the difference between the two countries is very simple. england has developed from within the type of government that her people want. she expresses satisfaction with the fact. this is loyalty. ireland, on the contrary, has had forced on her from without a type of government which her people emphatically do not want. she expresses dissatisfaction with the fact. this is disloyalty. loyalty, in brief, is the bloom on the face of freedom, just as beauty is the bloom on the face of health. if we examine the methods by which england attained her very desirable position we are further enlightened. it is a study admirably adapted to inculcate liberty, not at all so well adapted to inculcate "loyalty." the whole burden of english history is that, whenever these two principles came in conflict, every man in england worth his salt was disloyal even to the point of war. whenever the old bottle was recalcitrant to the new wine of freedom it was ignominiously scrapped. a long effort has been made to keep irish history out of our schools in the interests of "loyalty." but it is english history that ought to be kept out, for it is full of stuff much more perilous. you teach irish children the tale of runnymede, covering with contempt the king of that day, and heaping praise on the barons who shook their fists under his nose. this is dangerous doctrine. it is doubly dangerous seeing that these children will soon grow up to learn that the great charter, which is held to justify all these tumultuous proceedings, has never even to our own day been current law in ireland. you introduce them to the wars of the roses as a model of peaceful, constitutional development; to the slaying of edward ii., richard ii., and i know not how many more as object-lessons in the reverence which angry englishmen accord to an anointed king when they really dislike him. later centuries show them one stuart beheaded outside his own palace, another dethroned and banished in favour of a dutch prince. of romantic loyalty to the person of a sovereign they find no trace or hint in the modern period. lost causes and setting suns, whatever appeal they may have made to ireland, do but rarely fire with their magical glimmer the raw daylight of the english political mind. as for that more facile, after-dinner attachment, in which it is charged that we do not join with sufficient fervour, it seems to us always fulsome, and often mere hyprocrisy. in the development of english ceremonial, "god save the king!" gets to the head of the toast-list only when the king has been thoroughly saved from all the perils and temptations incidental to the possession of power. so long as he claims any shred of initiative his english subjects continue in a perpetual chafe and grumble of disloyalty; as soon as the crown has been rasped and sand-papered down to a decorative zero their loyalty knows no bounds. the simple and honourable truth is that all through her history england strove after national freedom, and declined to be quiet until she got it. there could not be a better statement of the methods which she employed than mr rudyard kipling's: "axe and torch and tumult, steel and gray-goose wing, wrung it, inch and ell, and all, slowly from the king." it is, of course, a pity that the liberty thus established was better fitted for the home market than for export. but this does not affect the fact that, at the end of the process, the english people were in the saddle. but the irish people are not in the saddle, they are under it. indeed, the capital sin of dublin castle is that it is a bureaucracy which has seized upon the estate of the people. in ireland, under its _rã©gime_, the nation has had as much to say to its own public policy as a durbar-elephant has to say to the future of india. there is just this difference in favour of the elephant: at least he has riot to pay for the embroidered palanquins, and the prodding-poles, of his riders. we are all agreed that loyalty is a duty. it is the duty of every government to be loyal to the welfare, the nobler traditions, the deep-rooted ideals, the habit of thought of its people. it is the duty of every government to be loyal to the idea of duty, and to that austere justice through which the most ancient heavens abide fresh and strong. and until these prime duties have been faithfully performed, no government need expect and none can exact "loyalty" from its subjects. but it seems that we are compromised on other grounds. the inscription on the parnell memorial is trumpeted about the constituencies with equal energy by opponents wise and otherwise: "no man has a right to fix the boundary to the march of a nation. no man has a right to say to his country, 'thus far shalt thou go and no farther.' we have never attempted to fix the _ne plus ultra_ to the progress of ireland's nationhood, and we never shall." what the precise matter of offence may be one finds it difficult to discover. mr balfour very properly characterises as the utterance of a statesman, this passage in which parnell declines to usurp the throne and sceptre of providence. but mr smith complains that it deprives home rule of the note of "finality." with the suggestion that home rule is not at all events the end of the world we are, of course, in warm agreement. but if mr smith has entered public affairs in pursuit of static formulã¦ for dynamic realities, if he wants things fixed and frozen and final, he has come to the wrong world to gratify such desires. and even if he were to go to the next, he would have to be very careful in choosing his destination, for all the theologians tell us that, in heaven, personalities continue to grow and develop. in fact, if anybody wants "finality," i am afraid that we can only recommend him to go to hell. as for the world, in which we live, it is a world of flux. physicists allow the earth a long road to travel before it tumbles into dissolution, and seers and prophets of various kinds foretell an equally long cycle of development for human nature, as we now know it. the fate of all our present political combinations is doubtful, and no nation has received absolute guarantees for its future. an all-europe state with its capital at london, a federation of the world with its capital at dublin, a chinese empire with its capital at paris--these are all possibilities. australia may be annexed by japan, canada by the united states, or vice versa; south africa may spread northwards until it absorbs the continent, or shrink southwards until it expires on the point of the cape. the superman may, as i am informed, appear on the stage of history at any moment, and make pie of everything. and not one of these appalling possibilities disturbs mr smith in the least. but he is going to vote against justice for ireland unless we can promise him that throughout all the ã¦ons, as yet unvouchsafed, and to the last syllable of recorded time, her political destiny is going to be in all details regulated by the home rule bill of 1912. this is not an intelligent attitude. of course the real innuendo is that we in ireland are burning to levy war on great britain, and would welcome any foreign invasion to that end. on these two points one is happy to be able to give assurances, or rather to state intentions. as for foreign invasion, we have had quite enough of it. it is easier to get invaders in than to get them out again, and we have not spent seven hundred years in recovering ireland for ourselves in order to make a present of it to the germans, or the russians, or the man in the moon, or any other foreign power whatever. the present plan of governing ireland in opposition to the will of her people does indeed inevitably make that country the weak spot in the defences of these islands, for such misgovernment produces discontent, and discontent is the best ally of the invader. alter that by home rule, and your cause instantly becomes ours. give the irish nation an irish state to defend, and the task of an invader becomes very unenviable. as for levying war on great britain, we have no inclination in that direction. the best thought in ireland has always preferred civilisation to war, and we have no wealth to waste on expensive stupidities of any kind. in addition we are handicapped on sea by the smallness of our official navy which, so far as i can gather, consists of the _granuaile_, a pleasure-boat owned by the congested districts board. in land operations, we are still more seriously hampered by the non-existence of our army. and although, in point of population, our numerical inferiority is so trivial as one to ten, even this slight disproportion may be regarded by an irish parliament as a fact not unworthy of consideration. but we must not suffer ourselves to be detained any longer among these unrealities. a home rule government will be loyal to the interests of its people, and actual circumstances demand, for the behoof of great britain and ireland alike, an era of peace with honour, and friendship founded on justice. the magnitude of the commercial relations between the two countries is inadequately appreciated. not merely is great britain our best customer, but we are her best customer. the trade of great britain with ireland is larger than her trade with india, and nearly twice as large as that with canada or australia. and while these surprising figures are far from indicating the existence of a sound economic structure in ireland, none the less, the industrial expansion that will follow home rule may be expected to alter the character rather than to diminish the value of the goods interchanged. for if the development of textile, leather, shipbuilding, and other manufactures lessens the british import under these heads into ireland, it will increase that of coal, iron, steel, and machinery. and ireland, without trenching on the needs of her home market, is capable of much more intensive exploitation as a food-exporting country. economically the two nations are joined in relations that ought to be relations of mutual profit, were they not eternally poisoned by political oppression. with this virus removed, the natural balance of the facts of nature will spontaneously establish itself between the two countries. the true desire of all the loud trumpeters of "loyalty" is, as it appears to me, of a very different order. what they really ask is that ireland should begin her career of autonomy with a formal act of self-humiliation. she may enter the council of empire provided that she enters on her knees, and leaves her history outside the door as a shameful burden. this is not a demand that can be conceded, or that men make on men. the open secret of ireland is that ireland is a nation. in days rougher than ours, when a blind and tyrannous england sought to drown the national faith of ireland in her own blood as in a sea, there arose among our fathers men who annulled that design. we cannot undertake to cancel the names of these men from our calendar. we are no more ashamed of them than the constitutional england of modern times is ashamed of her langtons and de montforts, her sidneys and hampdens. our attitude in their regard goes beyond the reach of prose, and no adequate poetry comes to my mind. the irish poets have recently been so busy compiling catalogues of crime, profanity, and mania for the abbey theatre that they have not had time to attend to politics; and in attempting to suggest the spirit that must inform the settlement between ireland and england, if out of it is to spring the authentic flower of loyalty, i am reluctantly compelled to fall back on a weaker brother, not of the craft: bond, from the toil of hate we may not cease: free, we are free to be your friend. but when you make your banquet, and we come, soldier with equal soldier must we sit, closing a battle, not forgetting it. this mate and mother of valiant rebels dead must come with all her history or her head. we keep the past for pride. nor war nor peace shall strike our poets dumb: no rawest squad of all death's volunteers, no simplest man who died to tear your flag down, in the bitter years, but shall have praise, and three times thrice again, when, at that table, men shall drink with men. as political poetry, this may be open to amendment; as poetic politics, it is sound, decisive, and answerable. the end the northumberland press, thornton street, newcastle-upon-tyne the cattle-raid of cualnge (tain bo cuailnge) an old irish prose-epic translated for the first time from leabhar na h-uidhri and the yellow book of lecan by l. winifred faraday, m. a. london published by david nutt at the sign of the phoenix long acre 1904 contents introduction the cattle-raid of cualnge (from leabhar na h-uidhri) cuchulainn's boyish deeds the death of fraech the death of orlam the death of the meic garach the death of the squirrel the death of lethan the death of lochu the harrying of cualnge (first version) the harrying of cualnge (second version) mac roth's embassy the death of etarcomol the death of nadcrantail the finding of the bull the death of redg the meeting of cuchulainn and findabair the combat of munremar and curoi the death of the boys (first version) the woman-fight of rochad the death of the princes the death of cur the number of the feats the death of ferbaeth the combat of larine mac nois the conversation of the morrigan with cuchulainn the death of long mac emonis the healing of the morrigan the coming of lug mac ethlend the death of the boys (second version) the arming of cuchulainn continuation (from the yellow book of lecan) the combat of fer diad and cuchulainn the long warning of sualtaim the muster of the ulstermen the vision of dubthach the march of the companies the muster of the men of ireland the battle on garach and irgarach the meeting of the bulls the peace introduction the cattle-raid of cualnge [note: pronounce _cooley_] is the chief story belonging to the heroic cycle of ulster, which had its centre in the deeds of the ulster king, conchobar mac nessa, and his nephew and chief warrior, cuchulainn mac sualtaim. tradition places their date at the beginning of the christian era. the events leading up to this tale, the most famous of irish mythical stories, may be shortly summarised here from the book of leinster introduction to the _tain_, and from the other tales belonging to the ulster cycle. it is elsewhere narrated that the dun bull of cualnge, for whose sake ailill and medb [note: pronounce _maive_.], the king and queen of connaught, undertook this expedition, was one of two bulls in whom two rival swineherds, belonging to the supernatural race known as the people of the _sid_, or fairy-mounds, were re-incarnated, after passing through various other forms. the other bull, findbennach, the white-horned, was in the herd of medb at cruachan ai, the connaught capital, but left it to join ailill's herd. this caused ailill's possessions to exceed medb's, and to equalise matters she determined to secure the great dun bull, who alone equalled the white-horned. an embassy to the owner of the dun bull failed, and ailill and medb therefore began preparations for an invasion of ulster, in which province (then ruled by conchobar mac nessa) cualnge was situated. a number of smaller _tana_, or cattle-raids, prefatory to the great _tain bo cuailnge_, relate some of their efforts to procure allies and provisions. medb chose for the expedition the time when conchobar and all the warriors of ulster, except cuchulainn and sualtaim, were at their capital, emain macha, in a sickness which fell on them periodically, making them powerless for action; another story relates the cause of this sickness, the effect of a curse laid on them by a fairy woman. ulster was therefore defended only by the seventeen-year-old cuchulainn, for sualtaim's appearance is only spasmodic. cuchulainn (culann's hound) was the son of dechtire, the king's sister, his father being, in different accounts, either sualtaim, an ulster warrior; lug mac ethlend, one of the divine heroes from the _sid_, or fairy-mound; or conchobar himself. the two former both appear as cuchulainn's father in the present narrative. cuchulainn is accompanied, throughout the adventures here told, by his charioteer, loeg mac riangabra. in medb's force were several ulster heroes, including cormac condlongas, son of conchobar, conall cernach, dubthach doeltenga, fiacha mac firfebe, and fergus mac roich. these were exiled from ulster through a bitter quarrel with conchobar, who had caused the betrayal and murder of the sons of uisnech, when they had come to ulster under the sworn protection of fergus, as told in the _exile of the sons of uisnech_. [note: 1 text in windisch and stokes's _irische texte_; english translation in miss hull's _cuchullin saga_.] the ulster mischief-maker, bricriu of the poison-tongue, was also with the connaught army. though fighting for connaught, the exiles have a friendly feeling for their former comrades, and a keen jealousy for the credit of ulster. there is a constant interchange of courtesies between them and their old pupil, cuchulainn, whom they do not scruple to exhort to fresh efforts for ulster's honour. an equally half-hearted warrior is lugaid mac nois, king of munster, who was bound in friendship to the ulstermen. other characters who play an important part in the story are findabair, daughter of ailill and medb, who is held out as a bribe to various heroes to induce them to fight cuchulainn, and is on one occasion offered to the latter in fraud on condition that he will give up his opposition to the host; and the war-goddess, variously styled the nemain, the badb (scald-crow), and the morrigan (great queen), who takes part against cuchulainn in one of his chief fights. findabair is the bait which induces several old comrades of cuchulainn's, who had been his fellow-pupils under the sorceress scathach, to fight him in single combat. the tale may be divided into:-1. introduction: fedelm's prophecy. 2. cuchulainn's first feats against the host, and the several _geis_, or taboos, which he lays on them. 3. the narration of cuchulainn's boyish deeds, by the ulster exiles to the connaught host. 4. cuchulainn's harassing of the host. 5. the bargain and series of single combats, interrupted by breaches of the agreement on the part of connaught. 6. the visit of lug mac ethlend. 7. the fight with fer diad. 8. the end: the muster of the ulstermen. the mss. the _tain bo cuailnge_ survives, in whole or in part, in a considerable number of mss., most of which are, however, late. the most important are three in number:-(1) leabhar na h-uidhri (lu), 'the book of the dun cow,' a ms. dating from about 1100. the version here given is an old one, though with some late additions, in later language. the chief of these are the piece coming between the death of the herd forgemen and the fight with cur mac dalath (including cuchulainn's meeting with findabair, and the 'womanfight' of rochad), and the whole of what follows the healing of the morrigan. the tale is, like others in this ms., unfinished, the ms. being imperfect. (2) the yellow book of lecan (ybl), a late fourteenth-century ms. the _tain_ in this is substantially the same as in lu. the beginning is missing, but the end is given. some of the late additions of lu are not found here; and ybl, late as it is, often gives an older and better text than the earlier ms. (3) the book of leinster (ll), before 1160. the _tain_ here is longer, fuller, and later in both style and language than in lu or ybl. it is essentially a literary attempt to give a complete and consistent narrative, and is much less interesting than the older lu-ybl recension. in the present version, i have collated lu, as far as it goes, with ybl, adding from the latter the concluding parts of the story, from the fight with fer diad to the end. after the fight with fer diad, ybl breaks off abruptly, leaving nearly a page blank; then follow several pages containing lists, alternative versions of some episodes given in lu (rochad's woman-fight, the warning to conchobar), and one or two episodes which are narrated in ll. i omit about one page, where the narrative is broken and confused. the pages which follow the healing of the morrigan in lu are altogether different in style from the rest of the story as told in lu, and are out of keeping with its simplicity. this whole portion is in the later manner of ll, with which, for the most part, it is in verbal agreement. further, it is in part repetition of material already given (i.e. the coming of the boy-host of ulster, and cuchulainn's displaying himself to the connaught troops). comparison of the versions a german translation of the leinster text of the _tain bo cuailnge_ will soon be accessible to all in dr. windisch's promised edition of the text. it is therefore unnecessary to compare the two versions in detail. some of the main differences may be pointed out, however. of our three copies none is the direct ancestor of any other. lu and ybl are from a common source, though the latter ms. is from an older copy; ll is independent. the two types differ entirely in aim and method. the writers of lu and ybl aimed at accuracy; the leinster man, at presenting an intelligible version. hence, where the two former reproduce obscurities and corruptions, the latter omits, paraphrases, or expands. the unfortunate result is that ll rarely, if ever, helps to clear up textual obscurities in the older copy. on the other hand, it offers explanations of certain episodes not clearly stated in lu. thus, for example, where lu, in the story of the sons of nechta scene, simply mentions 'the withe that was on the pillar,' ll explains that the withe had been placed there by the sons of nechta scene (as cuchulainn placed a similar with in the path of the connaught host), with an ogam inscription forbidding any to pass without combat; hence its removal was an insult and a breach of _geis_. again, the various embassies to cuchulainn, and the terms made with him (that he should not harass the host if he were supplied daily with food, and with a champion to meet him in single combat), are more clearly described in ll. some of the episodes given in lu are not told in the leinster version. of the boyish deeds of cuchulainn, ll tells only three: his first appearance at emain (told by fergus), culann's feast (by cormac), and the feats following cuchulainn's taking of arms (by fiacha). in the main narrative, the chief episodes omitted in ll are the fight with fraech, the fergus and medb episode, and the meeting of findabair and cuchulainn. the meeting with the morrigan is missing, owing to the loss of a leaf. other episodes are differently placed in ll: e.g. the rochad story (an entirely different account), the fight of amairgen and curoi with stones, and the warning to conchobar, all follow the fight with fer diad. a peculiarity of the lu-ybl version is the number of passages which it has in common with the _dinnsenchas_, an eleventh-century compilation of place-legends. the existing collections of _dinnsenchas_ contain over fifty entries derived from the _tain_ cycle, some corresponding with, others differing from those in lu. this version has also embodied a considerable number of glosses in the text. as many of these are common to lu and ybl, they must go back to the common original, which must therefore have been a harmony of previously existing versions, since many of these passages give variants of incidents. age of the versions there is no doubt that the version here translated is a very old one. the language in lu is almost uniformly middle irish, not more than a century earlier than the date of the ms.; thus it shows the post-thetic _he_, _iat_, etc. as object, the adverb with _co_, the confusion of _ar_ and _for_, the extension of the _b_-future, etc. but ybl preserves forms as old as the glosses:-(1) the correct use of the infixed relative, e.g. _rombith_, 'with which he struck.' (lu, _robith_, 58a, 45.) (2) the infixed accusative pronoun, e.g. _nachndiusced_, 'that he should not wake him.' (lu, _nach diusced_, 62a, 30.) (3) _no_ with a secondary tense, e.g. _nolinad_, 'he used to fill.' (lu, _rolinad_, 60b, 6.) (4) very frequently ybl keeps the right aspirated or non-aspirated consonant, where lu shows a general confusion, etc. ll has no very archaic forms, though it cultivates a pseudo-archaic style; and it is unlikely that the leinster version goes back much earlier than 1050. the latter part of the lu _tain_ shows that a version of the leinster type was known to the compiler. the style of this part, with its piling-up of epithets, is that of eleventh-century narrative, as exemplified in texts like the _cath ruis na rig_ and the _cogadh gaidhil_; long strings of alliterative epithets, introduced for sound rather than sense, are characteristic of the period. the descriptions of chariots and horses in the fer diad episode in ybl are similar, and evidently belong to the same rescension. the inferences from the facts noted in the foregoing sections may be stated as follows: a version of the _tain_ goes back to the early eighth, or seventh century, and is preserved under the ybl text; an opinion based on linguistic evidence, but coinciding with the tradition which ascribes the 'recovery of the _tain_' to senchan torpeist, a bard of the later seventh century. this version continued to be copied down to the eleventh century, gradually changing as the language changed. meanwhile, varying accounts of parts of the story came into existence, and some time in the eleventh century a new redaction was made, the oldest representative of which is the ll text. parts of this were embodied in or added to the older version; hence the interpolations in lu. the fer diad episode there is much difference between the two versions of this episode. in ybl, the introductory portion is long and full, the actual fight very short, while in ll the fight is long-drawn-out, and much more stress is laid on the pathetic aspect of the situation. hence it is generally assumed that ll preserves an old version of the episode, and that the scribe of the yellow book has compressed the latter part. it is not, however, usual, in primitive story-telling, to linger over scenes of pathos. such lingering is, like the painted tears of late italian masters, invariably a sign of decadence. it is one of the marks of romance, which recognises tragedy only when it is voluble, and prodigal of lamentation. the older version of the _tain_ is throughout singularly free from pathos of the feebler sort; the humorous side is always uppermost, and the tragic suggestions interwoven with it. but it is still a matter of question whether the whole fer diad episode may not be late. professor zimmer thinks it is; but even the greatest scholar, with a theory to prove, is not quite free. it will of course be noticed, on this side, that the chief motives of the fer diad episode all appear previously in other episodes (e.g. the fights with ferbaeth and with loch). further, the account even in ybl is not marked by old linguistic forms as are other parts of the tale, while much of it is in the bombastic descriptive style of ll. in the condition in which we have the tale, however, this adventure is treated as the climax of the story. its motive is to remove cuchulainn from the field, in order to give the rest of ulster a chance. but in the account of the final great fight in ybl, cuchulainn's absence is said to be due to his having been wounded in a combat against odds (_crechtnugud i n-ecomlund_). considering, therefore, that even in ybl the fer diad episode is late in language, it seems possible that it may have replaced some earlier account in which cuchulainn was so severely wounded that he was obliged to retire from the field. previous work on the '_tain_' up to the present time the _tain_ has never been either printed or translated, though the lu version has been for thirty years easily accessible in facsimile. dr. windisch's promised edition will shortly be out, containing the ll and lu texts, with a german translation of the former. the most useful piece of work done hitherto for the _tain_ is the analysis by professor zimmer of the lu text (conclusion from the book of leinster), in the fifth of his _keltische studien (zeitschrift für vergl. sprachforschung_, xxviii.). another analysis of the story, by mr. s. h. o'grady, appeared in miss eleanor hull's _the cuchullin saga_; it is based on a late paper ms. in the british museum, giving substantially the same version as ll. this work contains also a map of ancient ireland, showing the route of the connaught forces; but a careful working-out of the topography of the _tain_ is much needed, many names being still unidentified. several of the small introductory _tana_ have been published in windisch and stokes's _irische texte_; and separate episodes from the great _tain_ have been printed and translated from time to time. the fight with fer diad (ll) was printed with translation by o'curry in the _manners and customs of the ancient irish_. the story of the two swineherds, with their successive reincarnations until they became the dun bull and the white-horned (an introductory story to the _tain_ ), is edited with translation in _irische texte_, and mr. nutt printed an abridged english version in the _voyage of bran_. the leinster version seems to have been the favourite with modern workers, probably because it is complete and consistent; possibly its more sentimental style has also served to commend it. aim of this translation it is perhaps unnecessary to say that the present version is intended for those who cannot read the tale in the original; it is therefore inadvisable to overload the volume with notes, variant readings, or explanations of the readings adopted, which might repel the readers to whom it is offered. at the present time, an enthusiasm for irish literature is not always accompanied by a knowledge of the irish language. it seems therefore to be the translator's duty, if any true estimate of this literature is to be formed, to keep fairly close to the original, since nothing is to be gained by attributing beauties which it does not possess, while obscuring its true merits, which are not few. for the same reason, while keeping the irish second person singular in verses and formal speech, i have in ordinary dialogue substituted the pronoun _you_, which suggests the colloquial style of the original better than the obsolete _thou_. the so-called rhetorics are omitted in translating; they are passages known in irish as _rosc_, often partly alliterative, but not measured. they are usually meaningless strings of words, with occasional intelligible phrases. in all probability the passages aimed at sound, with only a general suggestion of the drift. any other omissions are marked where they occur; many obscure words in the long descriptive passages are of necessity left untranslated. in two places i have made slight verbal changes without altering the sense, a liberty which is very rarely necessary in irish. of the headings, those printed in capitals are in the text in the ms.; those italicised are marginal. i have bracketed obvious scribal glosses which have crept into the text. some of the marginal glosses are translated in the footnotes. geographical names as a considerable part of the _tain_ is occupied by connecting episodes with place-names, an explanation of some of the commonest elements in these may be of use to those who know no irish: ath=a ford; e.g. ath gabla (ford of the fork), ath traiged (ford of the foot), ath carpat (ford of chariots), ath fraich (fraech's ford), etc. belat=cross-roads; e.g. belat alioin. bernas=a pass, or gap; e.g. _bernas bo ulad_ or _bernas bo cuailnge_ (pass of the cows of ulster, or of cualnge). clithar=a shelter; e.g. clithar bo ulad (shelter of the cows of ulster). cul=a corner; e.g. cul airthir (eastern corner). dun= a fort; e.g. dun sobairche. fid=a wood; e.g. fid mor drualle (great wood of the sword-sheath). glass=a brook, stream; e.g. glass chrau (the stream of blood), glass cruind, glass gatlaig (gatt=a withe, laig=a calf). glenn=a glen; e.g. glenn gatt (glen of the withe), glenn firbaith (ferbaeth's glen), glenn gatlaig. grellach=a bog; e.g. grellach doluid. guala=a hill-shoulder; e.g. gulo mulchai (mulcha's shoulder). loch=a lake; e.g. loch reoin, loch echtra. mag=a plain; e.g. mag ai, mag murthemne, mag breg, mag clochair (cloch=a stone). methe, explained as if from meth (death); methe togmaill (death of the squirrel), methe n-eoin (death of the bird). reid, gen. rede=a plain; e.g. ath rede locha (ford of locha's plain). sid=a fairy mound; e.g. sid fraich (fraech's mound). sliab=a mountain; e.g. sliab fuait. i need perhaps hardly say that many of the etymologies given in irish sources are pure invention, stories being often made up to account for the names, the real meaning of which was unknown to the mediaeval story-teller or scribe. in conclusion, i have to express my most sincere thanks to professor strachan, whose pupil i am proud to be. i have had the advantage of his wide knowledge and experience in dealing with many obscurities in the text, and he has also read the proofs. i am indebted also to mr. e. gwynn, who has collated at trinity college, dublin, a number of passages in the yellow book of lecan, which are illegible or incorrect in the facsimile; and to dr. whitley stokes for notes and suggestions on many obscure words. llandaff, november 1903. this is the cattle-raid of cualnge i a great hosting was brought together by the connaughtmen, that is, by ailill and medb; and they sent to the three other provinces. and messengers were sent by ailill to the seven sons of magach: ailill, anluan, mocorb, cet, en, bascall, and doche; a cantred with each of them. and to cormac condlongas mac conchobair with his three hundred, who was billeted in connaught. then they all come to cruachan ai. now cormac had three troops which came to cruachan. the first troop had many-coloured cloaks folded round them; hair like a mantle (?); the tunic falling(?) to the knee, and long(?) shields; and a broad grey spearhead on a slender shaft in the hand of each man. the second troop wore dark grey cloaks, and tunics with red ornamentation down to their calves, and long hair hanging behind from their heads, and white shields (?), and five-pronged spears were in their hands. 'this is not cormac yet,' said medb. then comes the third troop; and they wore purple cloaks and hooded tunics with red ornamentation down to their feet, hair smooth to their shoulders, and round shields with engraved edges, and the pillars [note: i.e. spears as large as pillars, etc.] of a palace in the hand of each man. 'this is cormac now,' said medb. then the four provinces of ireland were assembled, till they were in cruachan ai. and their poets and their druids did not let them go thence till the end of a fortnight, for waiting for a good omen. medb said then to her charioteer the day that they set out: 'every one who parts here to-day from his love or his friend will curse me,' said she, 'for it is i who have gathered this hosting.' 'wait then,' said the charioteer, 'till i turn the chariot with the sun, and till there come the power of a good omen that we may come back again.' then the charioteer turned the chariot, and they set forth. then they saw a full-grown maiden before them. she had yellow hair, and a cloak of many colours, and a golden pin in it; and a hooded tunic with red embroidery. she wore two shoes with buckles of gold. her face was narrow below and broad above. very black were her two eyebrows; her black delicate eyelashes cast a shadow into the middle of her two cheeks. you would think it was with _partaing_ [note: exact meaning unknown. it is always used in this connection.] her lips were adorned. you would think it was a shower of pearls that was in her mouth, that is, her teeth. she had three tresses: two tresses round her head above, and a tress behind, so that it struck her two thighs behind her. a shuttle [note: literally, a beam used for making fringe.] of white metal, with an inlaying of gold, was in her hand. each of her two eyes had three pupils. the maiden was armed, and there were two black horses to her chariot. 'what is your name?' said medb to the maiden. 'fedelm, the prophetess of connaught, is my name,' said the maiden. 'whence do you come?' said medb. 'from scotland, after learning the art of prophecy,' said the maiden. 'have you the inspiration(?) which illumines?' [note: ir. _imbas forasnai_, the name of a kind of divination.] said medb. 'yes, indeed,' said the maiden. 'look for me how it will be with my hosting,' said medb. then the maiden looked for it; and medb said: 'o fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou the host?' fedelm answered and said: 'i see very red, i see red.' 'that is not true,' said medb; 'for conchobar is in his sickness at emain and the ulstermen with him, with all the best [note: conjectural; some letters missing. for the ulster sickness, see introduction.] of their warriors; and my messengers have come and brought me tidings thence. 'fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou our host?' said medb. 'i see red,' said the maiden. 'that is not true,' said medb; 'for celtchar mac uithichair is in dun lethglaise, and a third of the ulstermen with him; and fergus, son of roich, son of eochaid, is here with us, in exile, and a cantred with him. 'fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou our host?' said medb. 'i see very red, i see red,' said the maiden. 'that matters not,' said medb; 'for there are mutual angers, and quarrels, and wounds very red in every host and in every assembly of a great army. look again for us then, and tell us the truth. 'fedelm the prophetess, how seest thou our host?' 'i see very red, i see red,' said fedelm. 'i see a fair man who will make play with a number of wounds(?) on his girdle; [note: unless this is an allusion to the custom of carrying an enemy's head at the girdle, the meaning is obscure. ll has quite a different reading. the language of this poem is late.] a hero's flame over his head, his forehead a meeting-place of victory. 'there are seven gems of a hero of valour in the middle of his two irises; there is ---on his cloak, he wears a red clasped tunic. 'he has a face that is noble, which causes amazement to women. a young man who is fair of hue comes ---[note: five syllables missing.] 'like is the nature of his valour to cuchulainn of murthemne. i do not know whose is the hound of culann, whose fame is the fairest. but i know that it is thus that the host is very red from him. 'i see a great man on the plain he gives battle to the hosts; four little swords of feats there are in each of his two hands. 'two _gae-bolga_, he carries them, [note: the gae-bolga was a special kind of spear, which only cuchulainn could use.] besides an ivory-hilted sword and spear; ---[note: three syllables missing] he wields to the host; different is the deed for which each arm goes from him. 'a man in a battle-girdle (?), of a red cloak, he puts ---every plain. he smites them, over left chariot wheel (?); the _riastartha_ wounds them. [note: the riastartha ('distorted one') was a name given to cuchulainn because of the contortion, described later, which came over him.] the form that appeared to me on him hitherto, i see that his form has been changed. 'he has moved forward to the battle, if heed is not taken of him it will be treachery. i think it likely it is he who seeks you: cuchulainn mac sualtaim. 'he will strike on whole hosts, he will make dense slaughters of you, ye will leave with him many thousands of heads. the prophetess fedelm conceals not. 'blood will rain from warriors' wounds at the hand of a warrior--'twill be full harm. he will slay warriors, men will wander of the descendants of deda mac sin. corpses will be cut off, women will lament through the hound of the smith that i see.' the monday after samain [note: samain, 'summer-end,' about the beginning of november.] they set forth, and this is the way they took: south-east from cruachan ai, i.e. by muicc cruimb, by teloch teora crich, by tuaim mona, by cul sibrinne, by fid, by bolga, by coltain, by glune-gabair, by mag trego, by north tethba, by south tethba, by tiarthechta, by ord, by slais southwards, by indiuind, by carnd, by ochtrach, by midi, by findglassa assail, by deilt, by delind, by sailig, by slaibre, by slechta selgatar, by cul sibrinne, by ochaind southwards, by uatu northwards, by dub, by comur southwards, by tromma, by othromma eastwards, by slane, by gortslane, by druim licce southwards, by ath gabla, by ard achad, by feraind northwards, by findabair, by assi southwards, by druim salfind, by druim cain, by druim mac n-dega, by eodond mor, by eodond bec, by methe togmaill, by methe eoin, by druim caemtechta, by scuaip, by imscuaip, by cend ferna, by baile, by aile, by bail scena, by dail scena, by fertse, by ross lochad, by sale, by lochmach, by anmag, by deind, by deilt, by dubglaiss, by fid mor, by colbtha, by cronn, to cualnge. from findabair cuailnge, it is thence the hosts of ireland were divided over the province to seek the bull. for it is past these places that they came, till they reached findabair. (here ends the title; and the story begins as follows:-this is the story in order when they had come on their first journey from cruachan as far as cul sibrinne, medb told her charioteer to get ready her nine chariots for her, that she might make a circuit in the camp, to see who disliked and who liked the expedition. now his tent was pitched for ailill, and the furniture was arranged, both beds and coverings. fergus mac roich in his tent was next to ailill; cormac condlongas mac conchobair beside him; conall cernach by him; fiacha mac fir-febe, the son of conchobar's daughter, by him. medb, daughter of eochaid fedlech, was on ailill's other side; next to her, findabair, daughter of ailill and medb. that was besides servants and attendants. medb came, after looking at the host, and she said it were folly for the rest to go on the hosting, if the cantred of the leinstermen went. 'why do you blame the men?' said ailill. 'we do not blame them,' said medb; 'splendid are the warriors. when the rest were making their huts, they had finished thatching their huts and cooking their food; when the rest were at dinner, they had finished dinner, and their harpers were playing to them. it is folly for them to go,' said medb; 'it is to their credit the victory of the hosts will be.' 'it is for us they fight,' said ailill. 'they shall not come with us,' said medb. 'let them stay then,' said ailill. 'they shall not stay,' said medb. 'they will come on us after we have gone,' said she, 'and seize our land against us.' 'what is to be done to them?' said ailill; 'will you have them neither stay nor go?' 'to kill them,' said medb. 'we will not hide that this is a woman's plan,' said ailill; 'what you say is not good!' 'with this folk,' said fergus, 'it shall not happen thus (for it is a folk bound by ties to us ulstermen), unless we are all killed.' 'even that we could do,' said medb; 'for i am here with my retinue of two cantreds,' said she, 'and there are the seven manes, that is, my seven sons, with seven cantreds; their luck can protect them,' (?) said she; 'that is mane-mathramail, and mane-athramail, and mane-morgor, and mane-mingor, and mane-moepert (and he is mane-milscothach), mane-andoe, and mane-who-got-everything: he got the form of his mother and of his father, and the dignity of both.' 'it would not be so,' said fergus. 'there are seven kings of munster here, and a cantred with each of them, in friendship with us ulstermen. i will give battle to you,' said fergus, 'in the middle of the host in which we are, with these seven cantreds, and with my own cantred, and with the cantred of the leinstermen. but i will not urge that,' said fergus, 'we will provide for the warriors otherwise, so that they shall not prevail over the host. seventeen cantreds for us,' said fergus, 'that is the number of our army, besides our rabble, and our women (for with each king there is his queen, in medb's company), and besides our striplings. this is the eighteenth cantred, the cantred of the leinstermen. let them be distributed among the rest of the host.' 'i do not care,' said medb, 'provided they are not gathered as they are.' then this was done; the leinstermen were distributed among the host. they set out next morning to moin choiltrae, where eight score deer fell in with them in one herd. they surrounded them and killed them then; wherever there was a man of the leinstermen, it was he who got them, except five deer that all the rest of the host got. then they came to mag trego, and stopped there and prepared their food. they say that it is there that dubthach sang this song: 'grant what you have not heard hitherto, listening to the fight of dubthach. a hosting very black is before you, against findbend of the wife of ailill. [note: findbennach, the whitehorned; i.e. the other of the two bulls in whom the rival swineherds were reincarnated.] 'the man of expeditions will come who will defend (?) murthemne. ravens will drink milk of ---[note: some kenning for blood?] from the friendship of the swineherds. 'the turfy cronn will resist them; [note: i.e. the river cronn. this line is a corruption of a reference which occurs later, in the account of the flooding of the cronn, as professor strachan first pointed out to me.] he will not let them into murthemne until the work of warriors is over in sliab tuad ochaine. '"quickly," said ailill to cormac, "go that you may ---your son. the cattle do not come from the fields that the din of the host may not terrify them(?). '"this will be a battle in its time for medb with a third of the host. there will be flesh of men therefrom if the riastartha comes to you."' then the nemain attacked them, and that was not the quietest of nights for them, with the uproar of the churl (i.e. dubthach) through their sleep. the host started up at once, and a great number of the host were in confusion, till medb came to reprove him. then they went and spent the night in granard tethba tuascirt, after the host had been led astray over bogs and over streams. a warning was sent from fergus to the ulstermen here, for friendship. they were now in the weakness, except cuchulainn and his father sualtaim. cuchulainn and his father went, after the coming of the warning from fergus, till they were in iraird cuillend, watching the host there. 'i think of the host to-night,' said cuchulainn to his father. 'go from us with a warning to the ulstermen. i am forced to go to a tryst with fedelm noichride, [note: gloss incorporated in the text: that is, with her servant,' etc.] from my own pledge that went out to her.' he made a spancel-withe [this was a twig twisted in the form of two rings, joined by one straight piece, as used for hobbling horses and cattle.] then before he went, and wrote an ogam on its ----, and threw it on the top of the pillar. the leadership of the way before the army was given to fergus. then fergus went far astray to the south, till ulster should have completed the collection of an army; he did this for friendship. ailill and medb perceived it; it was then medb said: 'o fergus, this is strange, what kind of way do we go? straying south or north we go over every other folk. 'ailill of ai with his hosting fears that you will betray them. you have not given your mind hitherto to the leading of the way. 'if it is in friendship that you do it, do not lead the horses peradventure another may be found to lead the way.' fergus replied: 'o medb, what troubles you? this is not like treachery. it belongs to the ulstermen, o woman, the land across which i am leading you. 'it is not for the disadvantage of the host that i go on each wandering in its turn; it is to avoid the great man who protects mag murthemne. 'not that my mind is not distressed on account of the straying on which i go, but if perchance i may avoid even afterwards cuchulainn mac sualtaim.' then they went till they were in iraird cuillend. eirr and indell, foich and foclam (their two charioteers), the four sons of iraird mac anchinne, [marginal gloss: 'or the four sons of nera mac nuado mac taccain, as it is found in other books.'] it is they who were before the host, to protect their brooches and their cushions and their cloaks, that the dust of the host might not soil them. they found the withe that cuchulainn threw, and perceived the grazing that the horses had grazed. for sualtaim's two horses had eaten the grass with its roots from the earth; cuchulainn's two horses had licked the earth as far as the stones beneath the grass. they sit down then, until the host came, and the musicians play to them. they give the withe into the hands of fergus mac roich; he read the ogam that was on it. when medb came, she asked, 'why are you waiting here?' 'we wait,' said fergus,' because of the withe yonder. there is an ogam on its ----, and this is what is in it: "let no one go past till a man is found to throw a like withe with his one hand, and let it be one twig of which it is made; and i except my friend fergus." truly,' said fergus, 'cuchulainn has thrown it, and they are his horses that grazed the plain.' and he put it in the hands of the druids; and fergus sang this song: 'here is a withe, what does the withe declare to us? what is its mystery? what number threw it? few or many? 'will it cause injury to the host, if they go a journey from it? find out, ye druids, something therefore for what the withe has been left. '---of heroes the hero who has thrown it, full misfortune on warriors; a delay of princes, wrathful is the matter, one man has thrown it with one hand. 'is not the king's host at the will of him, unless it breaks fair play? until one man only of you throw it, as one man has thrown it. i do not know anything save that for which the withe should have been put. here is a withe.' then fergus said to them: 'if you outrage this withe,' said he, 'or if you go past it, though he be in the custody of a man, or in a house under a lock, the ---of the man who wrote the ogam on it will reach him, and will slay a goodly slaughter of you before morning, unless one of you throw a like withe.' 'it does not please us, indeed, that one of us should be slain at once,' said ailill. 'we will go by the neck of the great wood yonder, south of us, and we will not go over it at all.' the troops hewed down then the wood before the chariots. this is the name of that place, slechta. it is there that partraige is. (according to others, the conversation between medb and fedelm the prophetess took place there, as we told before; and then it is after the answer she gave to medb that the wood was cut down; i.e. 'look for me,' said medb, 'how my hosting will be.' 'it is difficult to me,' said the maiden; 'i cannot cast my eye over them in the wood.' 'it is ploughland (?) there shall be,' said medb; 'we will cut down the wood.' then this was done, so that slechta was the name of the place.) they spent the night then in cul sibrille; a great snowstorm fell on them, to the girdles of the men and the wheels of the chariots. the rising was early next morning. and it was not the most peaceful of nights for them, with the snow; and they had not prepared food that night. but it was not early when cuchulainn came from his tryst; he waited to wash and bathe. then he came on the track of the host. 'would that we had not gone there,' said cuchulainn, 'nor betrayed the ulstermen; we have let the host go to them unawares. make us an estimation of the host,' said cuchulainn to loeg, 'that we may know the number of the host.' loeg did this, and said to cuchulainn: 'i am confused,' said he, 'i cannot attain this.' 'it would not be confusion that i see, if only i come,' said cuchulainn. 'get into the chariot then,' said loeg. cuchulainn got into the chariot, and put a reckoning over the host for a long time. 'even you,' said loeg, 'you do not find it easy.' 'it is easier indeed to me than to you,' said cuchulainn; 'for i have three gifts, the gifts of eye, and of mind, and of reckoning. i have put a reckoning [marginal gloss: 'this is one of the three severest and most difficult reckonings made in ireland; i.e. cuchulainn's reckoning of the men of ireland on the _tain_; and ug's reckoning of the fomorian hosts at the battle of mag tured; and ingcel's reckoning of the hosts at the bruiden da derga.'] on this,' said he; 'there are eighteen cantreds,' said he, 'for their number; only that the eighteenth cantred is distributed among all the host, so that their number is not clear; that is, the cantred of the leinstermen.' then cuchulainn went round the host till he was at ath gabla. [note: lu has ath grena.] he cuts a fork [note: i.e. fork of a tree.] there with one blow of his sword, and put it on the middle of the stream, so that a chariot could not pass it on this side or that. eirr and indell, foich and fochlam (their two charioteers) came upon him thereat. he strikes their four heads off, and throws them on to the four points of the fork. hence is ath gabla. then the horses of the four went to meet the host, and their cushions very red on them. they supposed it was a battalion that was before them at the ford. a troop went from them to look at the ford; they saw nothing there but the track of one chariot and the fork with the four heads, and a name in ogam written on the side. all the host came then. 'are the heads yonder from our people?' said medb. 'they are from our people and from our choice warriors,' said ailill. one of them read the ogam that was on the side of the fork; that is: 'a man has thrown the fork with his one hand; and you shall not go past it till one of you, except fergus, has thrown it with one hand.' 'it is a marvel,' said ailill, 'the quickness with which the four were struck.' it was not that that was a marvel,' said fergus; 'it was the striking of the fork from the trunk with one blow; and if the end was [cut] with one blow, [note: lit. 'if its end was one cutting.'] it is the fairer for it, and that it was thrust in in this manner; for it is not a hole that has been dug for it, but it is from the back of the chariot it has been thrown with one hand.' 'avert this strait from us, o fergus,' said medb. bring me a chariot then,' said fergus, 'that i may take it out, that you may see whether its end was hewn with one blow.' fergus broke then fourteen chariots of his chariots, so that it was from his own chariot that he took it out of the ground, and he saw that the end was hewn with one blow. 'heed must be taken to the character of the tribe to which we are going,' said ailill. 'let each of you prepare his food; you had no rest last night for the snow. and something shall be told to us of the adventures and stories of the tribe to which we are going.' it is then that the adventures of cuchulainn were related to them. ailill asked: 'is it conchobar who has done this?' 'not he,' said fergus; 'he would not have come to the border of the country without the number of a battalion round him.' 'was it celtchar mac uithidir?' 'not he; he would not have come to the border of the country without the number of a battalion round him.' 'was it eogan mac durtacht?' 'not he,' said fergus; 'he would not have come over the border of the country without thirty chariots two-pointed (?) round him. this is the man who would have done the deed,' said fergus, 'cuchulainn; it is he who would have cut the tree at one blow from the trunk, and who would have killed the four yonder as quickly as they were killed, and who would have come to the boundary with his charioteer.' 'what kind of man,' said ailill, 'is this hound of whom we have heard among the ulstermen? what age is this youth who is famous?' 'an easy question, truly,' said fergus. 'in his fifth year he went to the boys at emain macha to play; in his sixth year he went to learn arms and feats with scathach. in his seventh year he took arms. he is now seventeen years old at this time.' 'is it he who is hardest to deal with among the ulstermen?' said medb. 'over every one of them,' said fergus. 'you will not find before you a warrior who is harder to deal with, nor a point that is sharper or keener or swifter, nor a hero who is fiercer, nor a raven that is more flesh-loving, nor a match of his age that can equal him as far as a third; nor a lion that is fiercer, nor a fence(?) of battle, nor a hammer of destruction, nor a door of battle, nor judgment on hosts, nor preventing of a great host that is more worthy. you will not find there a man who would reach his age, and his growth, and his dress, and his terror, his speech, his splendour, his fame, his voice, his form, his power, his hardness, his accomplishment, his valour, his striking, his rage, his anger, his victory, his doom-giving, his violence, his estimation, his hero-triumph, his speed, his pride, his madness, with the feat of nine men on every point, like cuchulainn!' 'i don't care for that,' said medb; 'he is in one body; he endures wounding; he is not above capturing. therewith his age is that of a grown-up girl, and his manly deeds have not come yet.' 'not so,' said fergus. 'it would be no wonder if he were to do a good deed to-day; for even when he was younger his deeds were manly.' here are his boyish deeds 'he was brought up,' said fergus, 'by his mother and father at the ---in mag murthemne. the stories of the boys in emain were related to him; for there are three fifties of boys there,' said fergus, 'at play. it is thus that conchobar enjoys his sovereignty: a third of the day watching the boys; another third playing chess; [note: _fidchill_, usually so translated, but the exact nature of the game is uncertain.] another third drinking beer till sleep seizes him therefrom. although we are in exile, there is not in ireland a warrior who is more wonderful,' said fergus. 'cuchulainn asked his mother then to let him go to the boys. '"you shall not go," said his mother, "until you have company of warriors." '"i deem it too long to wait for it," said cuchulainn. "show me on which side emain is." '"northwards so," said his mother; "and the journey is hard," said she, "sliab fuait is between you." '"i will find it out," said cuchulainn. 'he goes forth then, and his shield of lath with him, and his toy-spear, and his playing-club, and his ball. he kept throwing his staff before him, so that he took it by the point before the end fell on the ground. 'he goes then to the boys without binding them to protect him. for no one used to go to them in their play-field till his protection was guaranteed. he did not know this. '"the boy insults us," said follomon mac conchobair, "besides we know he is of the ulstermen. ... throw at him!" 'they throw their three fifties of toy-spears at him, and they all remained standing in his shield of lath. then they throw all the balls at him; and he takes them, each single ball, in his bosom. then they throw their three fifties of hurling-clubs at him; he warded them off so that they did not touch him, and he took a bundle of them on his back. then contortion seized him. you would have thought that it was a hammering wherewith each little hair had been driven into his head, with the arising with which he arose. you would have thought there was a spark of fire on every single hair. he shut one of his eyes so that it was not wider than the eye of a needle. he opened the other so that it was as large as the mouth of a meadcup. he laid bare from his jawbone to his ear; he opened his mouth to his jaw [note: conjectured from the later description of cuchulainn's distortion.] so that his gullet was visible. the hero's light rose from his head. then he strikes at the boys. he overthrows fifty of them before they reached the door of emain. nine of them came over me and conchobar as we were playing chess. then he springs over the chessboard after the nine. conchobar caught his elbow. '"the boys are not well treated," said conchobar. '"lawful for me, o friend conchobar," said he. "i came to them from my home to play, from my mother and father; and they have not been good to me." '"what is your name?" said conchobar. '"setanta mac sualtaim am i," said he, "and the son of dechtere, your sister. it was not fitting to hurt me here." '"why were the boys not bound to protect you?" said conchobar. '"i did not know this," said cuchulainn. "undertake my protection against them then." '"i recognise it," said conchobar. 'then he turned aside on [note: i.e. to attack them.] the boys throughout the house. '"what ails you at them now?" said conchobar. '"that i may be bound to protect them," said cuchulainn. '"undertake it," said conchobar. '"i recognise it," said cuchulainn. 'then they all went into the play-field, and those boys who had been struck down there arose. their foster-mothers and foster-fathers helped them. 'once,' said fergus, 'when he was a youth, he used not to sleep in emain macha till morning. '"tell me," said conchobar to him, "why you do not sleep?" '"i do not do it," said cuchulainn, "unless it is equally high at my head and my feet." 'then a stone pillar was put by conchobar at his head, and another at his feet, and a bed was made for him separately between them. 'another time a certain man went to awaken him, and he struck him with his fist in his forehead, so that it took the front of his forehead on to the brain, and so that he overthrew the pillar with his arm.' 'it is known,' said ailill, 'that it was the fist of a warrior and that it was the arm of a hero.' 'from that time,' said fergus, 'no one dared to waken him till he awoke of himself. 'another time he was playing ball in the play-field east of emain; he alone apart against the three fifties of boys; he used to defeat them in every game in this way always. the boys lay hold of him therewith, and he plied his fist upon them until fifty of them were killed. he took to flight then, till he was under the pillow of conchobar's bed. all the ulstermen rise round him, and i rise, and conchobar himself. then he rose under the bed, and put the bed from him, with the thirty heroes who were on it, till it was in the middle of the house. the ulstermen sit round him in the house. we arrange and make peace then,' said fergus, 'between the boys and him. 'there was contention between ulster and eogan mac durtacht. the ulstermen went to the battle. he was left asleep. the ulstermen were defeated. conchobar was left [on the field], and cuscraid mend macha, and many more beside. their lament awoke cuchulainn. he stretched himself then, so that the two stones that were about him broke; in the presence of bricriu yonder it was done,' said fergus. 'then he arose. i met him in the door of the fort, and i wounded. '"alas! god save you, friend fergus," said he, "where is conchobar?" '"i do not know," said i. 'then he went forth. the night was dark. he made for the battlefield. he saw a man before him, with half his head on, and half of another man on his back. '"help me, o cuchulainn," said he; "i have been wounded and i have brought half of my brother on my back. carry it for me a while." '"i will not carry it," said he. 'then he throws the burden to him; he throws it from him; they wrestle; cuchulainn was overthrown. i heard something, the badb from the corpses: "ill the stuff of a hero that is under the feet of a phantom." then cuchulainn rose against him, and strikes his head off with his playing-club, and begins to drive his ball before him across the plain. '"is my friend conchobar in this battlefield?" 'he answered him. he goes to him, till he sees him in the trench, and there was the earth round him on every side to hide him. '"why have you come into the battlefield," said conchobar, "that you may swoon there?" 'he lifts him out of the trench then; six of the strong men of ulster with us would not have brought him out more bravely. '"go before us to the house yonder," said conchobar; "if a roast pig came to me, i should live." '"i will go and bring it," said cuchulainn. 'he goes then, and saw a man at a cooking-hearth in the middle of the wood; one of his two hands had his weapons in it, the other was cooking the pig. 'the hideousness of the man was great; nevertheless he attacked him and took his head and his pig with him. conchobar ate the pig then. '"let us go to our house," said conchobar. 'they met cuscraid mac conchobair. there were sure wounds on him; cuchulainn took him on his back. the three of them went then to emain macha. 'another time the ulstermen were in their weakness. there was not among us,' said fergus, 'weakness on women and boys, nor on any one who was outside the country of the ulstermen, nor on cuchulainn and his father. and so no one dared to shed their blood; for the suffering springs on him who wounds them. [gloss incorporated in text: 'or their decay, or their shortness of life.'] 'three times nine men came to us from the isles of faiche. they went over our back court when we were in our weakness. the women screamed in the court. the boys were in the play-field; they come at the cries. when the boys saw the dark, black men, they all take to flight except cuchulainn alone. he plies hand-stones and his playing-club on them. he kills nine of them, and they leave fifty wounds on him, and they go forth besides. a man who did these deeds when his five years were not full, it would be no wonder that he should have come to the edge of the boundary and that he should have cut off the heads of yonder four.' 'we know him indeed, this boy,' said conall cernach, 'and we know him none the worse that he is a fosterling of ours. it was not long after the deed that fcrgus has just related, when he did another deed. when culann the smith served a feast to conchobar, culann said that it was not a multitude that should be brought to him, for the preparation which he had made was not from land or country, but from the fruit of his two hands and his pincers. then conchobar went, and fifty chariots with him, of those who were noblest and most eminent of the heroes. now conchobar visited then his play-field. it was always his custom to visit and revisit them at going and coming, to seek a greeting of the boys. he saw then cuchulainn driving his ball against the three fifties of boys, and he gets the victory over them. when it was hole-driving that they did, he filled the hole with his balls and they could not ward him off. when they were all throwing into the hole, he warded them off alone, so that not a single ball would go in it. when it was wrestling they were doing, he overthrew the three fifties of boys by himself, and there did not meet round him a number that could overthrow him. when it was stripping that they did, he stripped them all so that they were quite naked, and they could not take from him even his brooch out of his cloak. 'conchobar thought this wonderful. he said "would he bring his deeds to completion, provided the age of manhood came to them?" every one said: "he would bring them to completion." conchobar said to cuchulainn: "come with me," said he, "to the feast to which we are going, because you are a guest." '"i have not had enough of play yet, o friend conchobar," said the boy; "i will come after you." 'when they had all come to the feast, culann said to conchobar: "do you expect any one to follow you?" said he. '"no," said conchobar. he did not remember the appointment with his foster-son who was following him. '"i'll have a watch-dog," said culann; "there are three chains on him, and three men to each chain. [gloss incorporated in text: 'he was brought from spain.'] let him be let slip because of our cattle and stock, and let the court be shut." 'then the boy comes. the dog attacks him. he went on with his play still: he threw his ball, and threw his club after it, so that it struck the ball. one stroke was not greater than another; and he threw his toy-spear after them, and he caught it before falling; and it did not hinder his play, though the dog was approaching him. conchobar and his retinue ---this, so that they could not move; they thought they would not find him alive when they came, even though the court were open. now when the dog came to him, he threw away his ball and his club, and seized the dog with his two hands; that is, he put one of his hands to the apple of the dog's throat; and he put the other at its back; he struck it against the pillar that was beside him, so that every limb sprang apart. (according to another, it was his ball that he threw into its mouth, and brought out its entrails through it.) 'the ulstermen went towards him, some over the wall, others over the doors of the court. they put him on conchobar's knee. a great clamour arose among them, that the king's sister's son should have been almost killed. then culann comes into the house. '"welcome, boy, for the sake of your mother. would that i had not prepared a feast! my life is a life lost, and my husbandry is a husbandry without, without my dog. he had kept honour and life for me," said he, "the man of my household who has been taken from me, that is, my dog. he was defence and protection to our property and our cattle; he was the protection of every beast to us, both field and house." '"it is not a great matter," said the boy; "a whelp of the same litter shall be raised for you by me, and i will be a dog for the defence of your cattle and for your own defence now, until that dog grows, and until he is capable of action; and i will defend mag murthemne, so that there shall not be taken away from me cattle nor herd, unless i have ----." '"then your name shall be cu-chulainn," said cathbad. '"i am content that it may be my name," said cuchulainn. 'a man who did this in his seventh year, it would be no wonder that he should have done a great deed now when his seventeen years are completed,' said conall cernach. 'he did another exploit,' said fiacha mac fir-febe. 'cathbad the druid was with his son, conchobar mac nessa. a hundred active men were with him, learning magic from him. that is the number that cathbad used to teach. a certain one of his pupils asked of him for what this day would be good. cathbad said a warrior should take arms therein whose name should be over ireland for ever, for deed of valour, and his fame should continue for ever. cuchulainn heard this. he comes to conchobar to ask for arms. conchobar said, "who has instructed you?" '"my friend cathbad," said cuchulainn. '"we know indeed," said conchobar. 'he gave him spear and shield. he brandished them in the middle of the house, so that nothing remained of the fifteen sets of armour that were in store in conchobar's household against the breaking of weapons or taking of arms by any one. conchobar's own armour was given to him. that withstood him, and he brandished it, and blessed the king whose armour it was, and said, "blessing to the people and race to whom is king the man whose armour that is." 'then cathbad came to them, and said: "has the boy taken arms?" said cathbad. '"yes," said conchobar. '"this is not lucky for the son of his mother," said he. '"what, is it not you advised it?" said conchobar. '"not i, surely," said cathbad. '"what advantage to you to deceive me, wild boy?" said conchobar to cuchulainn. '"o king of heroes, it is no trick," said cuchulainn; "it is he who taught it to his pupils this morning; and i heard him, south of emain, and i came to you then." '"the day is good thus," said cathbad; "it is certain he will be famous and renowned, who shall take arms therein; but he will be short-lived only." '"a wonder of might," said cuchulainn; "provided i be famous, i am content though i were but one day in the world." 'another day a certain man asked the druids what it is for which that day was good. '"whoever shall go into a chariot therein," said cathbad, "his name shall be over ireland for ever." 'then cuchulainn heard this; he comes to conchobar and said to him: "o friend conchobar," said he, "give me a chariot." he gave him a chariot. he put his hand between the two poles [note: the _fertais_ were poles sticking out behind the chariot, as the account of the wild deer, later, shows.] of the chariot, so that the chariot broke. he broke twelve chariots in this way. then conchobar's chariot was given to him. this withstood him. he goes then in the chariot, and conchobar's charioteer with him. the charioteer (ibor was his name) turned the chariot under him. "come out of the chariot now," said the charioteer. '"the horses are fine, and i am fine, their little lad," said cuchulainn. "go forward round emain only, and you shall have a reward for it." 'so the charioteer goes, and cuchulainn forced him then that he should go on the road to greet the boys "and that the boys might bless me." 'he begged him to go on the way again. when they come, cuchulainn said to the charioteer: "ply the goad on the horses," said he. '"in what direction?" said the charioteer. '"as long as the road shall lead us," said cuchulainn. 'they come thence to sliab fuait, and find conall cernach there. it fell to conall that day to guard the province; for every hero of ulster was in sliab fuait in turn, to protect any one who should come with poetry, or to fight against a man; so that it should be there that there should be some one to encounter him, that no one should go to emain unperceived. '"may that be for prosperity," said conall; "may it be for victory and triumph." '"go to the fort, o conall, and leave me to watch here now," said cuchulainn. '"it will be enough," said conall, "if it is to protect any one with poetry; if it is to fight against a man, it is early for you yet." '"perhaps it may not be necessary at all," said cuchulainn. "let us go meanwhile," said cuchulainn, "to look upon the edge of loch echtra. heroes are wont to abide there." '"i am content," said conall. 'then they go thence. he throws a stone from his sling, so that a pole of conall cernach's chariot breaks. '"why have you thrown the stone, o boy?" said conall. "to try my hand and the straightness of my throw," said cuchulainn; "and it is the custom with you ulstermen, that you do not travel beyond your peril. go back to emain, o friend conall, and leave me here to watch." '"content, then," said conall. 'conall cernach did not go past the place after that. then cuchulainn goes forth to loch echtra, and they found no one there before them. the charioteer said to cuchulainn that they should go to emain, that they might be in time for the drinking there. '"no," said cuchulainn. "what mountain is it yonder?" said cuchulainn. '"sliab monduirn," said the charioteer. '"let us go and get there," said cuchulainn. they go then till they reach it. when they had reached the mountain, cuchulainn asked: "what is the white cairn yonder on the top of the mountain?" '"find carn," said the charioteer. '"what plain is that over there?" said cuchulainn. '"mag breg," said the charioteer. he tells him then the name of every chief fort between temair and cenandas. he tells him first their meadows and their fords, their famous places and their dwellings, their fortresses and their high hills. he shows [note: reading with ybl.] him then the fort of the three sons of nechta scene; foill, fandall, and tuachell were their names. '"is it they who say," said cuchulainn, "that there are not more of the ulstermen alive than they have slain of them?" '"it is they indeed," said the charioteer. '"let us go till we reach them," said cuchulainn. '"indeed it is peril to us," said the charioteer. '"truly it is not to avoid it that we go," said cuchulainn. 'then they go forth and unharness their horses at the meeting of the bog and the river, to the south above the fort of the others; and he threw the withe that was on the pillar as far as he could throw into the river and let it go with the stream, for this was a breach of _geis_ to the sons of nechta scene. they perceive it then, and come to them. cuchulainn goes to sleep by the pillar after throwing the withe at the stream; and he said to the charioteer: "do not waken me for few; but waken me for many." 'now the charioteer was very frightened, and he made ready their chariot and pulled its coverings and skins which were over cuchulainn; for he dared not waken him, because cuchulainn told him at first that he should not waken him for a few. 'then come the sons of nechta scene. '"who is it who is there?" said one of them. '"a little boy who has come to-day into the chariot for an expedition," said the charioteer. '"may it not be for his happiness," said the champion; "and may it not be for his prosperity, his first taking of arms. let him not be in our land, and let the horses not graze there any more," said the champion. '"their reins are in my hands," said the charioteer. '"it should not be yours to earn hatred," said ibar to the champion; "and the boy is asleep." '"i am not a boy at all," said cuchulainn; "but it is to seek battle with a man that the boy who is here has come." '"that pleases me well," said the champion. '"it will please you now in the ford yonder," said cuchulainn. '"it befits you," said the charioteer, "take heed of the man who comes against you. foill is his name," said he; "for unless you reach him in the first thrust, you will not reach him till evening." '"i swear by the god by whom my people swear, he will not ply his skill on the ulstermen again, if the broad spear of my friend conchobar should reach him from my hand. it will be an outlaw's hand to him." 'then he cast the spear at him, so that his back broke. he took with him his accoutrements and his head. '"take heed of another man," said the charioteer, "fandall [note: i.e. 'swallow.'] is his name. not more heavily does he traverse(?) the water than swan or swallow." '"i swear that he will not ply that feat again on the ulstermen," said cuchulainn. "you have seen," said he, "the way i travel the pool at emain." 'they meet then in the ford. cuchulainn kills that man, and took his head and his arms. '"take heed of another man who comes towards you," said the charioteer. "tuachell [note: i.e. 'cunning.'] is his name. it is no misname for him, for he does not fall by arms at all." '"here is the javelin for him to confuse him, so that it may make a red-sieve of him," said cuchulainn. 'he cast the spear at him, so that it reached him in his ----. then he went to him and cut off his head. cuchulainn gave his head and his accoutrements to his own charioteer. he heard then the cry of their mother, nechta scene, behind them. 'he puts their spoils and the three heads in his chariot with him, and said: "i will not leave my triumph," said he, "till i reach emain macha." 'then they set out with his triumph. 'then cuchulainn said to the charioteer: "you promised us a good run," said he, "and we need it now because of the strife and the pursuit that is behind us." they go on to sliab fuait; and such was the speed of the run that they made over breg after the spurring of the charioteer, that the horses of the chariot overtook the wind and the birds in flight, and that cuchulainn caught the throw that he sent from his sling before it reached the ground. 'when they reached sliab fuait, they found a herd of wild deer there before them. '"what are those cattle yonder so active?" said cuchulainn. '"wild deer," said the charioteer. '"which would the ulstermen think best," said cuchulainn, "to bring them dead or alive?" '"it is more wonderful alive," said the charioteer; "it is not every one who can do it so. dead, there is not one of them who cannot do it. you cannot do this, to carry off any of them alive," said the charioteer. '"i can indeed," said cuchulainn. "ply the goad on the horses into the bog." 'the charioteer does this. the horses stick in the bog. cuchulainn sprang down and seized the deer that was nearest, and that was the finest of them. he lashed the horses through the bog, and overcame the deer at once, and bound it between the two poles of the chariot. 'they saw something again before them, a flock of swans. '"which would the ulstermen think best," said cuchulainn, "to have them dead or alive?" '"all the most vigorous and finest(?) bring them alive," said the charioteer. 'then cuchulainn aims a small stone at the birds, so that he struck eight of the birds. he threw again a large stone, so that he struck twelve of them. all that was done by his return stroke. "collect the birds for us," said cuchulainn to his charioteer. "if it is i who go to take them," said he, "the wild deer will spring upon you." '"it is not easy for me to go to them," said the charioteer. "the horses have become wild so that i cannot go past them. i cannot go past the two iron tyres [interlinear gloss, _fonnod_. the _fonnod_ was some part of the rim of the wheel apparently.] of the chariot, because of their sharpness; and i cannot go past the deer, for his horn has filled all the space between the two poles of the chariot." '"step from its horn," said cuchulainn. "i swear by the god by whom the ulstermen swear, the bending with which i will bend my head on him, and the eye that i will make at him, he will not turn his head on you, and he will not dare to move." 'that was done then. cuchulainn made fast the reins, and the charioteer collects the birds. then cuchulainn bound the birds from the strings and thongs of the chariot; so that it was thus he went to emain macha: the wild deer behind his chariot, and the flock of swans flying over it, and the three heads in his chariot. then they come to emain. "a man in a chariot is coming to you," said the watchman in emain macha; "he will shed the blood of every man who is in the court, unless heed is taken, and unless naked women go to him." 'then he turned the left side of his chariot towards emain, and that was a _geis_ [note: i.e. it was an insult.] to it; and cuchulainn said: "i swear by the god by whom the ulstermen swear, unless a man is found to fight with me, i will shed the blood of every one who is in the fort." '"naked women to meet him!" said conchobar. 'then the women of emain go to meet him with mugain, the wife of conchobar mac nessa, and bare their breasts before him. "these are the warriors who will meet you to-day," said mugain. 'he covers his face; then the heroes of emain seize him and throw him into a vessel of cold water. that vessel bursts round him. the second vessel into which he was thrown boiled with bubbles as big as the fist therefrom. the third vessel into which he went, he warmed it so that its heat and its cold were rightly tempered. then he comes out; and the queen, mugain, puts a blue mantle on him, and a silver brooch therein, and a hooded tunic; and he sits at conchobar's knee, and that was his couch always after that. the man who did this in his seventh year,' said fiacha mac fir-febe, 'it were not wonderful though he should rout an overwhelming force, and though he should exhaust (?) an equal force, when his seventeen years are complete to-day.' (what follows is a separate version [note: the next episode, the death of fraech, is not given in ll.] to the death of orlam.) 'let us go forth now,' said ailill. then they reached mag mucceda. cuchulainn cut an oak before them there, and wrote an ogam in its side. it is this that was therein: that no one should go past it till a warrior should leap it with one chariot. they pitch their tents there, and come to leap over it in their chariots. there fall thereat thirty horses, and thirty chariots are broken. belach n-ane, that is the name of that place for ever. _the death of fraech_ they are there till next morning; then fraech is summoned to them. 'help us, o fraech,' said medb. 'remove from us the strait that is on us. go before cuchulainn for us, if perchance you shall fight with him.' he set out early in the morning with nine men, till he reached ath fuait. he saw the warrior bathing in the river. 'wait here,' said fraech to his retinue, 'till i come to the man yonder; not good is the water,' said he. he took off his clothes, and goes into the water to him. 'do not come to me,' said cuchulainn. 'you will die from it, and i should be sorry to kill you.' 'i shall come indeed,' said fraech, 'that we may meet in the water; and let your play with me be fair.' 'settle it as you like,' said cuchulainn. 'the hand of each of us round the other,' said fraech. they set to wrestling for a long time on the water, and fraech was submerged. cuchulainn lifted him up again. 'this time,' said cuchulainn, 'will you yield and accept your life?' [note: lit. 'will you acknowledge your saving?'] 'i will not suffer it,' said fraech. cuchulainn put him under it again, until fraech was killed. he comes to land; his retinue carry his body to the camp. ath fraich, that was the name of that ford for ever. all the host lamented fraech. they saw a troop of women in green tunics [note: fraech was descended from the people of the sid, his mother bebind being a fairy woman. her sister was boinn (the river boyne).] on the body of fraech mac idaid; they drew him from them into the mound. sid fraich was the name of that mound afterwards. fergus springs over the oak in his chariot. they go till they reach ath taiten; cuchulainn destroys six of them there: that is, the six dungals of irress. then they go on to fornocht. medb had a whelp named baiscne. cuchulainn throws a cast at him, and took his head off. druim was the name of that place henceforth. 'great is the mockery to you,' said medb, 'not to hunt the deer of misfortune yonder that is killing you.' then they start hunting him, till they broke the shafts of their chariots thereat. _the death of orlam_ they go forth then over iraird culend in the morning. cuchulainn went forward; he overtook the charioteer of orlam, son of ailill and medb, in tamlacht orlaim, a little to the north of disert lochait, cutting wood there. (according to another version, it is the shaft of cuchulainn's chariot that had broken, and it is to cut a shaft that he had gone when he met orlam's charioteer. it is the charioteer who cut the shafts according to this version.) 'it is over-bold what the ulstermen are doing, if it is they who are yonder,' said cuchulainn, 'while the host is behind them.' he goes to the charioteer to reprove him; he thought that he was of ulster, and he saw the man cutting wood, that is the chariot shaft. 'what are you doing here?' said cuchulainn. 'cutting chariot-shafts,' said the charioteer. 'we have broken our chariots hunting the wild deer cuchulainn yonder. help me,' said the charioteer. 'look only whether you are to select the shafts, or to strip them.' 'it will be to strip them indeed,' said cuchulainn. then cuchulainn stripped the shafts through his fingers in the presence of the other, so that he cleared them both of bark and knots. 'this cannot be your proper work that i put on you,' said the charioteer; he was greatly afraid. 'whence are you?' said cuchulainn. 'the charioteer of orlam, son of ailill and medb,' said he. 'and you?' said the charioteer. 'my name is cuchulainn,' said he. 'alas!' said the charioteer. 'fear nothing,' said cuchulainn. 'where is your master?' said he. 'he is in the trench yonder,' said the charioteer. 'go forth then with me,' said cuchulainn, 'for i do not kill charioteers at all.' cuchulainn goes to orlam, kills him, cuts his head off, and shakes his head before the host. then he puts the head on the charioteer's back, and said to him: 'take that with you,' said cuchulainn, 'and go to the camp thus. if you do not go thus, a stone will come to you from my sling.' when he got near the camp, he took the head from his back, and told his adventures to ailill and medb. 'this is not like taking birds,' said she. and he said, 'unless i brought it on my back to the camp, he would break my head with a stone.' _the death of the meic garach_ then the meic garach waited on their ford. these are their names: lon and ualu and diliu; and mes-ler, and mes-laech, and mes-lethan were their three charioteers. they thought it too much what cuchulainn had done: to slay two foster-sons of the king, and his son, and to shake the head before the host. they would slay cuchulainn in return for him, and would themselves remove this annoyance from the host. they cut three aspen wands for their charioteers, that the six of them should pursue combat against him. he killed them all then, because they had broken fair-play towards him. orlam's charioteer was then between ailill and medb. cuchulainn hurled a stone at him, [note: apparently because the charioteer had not carried orlam's head into the camp on his back. or an alternative version.] so that his head broke, and his brains came over his ears; fertedil was his name. (thus it is not true that cuchulainn did not kill charioteers; howbeit, he did not kill them without fault.) _the death of the squirrel_ cuchulainn threatened in methe, that wherever he should see ailill or medb afterwards he would throw a stone from his sling at them. he did this then: he threw a stone from his sling, so that he killed the squirrel that was on medb's shoulder south of the ford: hence is methe togmaill. and he killed the bird that was on ailill's shoulder north of the ford: hence is methe n-eoin. (or it is on medb's shoulder that both squirrel and bird were together, and it is their heads that were struck from them by the casts.) reoin was drowned in his lake. hence is loch reoin. 'that other is not far from you,' said ailill to the manes. they arose and looked round. when they sat down again, cuchulainn struck one of them, so that his head broke. 'it was well that you went for that: your boasting was not fitting,' said maenen the fool. 'i would have taken his head off.' cuchulainn threw a stone at him, so that his head broke. it is thus then that these were killed: orlam in the first place on his hill; the meic garach on their ford; fertedil in his ---; maenan in his hill. 'i swear by the god by whom my people swear,' said ailill, 'that man who shall make a mock of cuchulainn here, i will make two halves of him.' 'go forth for us both day and night,' said ailill, 'till we reach cualnge. that man will kill two-thirds of the host in this way.' it is there that the harpers of the _cainbili_ [note: reference obscure. they were wizards of some sort.] from ossory came to them to amuse them. they thought it was from the ulstermen to spy on them. they set to hunting them, till they went before them in the forms of deer into the stones at liac mor on the north. for they were wizards with great cunning. _the death of lethan_ lethan came on to his ford on the nith (?) in conaille. he waited himself to meet cuchulainn. it vexed him what cuchulainn had done. cuchulainn cuts off his head and left it, hence it is ath lethan on the nith. and their chariots broke in the battle on the ford by him; hence it is ath carpat. mulcha, lethan's charioteer, fell on the shoulder of the hill that is between them; hence is gulo mulchai. while the hosts were going over mag breg, he struck(?) their ---still. [note: 2 something apparently missing here. the passage in ll is as follows: 'it is the same day that the morrigan, daughter of ernmas, came from the sid, so that she was on the pillar in temair cuailnge, taking a warning to the dun of cualnge before the men of ireland, and she began to speak to him, and "good, o wretched one, o dun of cualnge," said the morrigan, "keep watch, for the men of ireland have reached thee, and they will take thee to their camp unless thou keepest watch"; and she began to take a warning to him thus, and uttered her words on high.' (the rhetoric follows as in lu.)] yet that was the morrigan in the form of a bird on the pillar in temair cuailnge; and she spoke to the bull: 'does the black know,' etc. [note: a rhetoric.] then the bull went, and fifty heifers with him, to sliab culind; and his keeper, forgemen by name, went after him. he threw off the three fifties of boys who used always to play on him, and he killed two-thirds of his boys, and dug a trench in tir marcceni in cualnge before he went. _the death of lochu_ cuchulainn killed no one from the saile ind orthi (?) in the conaille territory, until they reached cualnge. cuchulainn was then in cuince; he threatened then that when he saw medb he would throw a stone at her head. this was not easy to him, for it is thus that medb went and half the host about her, with their shelter of shields over her head. then a waiting-woman of medb's, lochu by name, went to get water, and a great troop of women with her. cuchulainn thought it was medb. he threw two stones from cuince, so that he slew her in her plain(?). hence is ath rede locha in cualnge. from findabair cuailnge the hosts divided, and they set the country on fire. they collect all there were of women, and boys, and maidens; and cattle, in cualnge together, so that they were all in findabair. 'you have not gone well,' said medb; 'i do not see the bull with you.' 'he is not in the province at all,' said every one. lothar the cowherd is summoned to medb. 'where is the bull?' said she. 'have you an idea?' 'i have great fear to tell it,' said the herd. 'the night,' said he, 'when the ulstermen went into their weakness, he went with three twenties of heifers with him, so that he is at the black corrie of glenn gatt.' 'go,' said medb, 'and carry a withe [note: ir. _gatt_, a withe.] between each two of you.' they do this: hence this glen is called glenn gatt. then they bring the bull to findabair. the place where he saw the herd, lothar, he attacked him, so that he brought his entrails out on his horns; and he attacked the camp with his three fifties of heifers, so that fifty warriors were killed. and that is the death of lothar on the foray. then the bull went from them out of the camp, and they knew not where he had gone from them; and they were ashamed. medb asked the herd if he had an idea where the bull was. 'i think he would be in the secret places of sliab culind.' when they returned thus after ravaging cualnge, and did not find the bull there. the river cronn rose against them to the tops of the trees; and they spent the night by it. and medb told part of her following to go across. a wonderful warrior went next day, ualu his name. he took a great stone on his back to go across the water; the stream drove him backwards with the stone on his back. his grave and his stone are on the road at the stream: lia ualand is its name. they went round the river cronn to the source, and they would have gone between the source and the mountain, only that they could not get leave from medb; she preferred to go across the mountain, that their track might remain there for ever, for an insult to the ulstermen. they waited there three days and three nights, till they dug the earth in front of them, the bernas bo cuailnge. it is there that cuchulainn killed crond and coemdele and ---[note: obscure.]. a hundred warriors ---[note: obscure.] died with roan and roae, the two historians of the foray. a hundred and forty-four, kings died by him at the same stream. they came then over the bernas bo cuailnge with the cattle and stock of cualnge, and spent the night in glenn dail imda in cualnge. botha is the name of this place, because they made huts over them there. they come next day to colptha. they try to cross it through heedlessness. it rose against them then, and it carries a hundred charioteers of them to the sea; this is the name of the land in which they were drowned, cluain carptech. they go round colptha then to its source, to belat alioin, and spent the night at liasa liac; that is the name of this place, because they made sheds over their calves there between cualnge and conaille. they came over glenn gatlaig, and glass gatlaig rose against them. sechaire was its name before; glass gatlaig thenceforth, because it was in withes they brought their calves; and they slept at druim fene in conaille. (those then are the wanderings from cualnge to machaire according to this version.) _this is the harrying of cualnge_ (other authors and books make it that another way was taken on their journeyings from findabair to conaille, as follows: medb said after every one had come with their booty, so that they were all in findabair cuailnge: 'let the host be divided,' said medb; 'it will be impossible to bring this expedition by one way. let ailill go with half the expedition by midluachair; fergus and i will go by bernas ulad.' [note: ybl. bernas bo n-ulad.] 'it is not fine,' said fergus, 'the half of the expedition that has fallen to us. it will be impossible to bring the cattle over the mountain without dividing it.' that was done then, so that it is from that there is bernas bo n-ulad.) it is there then that ailill said to his charioteer cuillius: 'find out for me to-day medb and fergus. i know not what has brought them to this union. i shall be pleased that a token should come to me by you.' cuillius came when they were in cluichre. the pair remained behind, and the warriors went on. cuillius came to them, and they heard not the spy. fergus' sword happened to be beside him. cuillius drew it out of its sheath, and left the sheath empty. cuillius came to ailill. 'so?' said ailill. 'so indeed,' said cuillius; 'there is a token for you.' 'it is well,' said ailill. each of them smiles at the other. 'as you thought,' said cuillius, 'it is thus that i found them, in one another's arms.' 'it is right for her,' said ailill; 'it is for help on the foray that she has done it. see that the sword is kept in good condition,' said ailill. 'put it under your seat in the chariot, and a cloth of linen around it.' fergus got up for his sword after that. 'alas!' said he. 'what is the matter with you?' said medb. 'an ill deed have i done to ailill,' said he. 'wait here, while i go into the wood,' said fergus; 'and do not wonder though it be long till i come.' it happened that medb knew not the loss of the sword. he goes thence, and takes the sword of his charioteer with him in his hand. he makes a wooden sword in the wood. hence there is fid mor drualle in ulster. 'let us go on after our comrades,' said fergus. all their hosts meet in the plain. they pitch their tents. fergus is summoned to ailill to play chess. when fergus went to the tent, ailill began to laugh at him. [note: here follows about two columns of rhetoric, consisting of a taunting dialogue between ailill, fergus and medb.] *** cuchulainn came so that he was at ath cruinn before them. 'o friend loeg,' said he to his charioteer, 'the hosts are at hand to us.' 'i swear by the gods,' said the charioteer, 'i will do a mighty feat before warriors ... on slender steeds with yokes of silver, with golden wheels ...' 'take heed, o loeg,' said cuchulainn; 'hold the reins for great victory of macha ... i beseech,' said cuchulainn, 'the waters to help me. i beseech heaven and earth, and the cronn in particular.' the (river) cronn takes to fighting against them; it will not let them into murthemne until the work of heroes be finished in sliab tuath ochaine. therewith the water rose up till it was in the tops of the trees. mane, son of ailill and medb, went before the rest. cuchulainn smites them on the ford, and thirty horsemen of mane's retinue were drowned in the water. cuchulainn overthrew two sixteens of warriors of them again by the water. they pitch their tents at that ford. lugaid mac nois, descendant of lomarc allchomach, came to speak to cuchulainn, with thirty horsemen. 'welcome, o lugaid,' said cuchulainn. 'if a flock of birds graze upon mag murthemne, you shall have a duck with half of another; if fish come to the estuaries, you shall have a salmon with half of another. you shall have the three sprigs, the sprig of watercress, and the sprig of marshwort, and the sprig of seaweed. you shall have a man in the ford in your place.' [note: this and the following speech are apparently forms of greeting. cuchulainn offers lugaid such hospitality as lies in his power. see a similar speech later to fergus.] 'i believe it,' said lugaid. 'excellence of people to the boy whom i desire.' 'your hosts are fine,' said cuchulainn. it would not be sad for you alone before them,' said lugaid. 'fair-play and valour will support me,' said cuchulainn. 'o friend lugaid, do the hosts fear me?' 'i swear by god,' said lugaid, 'one man nor two dare not go out of the camp, unless it be in twenties or thirties.' 'it will be something extra for them,' said cuchulainn, 'if i take to throwing from the sling. fitting for you will be this fellow-vassal, o lugaid, that you have among the ulstermen, if there come to me the force of every man. say what you would have,' said cuchulainn. 'that i may have a truce with you towards my host.' 'you shall have it, provided there be a token on it. and tell my friend fergus that there be a token on his host. tell the physicians, let there be a token on their host. and let them swear preservation of life to me, and let there come to me provision every night from them.' then lugaid goes from him. fergus happened to be in the tent with ailill. lugaid called him out, and told him this. something was heard, namely ailill. ... [note: rhetoric, six lines, the substance of which is, apparently, that ailill asks protection also.] 'i swear by god i cannot do it,' said lugaid, 'unless i ask the boy again.' 'help me, [note: spoken by fergus?] o lugaid, go to him to see whether ailill may come with a cantred into my troop. take an ox with bacon to him and a jar of wine.' he goes to cuchulainn then and tells him this. 'i do not mind though he go,' said cuchulainn. then their two troops join. they are there till night. cuchulainn kills thirty men of them with the sling. (or they would be twenty nights there, as some books say.) 'your journeyings are bad,' said fergus. 'the ulstermen will come to you out of their weakness, and they will grind you to earth and gravel. "the corner of battle" in which we are is bad.' he goes thence to cul airthir. it happened that cuchulainn had gone that night to speak to the ulstermen [note: in ll and y bl this incident occurs later, and the messenger is sualtaim, not cuchulainn. lu is clearly wrong here.] 'have you news?' said conchobar. 'women are captured,' said cuchulainn, 'cattle are driven away, men are slain.' 'who carries them off? who drives them away? who kills them?' '... ailill mac matae carries them off, and fergus mac roich very bold ...' [note: rhetoric.] 'it is not great profit to you,' said conchobar, 'to-day, our smiting has come to us all the same.' cuchulainn goes thence from them; he saw the hosts going forth. 'alas,' said ailill, 'i see chariots' ..., etc [note: rhetoric, five lines.] cuchulainn kills thirty men of them on ath duirn. they could not reach cul airthir then till night. he slays thirty of them there, and they pitch their tents there. ailill's charioteer, cuillius, was washing the chariot tyres [note: see previous note on the word _fonnod_; the word used here is _fonnod_.] in the ford in the morning; cuchulainn struck him with a stone and killed him. hence is ath cuillne in cul airthir. they reach druim feine in conaille and spent the night there, as we have said before. cuchulainn attacked them there; he slays a hundred men of them every night of the three nights that they were there; he took a sling to them from ochaine near them. 'our host will be short-lived through cuchulainn in this way,' said ailill. 'let an agreement be carried from us to him: that he shall have the equal of mag murthemne from mag ai, and the best chariot that is in ai, and the equipment of twelve men. offer, if it pleases him better, the plain in which he was brought up, and three sevens of cumals [note: the _cumal_ (bondmaid) was a standard of value.]; and everything that has been destroyed of his household (?) and cattle shall be made good, and he shall have full compensation (?), and let him go into my service; it is better for him than the service of a sub king.' 'who shall go for that?' 'mac roth yonder.' mac roth, the messenger of ailill and medb, went on that errand to delga: it is he who encircles ireland in one day. it is there that fergus thought that cuchulainn was, in delga. 'i see a man coming towards us,' said loeg to cuchulainn. 'he has a yellow head of hair, and a linen emblem round it; a club of fury(?) in his hand, an ivory-hilted sword at his waist; a hooded tunic with red ornamentation on him.' 'which of the warriors of the king is that?' said cuchulainn. mac roth asked loeg whose man he was. 'vassal to the man down yonder,' said loeg. cuchulainn was there in the snow up to his two thighs, without anything at all on him, examining his shirt. then mac roth asked cuchulainn whose man he was. 'vassal of conchobar mac nessa,' said cuchulainn. 'is there no clearer description?' 'that is enough,' said cuchulainn. 'where then is cuchulainn?' said mac roth. 'what would you say to him?' said cuchulainn. mac roth tells him then all the message, as we have told it. 'though cuchulainn were near, he would not do this; he will not barter the brother of his mother for another king.' he came to him again, and it was said to cuchulainn that there should be given over to him the noblest of the women and the cows that were without milk, on condition that he should not ply his sling on them at night, even if he should kill them by day. 'i will not do it,' said cuchulainn; 'if our slavewomen are taken from us, our noble women will be at the querns; and we shall be without milk if our milch-cows are taken from us.' he came to him again, and he was told that he should have the slave-women and the milch-cows. 'i will not do it,' said cuchulainn; 'the ulstermen will take their slave-women to their beds, and there will be born to them a servile offspring, and they will use their milch-cows for meat in the winter.' 'is there anything else then?' said the messenger. 'there is,' said cuchulainn; 'and i will not tell it you. it shall be agreed to, if any one tell it you.' 'i know it,' said fergus; 'i know what the man tried to suggest; and it is no advantage to you. and this is the agreement,' said fergus: 'that the ford on which takes place (?) his battle and combat with one man, the cattle shall not be taken thence a day and a night; if perchance there come to him the help of the ulstermen. and it is a marvel to me,' said fergus, 'that it is so long till they come out of their sufferings.' 'it is indeed easier for us,' said ailill, 'a man every day than a hundred every night.' _the death of etarcomol_ then fergus went on this errand; etarcomol, son of edan [note: name uncertain. ybl has eda, ll feda.] and lethrinne, foster-son of ailill and medb, followed. 'i do not want you to go,' said fergus, 'and it is not for hatred of you; but i do not like combat between you and cuchulainn. your pride and insolence, and the fierceness and hatred, pride and madness of the other, cuchulainn: there will be no good from your meeting.' 'are you not able to protect me from him?' said etarcomol. 'i can,' said fergus, 'provided only that you do not treat his, sayings with disrespect.' they go thence in two chariots to delga. cuchulainn was then playing chess [note: _buanfach_, like _fidchell_, is apparently a game something like chess or draughts.] with loeg; the back of his head was towards them, and loeg's face. 'i see two chariots coming towards us,' said loeg; 'a great dark man in the first chariot, with dark and bushy hair; a purple cloak round him, and a golden pin therein; a hooded tunic with gold embroidery on him; and a round shield with an engraved edge of white metal, and a broad spear-head, with rings from point to haft(?), in his hand. a sword as long as the rudder of a boat on his two thighs.' 'it is empty, this great rudder that is brought by my friend fergus,' said cuchulainn; 'for there is no sword in its sheath except a sword of wood. it has been told to me,' said cuchulainn; 'ailill got a chance of them as they slept, he and medb; and he took away his sword from fergus, and gave it to his charioteer to take care of, and the sword of wood was put into its sheath.' then fergus comes up. 'welcome, o friend fergus,' said cuchulainn; 'if a fish comes into the estuary, you shall have it with half of another; if a flock comes into the plain, you shall have a duck with half of another; a spray of cress or seaweed, a spray of marshwort; a drink from the sand; you shall have a going to the ford to meet a man, if it should happen to be your watch, till you have slept.' 'i believe it,' said fergus; 'it is not your provision that we have come for; we know your housekeeping here.' then cuchulainn receives the message from fergus; anti fergus goes away. etarcomol remains looking at cuchulainn. 'what are you looking at?' said cuchulainn. 'you,' said etarcomol. 'the eye soon compasses it indeed,' said cuchulainn. 'that is what i see,' said etarcomol. 'i do not know at all why you should be feared by any one. i do not see terror or fearfulness, or overwhelming of a host, in you; you are merely a fair youth with arms of wood, and with fine feats.' 'though you speak ill of me,' said cuchulainn, 'i will not kill you for the sake of fergus. but for your protection, it would have been your entrails drawn (?) and your quarters scattered, that would have gone from me to the camp behind your chariot.' 'threaten me not thus,' said etarcomol. 'the wonderful agreement that he has bound, that is, the single combat, it is i who will first meet you of the men of ireland to-morrow.' then he goes away. he turned back from methe and cethe and said to his charioteer: 'i have boasted,' said he, 'before fergus combat with cuchulainn to-morrow. it is not possible for us [note: ybl reading.] to wait for it; turn the horses back again from the hill.' loeg sees this and says to cuchulainn: 'there is the chariot back again, and it has put its left board [note: an insult.] towards us.' 'it is not a "debt of refusal,"' said cuchulainn. 'i do not wish,' said cuchulainn, 'what you demand of me.' 'this is obligatory to you,' said etarcomol. cuchulainn strikes the sod under his feet, so that he fell prostrate, and the sod behind him. 'go from me,' said cuchulainn. 'i am loath to cleanse my hands in you. i would have divided you into many parts long since but for fergus.' 'we will not part thus,' said etarcomol, 'till i have taken your head, or left my head with you.' 'it is that indeed that will be there,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn strikes him with his sword in his two armpits, so that his clothes fell from him, and it did not wound his skin. 'go then,' said cuchulainn. 'no,' said etarcomol. then cuchulainn attacked him with the edge of his sword, and took his hair off as if it was shaved with a razor; he did not put even a scratch (?) on the surface. when the churl was troublesome then and stuck to him, he struck him on the hard part of his crown, so that he divided him down to the navel. fergus saw the chariot go past him, and the one man therein. he turned to quarrel with cuchulainn. 'ill done of you, o wild boy!' said he, 'to insult me. you would think my club [note: or 'track'?] short,' said he. 'be not angry with me, o friend fergus,' said cuchulainn ... [note: rhetoric, five lines.] 'reproach me not, o friend fergus.' he stoops down, so that fergus's chariot went past him thrice. he asked his charioteer: 'is it i who have caused it?' 'it is not you at all,' said his charioteer. 'he said,' said cuchulainn, 'he would not go till he took my head, or till he left his head with me. which would you think easier to bear, o friend fergus?' said cuchulainn. 'i think what has been done the easier truly,' said fergus, 'for it is he who was insolent.' then fergus put a spancel-withe through etarcomol's two heels and took him behind his own chariot to the camp. when they went over rocks, one-half would separate from the other; when it was smooth, they came together again. medb saw him. 'not pleasing is that treatment of a tender whelp, o fergus,' said medb. 'the dark churl should not have made fight,' said fergus, 'against the great hound whom he could not contend with (?).' his grave is dug then and his stone planted; his name is written in ogam; his lament is celebrated. cuchulainn did not molest them that night with his sling; and the women and maidens and half the cattle are taken to him; and provision continued to be brought to him by day. _the death of nadcrantail_ 'what man have you to meet cuchulainn tomorrow?' said lugaid. 'they will give it to you to-morrow,' said mane, son of ailill. 'we can find no one to meet him,' said medb. 'let us have peace with him till a man be sought for him.' they get that then. 'whither will you send,' said ailill, 'to seek that man to meet cuchulainn?' 'there is no one in ireland who could be got for him,' said medb, 'unless curoi mac dare can be brought, or nadcrantail the warrior.' there was one of curoi's followers in the tent. 'curoi will not come,' said he; 'he thinks enough of his household has come. let a message be sent to nadcrantail.' mane andoi goes to him, and they tell their tale to him. 'come with us for the sake of the honour of connaught.' 'i will not go,' said he, 'unless findabair be given to me.' he comes with them then. they bring his armour in a chariot, from the east of connaught till it was in the camp. 'you shall have findabair,' said medb, 'for going against that man yonder.' 'i will do it,' said he. lugaid comes to cuchulainn that night. 'nadcrantail is coming to meet you to-morrow; it is unlucky for you: you will not withstand him.' 'that does not matter,' said cuchulainn. ... [note: corrupt.] nadcrantail goes next morning from the camp, and he takes nine spits of holly, sharpened and burned. now cuchulainn was there catching birds, and his chariot near him. nadcrantail throws a spear at cuchulainn; cuchulainn performed a feat on to the point of that spear, and it did not hinder him from catching the birds. the same with the eight other spears. when he throws the ninth spear, the flock flies from cuchulainn, and he went after the flock. he goes on the points of the spears like a bird, from each spear to the next, pursuing the birds that they should not escape. it seemed to every one, however, that it was in flight that cuchulainn went before nadcrantail. 'your cuchulainn yonder,' said he, 'has gone in flight before me.' 'that is of course,' said medb; 'if good warriors should come to him, the wild boy would not resist ----.' this vexed fergus and the ulstermen; fiacha mac fir-febe comes from them to remonstrate with cuchulainn. 'tell him,' said fergus, 'it was noble to be before the warriors while he did brave deeds. it is more noble for him,' said fergus, 'to hide himself when he flees before one man, for it were not greater shame to him than to the rest of ulster.' 'who has boasted that?' said cuchulainn. 'nadcrantail,' said fiacha. 'though it were that that he should boast, the feat that i have done before him, it was no more shame to me,' (?) said cuchulainn. 'he would by no means have boasted it had there been a weapon in his hand. you know full well that i kill no one unarmed. let him come to-morrow,' said cuchulainn, 'till he is between ochaine and the sea, and however early he comes, he will find me there, and i shall not flee before him.' cuchulainn came then to his appointed meeting-place, and he threw the hem [of his cloak] round him after his night-watch, and he did not perceive the pillar that was near him, of equal size with himself. he embraced it under his cloak, and placed it near him. therewith nadcrantail came; his arms were brought with him in a wagon. 'where is cuchulainn?' said he. 'there he is yonder,' said fergus. 'it was not thus he appeared to me yesterday,' said nadcrantail. 'are you cuchulainn?' 'and if i am then?' said cuchulainn. 'if you are indeed,' said nadcrantail, 'i cannot bring the head of a little lamb to camp; i will not take the head of a beardless boy.' 'it is not i at all,' said cuchulainn. 'go to him round the hill.' cuchulainn comes to loeg: 'smear a false beard on me,' said he; 'i cannot get the warrior to fight me without a beard.' it was done for him. he goes to meet him on the hill. 'i think that more fitting,' said he. 'take the right way of fighting with me,' said nadcrantail. 'you shall have it if only we know it,' said cuchulainn. 'i will throw a cast at you,' said nadcrantail, 'and do not avoid it.' 'i will not avoid it except on high,' said cuchulainn. nadcrantail throws a cast at him; cuchulainn leaps on high before it. 'you do ill to avoid my cast,' said nadcrantail. 'avoid my throw then on high,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn throws the spear at him, but it was on high, so that from above it alighted in his crown, and it went through him to the ground. 'alas! it is you are the best warrior in ireland!' said nadcrantail. 'i have twenty-four sons in the camp. i will go and tell them what hidden treasures i have, and i will come that you may behead me, for i shall die if the spear is taken out of my head.' 'good,' said cuchulainn. 'you will come back.' nadcrantail goes to the camp then. every one comes to meet him. 'where is the madman's head?' said every one. 'wait, o heroes, till i tell my tale to my sons, and go back that i may fight with cuchulainn.' he goes thence to seek cuchulainn, and throws his sword at cuchulainn. cuchulainn leaps on high, so that it struck the pillar, and the sword broke in two. then cuchulainn went mad as he had done against the boys in emain, and he springs on his shield therewith, and struck his head off. he strikes him again on the neck down to the navel. his four quarters fall to the ground. then cuchulainn said this: 'if nadcrantail has fallen, it will be an increase to the strife. alas! that i cannot fight at this time with medb with a third of the host.' here is the finding of the bull according to this version: it is then that medb went with a third of the host with her to cuib to seek the bull; and cuchulainn went after her. now on the road of midluachair she had gone to harry ulster and cruthne as far as dun sobairche. cuchulainn saw something: bude mac bain from sliab culinn with the bull, and fifteen heifers round him; and his force was sixty men of ailill's household, with a cloak folded round every man. cuchulainn comes to them. 'whence have you brought the cattle?' said cuchulainn. 'from the mountain yonder,' said the man.' 'where are their cow-herds?' said cuchulainn. 'he is as we found him,' said the man. cuchulainn made three leaps after them to seek speech with them as far as the ford. it is there he said to the leader: 'what is your name?' said he. 'one who fears you not(?) and loves you not; bude mac bain,' said he. 'this spear at bude!' said cuchulainn. he hurls at him the javelin, so that it went through his armpits, and one of the livers broke in two before the spear. he kills him on his ford; hence is ath bude. the bull is brought into the camp then. they considered then that it would not be difficult to deal with cuchulainn, provided his javelin were got from him. _the death of redg the satirist_ it is then that redg, ailill's satirist, went to him on an errand to seek the javelin, that is, cuchulainn's spear. 'give me your spear,' said the satirist. 'not so,' said cuchulainn; 'but i will give you treasure.' 'i will not take it,' said the satirist. then cuchulainn wounded the satirist, because he would not accept from him what he offered him, and the satirist said he would take away his honour unless he got the javelin. then cuchulainn threw the javelin at him, and it went right through his head. 'this gift is overpowering (?),' said the satirist. hence is ath tolam set. there was now a ford east of it, where the copper of the javelin rested; humarrith, then, is the name of that ford. it is there that cuchulainn killed all those that we have mentioned in cuib; i.e. nathcoirpthe at his trees; cruthen on his ford; the sons of the herd at their cairn; marc on his hill; meille on his hill; bodb in his tower; bogaine in his marsh (?). cuchulainn turned back to mag murthemne; he liked better to defend his own home. after he went, he killed the men of crocen (or cronech), i.e. focherd; twenty men of focherd. he overtook them taking camp: ten cup-bearers and ten fighting-men. medb turned back from the north when she had remained a fortnight ravaging the province, and when she had fought a battle against findmor, wife of celtchar mac uthidir. and after taking dun sobairche upon her, she brought fifty women into the province of dalriada. wherever medb placed a horse-switch in cuib its name is bile medba [note: i.e. tree of medb]; every ford and every hill by which she slept, its name is ath medba and dindgna medba. they all meet then at focherd, both ailill and medb and the troop that drove the bull. but their herd took their bull from them, and they drove him across into a narrow gap with their spear-shafts on their shields(?). [note: a very doubtful rendering.] so that the feet of the cattle drove him [note, i.e. forgemen.] through the ground. forgemen was the herd's name. he is there afterwards, so that that is the name of the hill, forgemen. there was no annoyance to them that night, provided a man were got toward off cuchulainn on the ford. 'let a sword-truce be asked by us from cuchulainn,' said ailill. 'let lugaid go for it,' said every one. lugaid goes then to speak to him. 'how am i now with the host?' said cuchulainn. 'great indeed is the mockery that you asked of them,' said lugaid, 'that is, your women and your maidens and half your cattle. and they think it heavier than anything to be killed and to provide you with food.' a man fell there by cuchulainn every day to the end of a week. fair-play is broken with cuchulainn: twenty are sent to attack him at one time; and he killed them all. 'go to him, o fergus,' said ailill, 'that he may allow us a change of place.' they go then to cronech. this is what fell by him in single combat at this place: two roths, two luans, two female horse messengers, [note: or 'female stealers.' (o'davoren.)] ten fools, ten cup-bearers, ten ferguses, six fedelms, six fiachras. these then were all killed by him in single combat. when they pitched their tents in cronech, they considered what they should do against cuchulainn. 'i know,' said medb, 'what is good in this case: let a message be sent from us to ask him that we may have a sword-truce from him towards the host, and he shall have half the cattle that are here.' this message is taken to him. 'i will do this,' said cuchulainn, 'provided the compact is not broken by you.' _the meeting of cuchulainn and findabair_ 'let an offer go to him,' said ailill, 'that findabair will be given to him on condition that he keeps away from the hosts.' mane athramail goes to him. he goes first to loeg. 'whose man are you?' said he. loeg does not speak to him. mane spoke to him thrice in this way. 'cuchulainn's man,' said he, 'and do not disturb me, lest i strike your head off.' 'this man is fierce,' said mane, turning from him. he goes then to speak to cuchulainn. now cuchulainn had taken off his tunic, and the snow was round him up to his waist as he sat, and the snow melted round him a cubit for the greatness of the heat of the hero. mane said to him in the same way thrice, 'whose man was he?' 'conchobar's man, and do not disturb me. if you disturb me any longer, i will strike your head from you as the head is taken from a blackbird.' 'it is not easy,' said mane, 'to speak to these two.' mane goes from them then and tells his tale to ailill and medb. 'let lugaid go to him,' said ailill, 'and offer to him the maiden.' lugaid goes then and tells cuchulainn that. 'o friend lugaid,' said cuchulainn, 'this is a snare.' 'it is the king's word that has said it,' said lugaid; 'there will be no snare therefrom.' 'let it be done so,' said cuchulainn. lugaid went from him therewith, and tells ailill and medb that answer. 'let the fool go in my form,' said ailill, 'and a king's crown on his head, and let him stand at a distance from cuchulainn lest he recognise him, and let the maiden go with him, and let him betroth her to him, and let them depart quickly in this way; and it is likely that you will play a trick on him thus, so that he will not hinder you, till he comes with the ulstermen to the battle.' then the fool goes to him, and the maiden also; and it was from a distance he spoke to cuchulainn. cuchulainn goes to meet them. it happened that he recognised by the man's speech that he was a fool. he threw a sling stone that was in his hand at him, so that it sprang into his head and brought his brains out. then he comes to the maiden, cuts her two tresses off, and thrusts a stone through her mantle and through her tunic, and thrusts a stone pillar through the middle of the fool. there are their two pillars there: the pillar of findabair, and the fool's pillar. cuchulainn left them thus. a party was sent from ailill and medb to seek out their folk, for they thought they were long; they were seen in this position. all this was heard throughout the camp. there was no truce for them with cuchulainn afterwards. _the combat of munremar and curoi_ when the hosts were there in the evening; they saw that one stone lighted on them from the east, and another from the west to meet it. they met in the air, and kept falling between fergus's camp, and ailill's, and era's. [note: or nera?] this sport and play went on from that hour to the same hour next day; and the hosts were sitting down, and their shields were over their heads to protect them against the masses of stones, till the plain was full of the stones. hence is mag clochair. it happened that curoi mac daire did this; he had come to help his comrades, and he was in cotal over against munremar mac gerrcind. he had come from emain macha to help cuchulainn, and he was in ard roich. curoi knew that there was no man in the host who could withstand munremar. so it was these two who had made this sport between them. they were asked by the host to be quiet; then munremar and curoi make peace, and curoi goes to his house and munremar to emain macha. and munremar did not come till the day of the battle; curoi did not come till the combat with fer diad. 'speak to cuchulainn,' said medb and ailill, 'that he allow us change of place.' it is granted to them then, and they change the place. the weakness of the ulstermen was over then. for when they awoke from their suffering, some of them kept coming on the host, that they might take to slaying them again. _the death of the boys_ then the boys of ulster had consulted in emain macha. 'wretched indeed,' said they, 'for our friend cuchulainn to be without help.' 'a question indeed,' said fiachna fulech mac fir-febe, own brother to fiacha fialdama mac fir-febe, 'shall i have a troop among you, and go to take help to him therefrom?' three fifties of boys go with their playing-clubs, and that was a third of the boys of ulster. the host saw them coming towards them across the plain. 'a great host is at hand to us over the plain,' said ailill. fergus goes to look at them. 'some of the boys of ulster that,' said he; 'and they come to cuchulainn's help.' 'let a troop go against them,' said ailill, 'without cuchulainn's knowledge; for if they meet him, you will not withstand them.' three fifties of warriors go to meet them. they fell by one another so that no one escaped alive of the abundance(?) of the boys at lia toll. hence it is the stone of fiachra mac fir-febe; for it is there he fell. 'make a plan,' said ailill. 'ask cuchulainn about letting you go out of this place, for you will not come beyond him by force, because his flame of valour has sprung.' for it was customary with him, when his flame of valour sprang in him, that his feet would go round behind him, and his hams before; and the balls of his calves on his shins, and one eye in his head and the other out of his head; a man's head could have gone into his mouth. every hair on him was as sharp as a thorn of hawthorn, and a drop of blood on each hair. he would not recognise comrades or friends. he would strike alike before and behind. it is from this that the men of connaught gave cuchulainn the name riastartha. _the woman-fight of rochad_ cuchulainn sent his charioteer to rochad mac fatheman of ulster, that he should come to his help. now it happened that findabair loved rochad, for he was the fairest of the warriors among the ulstermen at that time. the man goes to rochad and told him to come to help cuchulainn if he had come out of his weakness; that they should deceive the host, to get at some of them to slay them. rochad comes from the north with a hundred men. 'look at the plain for us to-day,' said ailill. 'i see a troop coming over the plain,' said the watchman, 'and a warrior of tender years among them; the men only reach up to his shoulders.' 'who is it yonder, o fergus?' said ailill. 'rochad mac fatheman,' said he, 'and it is to help cuchulainn he comes.' 'i know what you had better do with him,' said fergus. 'let a hundred men go from you with the maiden yonder to the middle of the plain, and let the maiden go before them; and let a horseman go to speak to him, that he come alone to speak with the maiden, and let hands be laid on him, and this will keep off (?) the attack of his army from us.' this is done then. rochad goes to meet the horseman. 'i have come from findabair to meet you, that you come to speak with her.' he goes then to speak with her alone. the host rushes about him from every side. he is taken, and hands are laid on him. his force breaks into flight. he is let go then, and he is bound over not to go against the host till he should come together with all ulster. it was promised to him that findabair should be given to him, and he returned from them then. so that that is rochad's woman-fight. _the death of the princes_ [note: or 'royal mercenaries.'] 'let a sword-truce be asked of cuchulainn for us,' said ailill and medb. lugaid goes on that errand, and cuchulainn grants the truce. 'put a man on the ford for me to-morrow,' said cuchulainn. there were with medb six princes, i.e. six king's heirs of the clanna dedad, the three blacks of imlech, and the three reds of sruthair. 'why should we not go against cuchulainn?' said they. they go next day, and cuchulainn slew the six of them. _the death of cur_ then cur mac dalath is besought to go against cuchulainn. he from whom he shed blood, he is dead before the ninth day. 'if he slay him,' said medb, 'it is victory; and though it be he who is slain, it is removing a load from the host: for it is not easy to be with him in regard to eating and sleeping.' then he goes forth. he did not think it good to go against a beardless wild boy. 'not so(?) indeed,' said he, 'right is the honour (?) that you give us! if i had known that it was against this man that i was sent, i would not have bestirred myself to seek him; it were enough in my opinion for a boy of his own age from my troop to go against him.' 'not so,' said cormac condlongas; 'it were a marvel for us if you yourself were to drive him off.' 'howbeit,' said he, 'since it is on myself that it is laid you shall go forth to-morrow morning; it will not delay me to kill the young deer yonder.' he goes then early in the morning to meet him; and he tells the host to get ready to take the road before them, for it was a clear road that he would make by going against cuchulainn. _this is the number of the feats_ he went on that errand then. cuchulainn was practising feats at that time, i.e. the apple-feat, the edge-feat, the supine-feat, the javelin-feat, the ropefeat, the ---feat, the cat-feat, the hero's salmon[-leap?], the cast ----, the leap over ----, the noble champion's turn, the _gae bolga_, the ---of swiftness, the wheel-feat, the ----, the feat on breath, the mouth-rage (?), the champion's shout, the stroke with proper adjustment, the back-stroke, the climbing a javelin with stretching of the body on its point, with the binding (?) of a noble warrior. cur was plying his weapons against him in a fence(?) of his shield till a third of the day; and not a stroke of the blow reached cuchulainn for the madness of the feats, and he did not know that a man was trying to strike him, till fiacha mac fir-febe said to him: 'beware of the man who is attacking you.' cuchulainn looked at him; he threw the feat-apple that remained in his hand, so that it went between the rim and the body of the shield, and went back through the head of the churl. it would be in imslige glendanach that cur fell according to another version. fergus returned to the army. 'if your security hold you,' said he, 'wait here till to-morrow.' 'it would not be there,' said ailill; 'we shall go back to our camp.' then lath mac dabro is asked to go against cuchulainn, as cur had been asked. he himself fell then also. fergus returns again to put his security on them. they remained there until there were slain there cur mac dalath, and lath mac dabro, and foirc, son of the three swifts, and srubgaile mac eobith. they were all slain there in single combat. _the death of ferbaeth_ 'go to the camp for us, o friend loeg' [said cuchulainn], 'and consult lugaid mac nois, descendant of lomarc, to know who is coming against me tomorrow. let it be asked diligently, and give him my greeting.' then loeg went. 'welcome,' said lugaid; 'it is unlucky for cuchulainn, the trouble in which he is, alone against the men of ireland. it is a comrade of us both, ferbaeth (ill-luck to his arms!), who goes against him to morrow. findabair is given to him for it, and the kingdom of his race.' loeg turns back to where cuchulainn is. he is not very joyful over his answer, my friend loeg,' said cuchulainn. loeg tells him all that. ferbaeth had been summoned into the tent to ailill and medb, and he is told to sit by findabair, and that she should be given to him, for he was her choice for fighting with cuchulainn. he was the man they thought worthy of them, for they had both learned the same arts with scathach. then wine is given to him, till he was intoxicated, and he is told, 'they thought that wine fine, and there had only been brought the load of fifty wagons. and it was the maiden who used to put hand to his portion therefrom.' 'i do not wish it,' said ferbaeth; 'cuchulainn is my foster-brother, and a man of perpetual covenant with me. nevertheless i will go against him to-morrow and cut off his head.' 'it will be you who would do it,' said medb. cuchulainn told loeg to go to meet lugaid, that he should come and speak with him. lugaid comes to him. 'so ferbaeth is coming against me to-morrow,' said cuchulainn. 'he indeed,' said lugaid. 'an evil day!' said cuchulainn; 'i shall not be alive therefrom. two of equal age we, two of equal deftness, two equal when we meet. o lugaid, greet him for me; tell him that it is not true valour to come against me; tell him to come to meet me to-night, to speak with me.' lugaid tells him this. when ferbaeth did not avoid it, he went that night to renounce his friendship with cuchulainn, and fiacha mac fir-febe with him. cuchulainn appealed to him by his foster-brotherhood, and scathach, the foster-mother of them both. 'i must,' said ferbaeth. 'i have promised it' 'take back (?) your bond of friendship then,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn went from him in anger. a spear of holly was driven into cuchulainn's foot in the glen, and appeared up by his knee. he draws it out. 'go not, o ferbaeth, till you have seen the find that i have found.' 'throw it,' said ferbaeth. cuchulainn threw the spear then after ferbaeth so that it hit the hollow of his poll, and came out at his mouth in front, so that he fell back into the glen. 'that is a throw indeed,' said ferbaeth. hence is focherd murthemne. (or it is fiacha who had said, 'your throw is vigorous to-day, o cuchulainn,' said he; so that focherd murthemne is from that.) ferbaeth died at once in the glen. hence is glenn firbaith. something was heard: fergus, who said: 'o ferbaeth, foolish is thy expedition in the place in which thy grave is. ruin reached thee ... in croen corand. 'the hill is named fithi (?) for ever; croenech in murthemne, from to-day focherd will be the name of the place in which thou didst fall, o ferbaeth. o ferbaeth,' etc. 'your comrade has fallen,' said fergus. 'say will you pay for this man on the morrow?' 'i will pay indeed,' said cuchulainn. cuchulainn sends loeg again for news, to know how they are in the camp, and whether ferbaeth lived. lugaid said: 'ferbaeth is dead,' and cuchulainn comes in turn to talk with them. _the combat of larine mac nois_ 'one of you to-morrow to go readily against the other,' said lugaid. 'he will not be found at all,' said ailill, 'unless you practise trickery therein. any man who comes to you, give him wine, so that his mind may be glad, and it shall be said to him that that is all the wine that has been brought from cruachan. it grieves us that you should be on water in the camp. and findabair shall be put at his right hand, and it shall be said: "she shall come to you, if you bring us the head of the riastartha."' a messenger used to be sent to every hero on his night, and that used to be told to him; he continued to kill every man of them in. turn. no one could be got by them to meet him at last. larine mac nois, brother to lugaid, king of munster, was summoned to them the next day. great was his pride. wine is given to him, and findabair is put at his right hand. medb looked at the two. 'it pleases me, yonder pair,' said she; 'a match between them would be fitting.' 'i will not stand in your way,' said ailill; 'he shall have her if he brings me the head of the riastartha.' 'i will bring it,' said larine. then lugaid comes. 'what man have you for the ford to-morrow?' said he. 'larine goes,' said ailill. then lugaid comes to speak with cuchulainn. they meet in glenn firbaith. each gives the other welcome. 'it is for this i have come to speak to you,' said lugaid: 'there is a churl here, a fool and proud,' said he, 'a brother of mine named larine; he is befooled about the same maiden. on your friendship then, do not kill him, lest you should leave me without a brother. for it is for this that he is being sent to you, so that we two might quarrel. i should be content, however, that you should give him a sound drubbing, for it is in my despite that he comes.' larine goes next day to meet cuchulainn, and the maiden near him to encourage him. cuchulainn attacks him without arms. [note: this is apparently the sense, but the passage seems corrupt.] he takes larine's arms from him perforce. he takes him then between his two hands, and grinds and shakes him, ... and threw him till he was between lugaid's two hands ...; nevertheless, he is the only man who escaped [even] a bad escape from him, of all who met him on the tain. _the conversation of the morrigan with cuchulainn_ cuchulainn saw a young woman coming towards him, with a dress of every colour on, and her form very excellent. 'who are you?' said cuchulainn. 'daughter of buan the king,' said she. 'i have come to you; i have loved you for your reputation, and i have brought my treasures and my cattle with me.' 'the time at which you have come to us is not good. for our condition is evil, through hunger. it is not easy to me to meet a woman, while i am in this strife.' 'i will be a help to you. ... i shall be more troublesome to you,' said she, 'when i come against you when you are in combat against the men. i will come in the form of an eel about your feet in the ford, so that you shall fall.' 'i think that likelier than the daughter of a king. i will take you,' said he, 'between my toes, till your ribs are broken, and you will be in this condition till a doom of blessing comes (?) on you.' 'i will drive the cattle on the ford to you, in the form of a grey she-wolf.' 'i will throw a stone at you from my sling, so that it shall break your eye in your head; and you will be in that state till a doom of blessing comes on you.' 'i will come to you in the form of a hornless red heifer before the cattle. they will rush on you on the plains(?), and on the fords, and on the pools, and you will not see me before you.' 'i will throw a stone at you,' said he, 'so that your leg shall break under you, and you will be in this state till a doom of blessing comes on you.' therewith she goes from him. so he was a week on ath grencha, and a man used to fall every day by him in ath grencha, i.e. in ath darteisc. _the death of loch mac emonis_ then loch mac emonis was asked like the others, and there was promised to him a piece of the arable land of mag ai equal in size to mag murthemne, and the equipment of twelve warriors and a chariot worth seven cumals [note: a measure of value.]; and he did not think combat with a youth worthy. he had a brother, long mac emonis himself. the same price was given to him, both maiden and raiment and chariots and land. he goes to meet cuchulainn. cuchulainn slays him, and he was brought dead before his brother, loch. this latter said that if he only knew that it was a bearded man who slew him, he would kill him for it. 'take a battle-force to him,' said medb to her household, 'across the ford from the west, that you may go-across; and let fair-play be broken on him.' then the seven manes, warriors, go first, so that they saw him on the edge of the ford westward. he puts his feast-dress on that day. it is then that the women kept climbing on the men to look at him. 'i am sorry,' said medb; 'i cannot see the boy about whom they go there.' 'your mind will not be the gladder for it,' said lethrend, ailill's squire, 'if you could see him.' he comes to the ford then as he was. 'what man is it yonder, o fergus?' said medb. 'a boy who wards off,' etc. ... 'if it is culann's hound.' [note: rhetoric, four lines.] medb climbed on the men then to look at him. it is then that the women said to cuchulainn 'that he was laughed at in the camp because he had no beard, and no good warriors would go against him, only wild men; it were easier to make a false beard.' so this is what he did, in order to seek combat with a man; i.e. with loch. cuchulainn took a handful of grass, and said a spell over it, so that every one thought he had a beard. 'true,' said the troop of women, 'cuchulainn has a beard. it is fitting for a warrior to fight with him.' they had done this on urging loch. 'i will not make combat against him till the end of seven days from to-day,' said loch. 'it is not fitting for us to have no attack on the man for this space,' said medb. 'let us put a hero to hunt(?) him every night, if perchance we may get a chance at him.' this is done then. a hero used to come every night to hunt him, and he used to kill them all. these are the names of the men who fell there: seven conalls, seven oenguses, seven uarguses, seven celtris, eight fiacs, ten ailills, ten delbaths, ten tasachs. these are his deeds of this week in ath grencha. medb asked advice, to know what she should do to cuchulainn, for what had been killed of their hosts by him distressed her greatly. this is the plan she arrived at, to put brave, high-spirited men to attack him all at once when he should come to an appointed meeting to speak with medb. for she had an appointment the next day with cuchulainn to make a peace in fraud with him, to get hold of him. she sent messengers forth to seek him that he should come to meet her; and it was thus he should come, and he unarmed: 'for she would come only with her troop of women to meet him.' the messenger, traigtren, went to the place where cuchulainn was, and tells him medb's message. cuchulainn promised that he would do so. 'in what manner does it please you to go to meet medb to-morrow, o cuchulainn?' said loeg. 'as medb has asked me,' said cuchulainn. 'great are medb's deeds,' said the charioteer; 'i fear a hand behind the back with her.' 'how is it to be done then?' said he. 'your sword at your waist,' said the charioteer, 'that you may not be taken at an unfair advantage. for the warrior is not entitled to his honour-price if he is without arms; and it is the coward's law that he deserves in that way.' 'let it be done so then,' said cuchulainn. the meeting-place was in ard aignech, which is called fochaird to-day. now medb came to the meeting-place and set in ambush fourteen men of her own special following, of those who were of most prowess, ready for him. these are they: two glassines, the two sons of bucchridi; two ardans, the two sons of licce; two glasogmas, the two sons of crund; drucht and delt and dathen; tea and tascra and tualang; taur and glese. then cuchulainn comes to meet her. the men rise to attack him. fourteen spears are thrown at him at once. cuchulainn guards himself so that his skin or his ---(?) is not touched. then he turns on them and kills them, the fourteen of them. so that they are the fourteen men of focherd, and they are the men of cronech, for it is in cronech at focherd that they were killed. hence cuchulainn said: 'good is my feat of heroism,' [note: _fo_, 'good'; _cherd_, 'feat.' twelve lines of rhetoric.] etc. so it is from this that the name focherd stuck to the place; that is, _focherd_, i.e. 'good is the feat of arms' that happened to cuchulainn there. so cuchulainn came, and overtook them taking camp, and there were slain two daigris and two anlis and four dungais of imlech. then medb began to urge loch there. 'great is the mockery of you,' said she, 'for the man who has killed your brother to be destroying our host, and you do not go to battle with him! for we deem it certain that the wild man, great and fierce [note: literally, 'sharpened.'], the like of him yonder, will not be able to withstand the rage and fury of a hero like you. for it is by one foster-mother and instructress that an art was built up for you both.' then loch came against cuchulainn, to avenge his brother on him, for it was shown to him that cuchulainn had a beard. 'come to the upper ford,' said loch; 'it would not be in the polluted ford that we shall meet, where long fell.' when he came then to seek the ford, the men drove the cattle across. 'it will be across your water [note: irish, _tarteisc_.] here to-day,' said gabran the poet. hence is ath darteisc, and tir mor darteisc from that time on this place. when the men met then on the ford, and when they began to fight and to strike each other there, and when each of them began to strike the other, the eel threw three folds round cuchulainn's feet, till he lay on his back athwart the ford. loch attacked him with the sword, till the ford was blood-red with his blood. 'ill indeed,' said fergus, 'is this deed before the enemy. let each of you taunt the man, o men,' said he to his following, 'that he may not fall for nothing.' bricriu poison-tongue mac carbatha rose and began inciting cuchulainn. 'your strength is gone,' said he, 'when it is a little salmon that overthrows you when the ulstermen are at hand [coming] to you out of their sickness yonder. grievous for you to undertake a hero's deed in the presence of the men of ireland and to ward off a formidable warrior in arms thus!' therewith cuchulainn arises and strikes the eel so that its ribs broke in it, and the cattle were driven over the hosts eastwards by force, so that they took the tents on their horns, with the thunder-feat that the two heroes had made in the ford. the she-wolf attacked him, and drove the cattle on him westwards. he throws a stone from his sling, so that her eye broke in her head. she goes in the form of a hornless red heifer; she rushes before the cows upon the pools and fords. it is then he said: 'i cannot see the fords for water.' he throws a stone at the hornless red heifer, so that her leg breaks under her. then he sang a song: 'i am all alone before flocks; i get them not, i let them not go; i am alone at cold hours (?) before many peoples. 'let some one say to conchobar though he should come to me it were not too soon; magu's sons have carried off their kine and divided them among them. 'there may be strife about one head only that one tree blazes not; if there were two or three their brands would blaze. [note: meaning not clear.] 'the men have almost worn me out by reason of the number of single combats; i cannot work the slaughter (?) of glorious warriors as i am all alone. i am all alone.' *** it is there then that cuchulainn did to the morrigan the three things that he had promised her in the _tain bo regamna_ [note: one of the introductory stories to the _tain bo cuailnge_, printed with translation in _irische texte_, 2nd series.]; and he fights loch in the ford with the gae-bolga, which the charioteer threw him along the stream. he attacked him with it, so that it went into his body's armour, for loch had a horn-skin in fighting with a man. 'give way to me,' said loch. cuchulainn gave way, so that it was on the other side that loch fell. hence is ath traiged in tir mor. cuchulainn cut off his head then. then fair-play was broken with him that day when five men came against him at one time; i.e. two cruaids, two calads, derothor; cuchulainn killed them by himself. hence is coicsius focherda, and coicer oengoirt; or it is fifteen days that cuchulainn was in focherd, and hence is coicsius focherda in the foray. cuchulainn hurled at them from delga, so that not a living thing, man or beast, could put its head past him southwards between delga and the sea. _the healing of the morrigan_ when cuchulainn was in this great weariness, the morrigan met him in the form of an old hag, and she blind and lame, milking a cow with three teats, and he asked her for a drink. she gave him milk from a teat. 'he will be whole who has brought it(?),' said cuchulainn; 'the blessings of gods and non-gods on you,' said he. (gods with them were the mighty folk [note: i.e. the dwellers in the sid. the words in brackets are a gloss incorporated in the text.]; non-gods the people of husbandry.) then her head was healed so that it was whole. she gave the milk of the second teat, and her eye was whole; and gave the milk of the third teat, and her leg was whole. so that this was what he said about each thing of them, 'a doom of blessing on you,' said he. 'you told me,' said the morrigan, 'i should not have healing from you for ever.' 'if i had known it was you,' said cuchulainn, 'i would not have healed you ever.' so that formerly cuchulainn's throng (?) on tarthesc was the name of this story in the foray. it is there that fergus claimed of his securities that faith should not be broken with cuchulainn; and it is there that cuchulainn ... [note: corrupt; one and a half lines.] i.e. delga murthemne at that time. then cuchulainn killed fota in his field; bomailce on his ford; salach in his village (?); muine in his hill; luair in leth-bera; fer-toithle in toithle; these are the names of these lands for ever, every place in which each man of them fell. cuchulainn killed also traig and dornu and dernu, col and mebul and eraise on this side of ath tire moir, at methe and cethe: these were three [note: ms. 'two.'] druids and their three wives. then medb sent a hundred men of her special retinue to kill cuchulainn. . he killed them all on ath ceit-chule. then medb said: 'it is _cuillend_ [note: interlinear gloss: 'we deem it a crime.'] to us, the slaying of our people.' hence is glass chrau and cuillend cind duin and ath ceit-chule. then the four provinces of ireland took camp and fortified post in the breslech mor in mag murthemne, and send part of their cattle and booty beyond them to the south into clithar bo ulad. cuchulainn took his post at the mound in lerga near them, and his charioteer loeg mac riangabra kindled a fire for him on the evening of that night. he saw the fiery sheen of the bright golden arms over the heads of the four provinces of ireland at the setting of the clouds of evening. fury and great rage came over him at sight of the host, at the multitude of his enemies, the abundance of his foes. he took his two spears and his shield and his sword; he shook his shield and brandished his spears and waved his sword; and he uttered his hero's shout from his throat, so that goblins and sprites and spectres of the glen and demons of the air answered, for the terror of the shout which they uttered on high. so that the nemain produced confusion on the host. the four provinces of ireland came into a tumult of weapons about the points of their own spears and weapons, so that a hundred warriors of them died of terror and of heart-burst in the middle of the camp and of the position that night. when loeg was there, he saw something: a single man who came straight across the camp of the men of ireland from the north-east straight towards him. 'a single man is coming to us now, o little hound!' said loeg. 'what kind of man is there?' said cuchulainn. 'an easy question: a man fair and tall is he, with hair cut broad, waving yellow hair; a green mantle folded round him; a brooch of white silver in the mantle on his breast; a tunic of royal silk, with red ornamentation of red gold against the white skin, to his knees. a black shield with a hard boss of white metal; a five pointed spear in his hand; a forked (?) javelin beside it. wonderful is the play and sport and exercise that he makes; but no one attacks him, and he attacks no one, as if no one saw him.' 'it is true, o fosterling,' said he; 'which of my friends from the _síd_ is that who comes to have pity on me, because they know the sore distress in which i am, alone against the four great provinces of ireland, on the cattle-foray of cualnge at this time?' that was true for cuchulainn. when the warrior had reached the place where cuchulainn was, he spoke to him, and had pity on him for it. 'this is manly, o cuchulainn,' said he. 'it is not much at all,' said cuchulainn. 'i will help you,' said the man. 'who are you at all?' said cuchulainn. 'it is i, your father from the _síd_, lug mac ethlend.' 'my wounds are heavy, it were high time that i should be healed.' 'sleep a little, o cuchulainn,' said the warrior; 'your heavy swoon (?) [note: conjectural--ms. _tromthortim_.] of sleep at the mound of lerga till the end of three days and three nights, and i will fight against the hosts for that space.' then he sings the _ferdord_ to him, and he sleeps from it. lug looked at each wound that it was clean. then lug said: 'arise, o great son of the ulstermen, whole of thy wounds. ... go into thy chariot secure. arise, arise!' [note: rhetoric.] for three days and three nights cuchulainn was asleep. it were right indeed though his sleep equalled his weariness. from the monday after the end of summer exactly to the wednesday after candlemas, for this space cuchulainn had not slept, except when he slept a little while against his spear after midday, with his head on his clenched fist, and his clenched fist on his spear, and his spear on his knee; but he was striking and cutting and attacking and slaying the four great provinces of ireland for that space. it is then that the warrior of the síd cast herbs and grasses of curing and charms of healing into the hurts and wounds and into the injuries and into the many wounds of cuchulainn, so that cuchulainn recovered in his sleep without his perceiving it at all. now it was at this time that the boys came south from emain macha: folloman mac conchobair with three fifties of kings' sons of ulster, and they gave battle thrice to the hosts, so that three times their own number fell, and all the boys fell except folloman mac conchobair. folloman boasted that he would not go back to emain for ever and ever, until he should take the head of ailill with him, with the golden crown that was above it. this was not easy to him; for the two sons of bethe mac bain, the two sons of ailill's foster-mother and foster-father, came on him, and wounded him so that he fell by them. so that that is the death of the boys of ulster and of folloman mac conchobair. cuchulainn for his part was in his deep sleep till the end of three days and three nights at the mound in lerga. cuchulainn arose then from his sleep, and put his hand over his face, and made a purple wheelbeam from head to foot, and his mind was strong in him, and he would have gone to an assembly, or a march, or a tryst, or a beer-house, or to one of the chief assemblies of ireland. 'how long have i been in this sleep now, o warrior?' said cuchulainn. 'three days and three nights,' said the warrior. 'alas for that!' said cuchulainn. 'what is the matter?' said the warrior. 'the hosts without attack for this space,' said cuchulainn. 'they are not that at all indeed,' said the warrior. 'who has come upon them?' said cuchulainn. 'the boys came from the north from emain macha; folloman mac conchobair with three fifties of boys of the kings' sons of ulster; and they gave three battles to the hosts for the space of the three days and the three nights in which you have been in your sleep now. and three times their own number fell, and the boys fell, except folloman mac conchobair. folloman boasted that he would take ailill's head, and that was not easy to him, for he was killed.' 'pity for that, that i was not in my strength! for if i had been in my strength, the boys would not have fallen as they have fallen, and folloman mac conchobair would not have fallen.' 'strive further, o little hound, it is no reproach to thy honour and no disgrace to thy valour.' 'stay here for us to-night, o warrior,' said cuchulainn, 'that we may together avenge the boys on the hosts.' 'i will not stay indeed,' said the warrior, 'for however great the contests of valour and deeds of arms any one does near thee, it is not on him there will be the renown of it or the fame or the reputation, but it is on thee; therefore i will not stay. but ply thy deed of arms thyself alone on the hosts, for not with them is there power over thy life this time.' 'the scythe-chariot, o my friend loeg!' said cuchulainn; 'can you yoke it? and is its equipment here? if you can yoke it, and if you have its equipment, yoke it; and if you have not its equipment, do not yoke it at all.' it is then that the charioteer arose, and he put on his hero's dress of charioteering. this was his hero's dress of charioteering that he put on: his soft tunic of skin, light and airy, well-turned [note: lit. 'kneaded.'], made of skin, sewn, of deer-skin, so that it did not restrain the movement of his hands outside. he put on his black (?) upper-cloak over it outside: simon magus had made it for darius, king of the romans, so that darius gave it to conchobar, and conchobar gave it to cuchulainn, and cuchulainn gave it to his charioteer. the charioteer took first then his helm, ridged, like a board (?), four-cornered, with much of every colour and every form, over the middle of his shoulders. this was well-measured (?) to him, and it was not an overweight. his hand brought the circlet of red-yellow, as though it were a plate of red-gold, of refined gold smelted over the edge of an anvil, to his brow, as a sign of his charioteering, in distinction to his master. he took the goads (?) of his horses, and his whip (?) inlaid in his right hand. he took the reins to hold back his horses in his left hand. [note: gloss incorporated in text: 'i. e. to direct his horses, in his left hand, for the great power of his charioteering.'] then he put the iron inlaid breastplates on the horses, so that they were covered from forehead to forefoot with spears and points and lances and hard points, so that every motion in this chariot was spear-near, so that every corner and every point and every end and every front of this chariot was a way of tearing. it is then that he cast a spell of covering over his horses and over his companion, so that he was not visible to any one in the camp, and so that every one in the camp was visible to them. it was proper that he should cast this, because there were the three gifts of charioteering on the charioteer that day, the leap over ----, and the straight ----, and the ----. then the hero and the champion and he who made the fold of the badb [note: the badb (scald-crow) was a war-goddess. this is an expressive term for the piled-up bodies of the slain.] of the men of the earth, cuchulainn mac sualtaim, took his battle-array of battle and contest and strife. this was his battle-array of battle and contest and strife: he put on twenty-seven skin tunics, waxed, like board, equally thick, which used to be under strings and chains and thongs, against his white skin, that he might not lose his mind nor his understanding when his rage should come. he put on his hero's battle-girdle over it outside, of hard-leather, hard, tanned, of the choice of seven ox-hides of a heifer, so that it covered him from the thin part of his sides to the thick part of his arm-pit; it used to be on him to repel spears, and points, and darts, and lances, and arrows. for they were cast from him just as if it was stone or rock or horn that they struck (?). then he put on his apron, skin like, silken, with its edge of white gold variegated, against the soft lower part of his body. he put on his dark apron of dark leather, well tanned, of the choice of four ox-hides of a heifer, with his battle-girdle of cows' skins (?) about it over his silken skin-like apron. then the royal hero took his battle-arms of battle and contest and strife. these then were his battle-arms of battle: he took his ivory-hilted, bright-faced weapon, with his eight little swords; he took his five-pointed spear, with his eight little spears [note: in the margin: 'and his quiver,' probably an interpolation.]; he took his spear of battle, with his eight little darts; he took his javelin with his eight little javelins; his eight shields of feats, with his round shield, dark red, in which a boar that would be shown at a feast would go into the boss (?), with its edge sharp, keen, very sharp, round about it, so that it would cut hairs against the stream for sharpness and keenness and great sharpness; when the warrior did the edge-feat with it, he would cut equally with his shield, and with his spear, and with his sword. then he put on his head a ridged-helmet of battle and contest and strife, from which there was uttered the shout of a hundred warriors, with along cry from every corner and every angle of it. for there used to cry from it equally goblins and sprites and ghosts of the glen and demons of the air, before and above and around, wherever he used to go before shedding the blood of warriors and enemies. there was cast over him his dress of concealment by the garment of the land of promise that was given by his foster-father in wizardry. it is then came the first contortion on cuchulainn, so that it made him horrible, many-shaped, wonderful, strange. his shanks shook like a tree before the stream, or like a rush against the stream, every limb and every joint and every end and every member, of him from head to foot. he made a ---of rage of his body inside his skin. his feet and his shins and his knees came so that they were behind him; his heels and his calves and his hams came so that they were in front. the front-sinews of his calves came so that they were on the front of his shins, so that every huge knot of them was as great as a warrior's clenched fist. the temple-sinews of his head were stretched, so that they were on the hollow of his neck, so that every round lump of them, very great, innumerable, not to be equalled (?), measureless, was as great as the head of a month old child. then he made a red bowl of his face and of his visage on him; he swallowed one of his two eyes into his head, so that from his cheek a wild crane could hardly have reached it [to drag it] from the back of his skull. the other sprang out till it was on his cheek outside. his lips were marvellously contorted. tie drew the cheek from the jawbone, so that his gullet was visible. his lungs and his lights came so that they were flying in his mouth and in his throat. he struck a blow of the ---of a lion with his upper palate on the roof of his skull, so that every flake of fire that came into his mouth from his throat was as large as a wether's skin. his heart was heard light-striking (?) against his ribs like the roaring of a bloodhound at its food, or like a lion going through bears. there were seen the palls of the badb, and the rain-clouds of poison, and the sparks of fire very red in clouds and in vapours over his head with the boiling of fierce rage, that rose over him. his hair curled round his head like the red branches of a thorn in the gap of atalta (?). though a royal apple-tree under royal fruit had been shaken about it, hardly would an apple have reached the ground through it, but an apple would have fixed on every single hair there, for the twisting of the rage that rose from his hair above him. the hero's light rose from his forehead, so that it was as long, and as thick, as a warrior's whet-stone, so that it was equally long with the nose, till he went mad in playing with the shields, in pressing on (?) the charioteer, in ---the hosts. as high, as thick, as strong, as powerful, as long, as the mast of a great ship, was the straight stream of dark blood that rose straight up from the very top of his head, so that it made a dark smoke of wizardry like the smoke of a palace when the king comes to equip himself in the evening of a wintry day. after that contortion wherewith cuchulainn was contorted, then the hero of valour sprang into his scythed battle-chariot, with its iron points, with its thin edges, with its hooks, and with its hard points, with its sharp points (?) of a hero, with their pricking goads (?), with its nails of sharpness that were on shafts and thongs and cross-pieces and ropes (?) of that chariot. it was thus the chariot was, with its body thin-framed (?), dry-framed (?), feat-high, straight-shouldered (?), of a champion, on which there would have been room for eight weapons fit for a lord, with the speed of swallow or of wind or of deer across the level of the plain. the chariot was placed on two horses, swift, vehement, furious, small-headed, small-round, small-end, pointed, ----, red-breasted, ----, easy to recognise, well-yoked, ... one of these two horses was supple, swift-leaping, great of strength, great of curve, great of foot, great of length, ----. the other horse was flowing-maned, slender-footed, thin-footed, slender-heeled, ----. it is then that he threw the thunder-feat of a hundred, and the thunder-feat of four hundred, and he stopped at the thunder-feat of five hundred, for he did not think it too much for this equal number to fall by him in his first attack, and in his first contest of battle on the four provinces of ireland; and he came forth in this way to attack his enemies, and he took his chariot in a great circuit about the four great provinces of ireland, and he put the attack of an enemy among enemies on them. and a heavy course was put on his chariot, and the iron wheels of the chariot went into the ground, so that it was enough for fort and fortress, the way the iron wheels of the chariot went into the ground; for there arose alike turfs and stones and rocks and flagstones and gravel of the ground as high as the iron wheels of the chariot. the reason why he cast the circle of war round about the four great provinces of ireland, was that they might not flee from him, and that they might not scatter, that he might make sure of them, to avenge the boys on them; and he comes into the battle thus in the middle, and overthrew great fences of his enemies' corpses round about the host thrice, and puts the attack of an enemy among enemies on them, so that they fell sole to sole, and neck to neck; such was the density of the slaughter. he went round again thrice thus, so that he left a layer of six round them in the great circuit; i.e. soles of three to necks of three in the course of a circuit round the camp. so that its name in the foray is sesrech breslige, and it is one of the three not to be numbered in the foray; i.e. sesrech breslige and imslige glendamnach and the battle on garach and irgarach, except that it was alike dog and horse and man there. this is what others say, that lug mac ethlend fought along with cuchulainn the sesrech breslige. their number is not known, and it is impossible to count what number fell there of the rabble. but the chief only have been counted. these are the names of the princes and chiefs: two cruads, two calads, two cirs, two ciars, two ecells, three croms, three caurs, three combirge, four feochars, four furachars, four cass, four fotas, five caurs, five cermans, five cobthachs, six saxans, six dachs, six dares, seven rochads, seven ronans, seven rurthechs, eight roclads, eight rochtads, eight rindachs, eight corpres, eight mulachs, nine daigs, nine dares, nine damachs, ten fiachs, ten fiachas, ten fedelmids. ten kings over seven fifties did cuchulainn slay in breslech mor in mag murthemne; and an innumerable number besides of dogs and horses and women and boys and people of no consequence and rabble. for there did not escape one man out of three of the men of ireland without a thigh-bone or half his head or one eye broken, or without being marked for ever. and he came from them after giving them battle without wound or blood-stain on himself or on his servant or on either of his horses. cuchulainn came next day to survey the host and to show his soft fair form to the women and the troops of women and the girls and the maidens and the poets and the bards, for he did not hold in honour or dignity that haughty form of wizardry that had appeared to them on him the night before. therefore he came to show his soft fair form that day. fair indeed the boy who came then to show his form to the hosts, that is, cuchulainn mac sualtaim. the appearance of three heads of hair on him, dark against the skin of his head, blood-red in the middle, a crown gold-yellow which covers them. a fair arrangement of this hair so that it makes three circles round the hollow of the back of his head, so that each hair ----, dishevelled, very golden, excellent, in long curls, distinguished, fair-coloured, over his shoulders, was like gold thread. a hundred ringlets, bright purple, of red-gold, gold-flaming, round his neck; a hundred threads with mixed carbuncle round his head. four dimples in each of his two cheeks; that is, a yellow dimple, and a green dimple, and a blue dimple, and a purple dimple. seven gems of brilliance of an eye, in each of his two royal eyes. seven toes on each of his two feet, seven fingers on each of his two hands, with the grasp of a hawk's claws, with the seizure of a griffin's claws on each of them separately. then he puts on his feast-dress that day. this was his raiment on him: a fair tunic, proper; bright-purple, with a border with five folds. a white brooch of white silver with adorned gold inlaid over his white breast, as if it was a lantern full of light, that the eyes of men could not look at for its splendour and its brightness. a silken tunic of silk against his skin so that it covered him to the top of his dark apron of dark-red, soldierly, royal, silken. a dark shield; dark red, dark purple, with five chains of gold, with a rim of white metal on it. a sword gold-hilted, inlaid with ivory hilt of red-gold raised high on his girdle. a spear, long, grey-edged, with a spear-head sharp, attacking, with rivets of gold, gold-flaming by him in the chariot. nine heads in one of his two hands, and ten heads in the other hand. he shook them from him towards the hosts. so that this is the contest of a night to cuchulainn. then the women of connaught raised themselves on the hosts, and the women were climbing on the men to look at cuchulainn's form. medb hid her face and dare not show her face, but was under the shield-shelter for fear of cuchulainn. so that it is hence dubthach doeltenga of ulster said: 'if it is the riastartha, there will be corpses of men therefrom,' etc. [note: rhetoric, fifty-four lines.] fiacha fialdana from imraith (?) came to speak with the son of his mother's sister, mane andoe his name. docha mac magach went with mane andoe: dubthach doeltenga of ulster came with fiacha fialdana from imraith (?). docha threw a spear at fiacha, so that it went into dubthach. then dubthach threw a spear at mane, so that it went into docha. the mothers of dubthach and docha were two sisters. hence is imroll belaig euin. [note: i.e. the random throw of belach euin.] (or imroll belaig euin is from this: the hosts go to belach euin, their two troops wait there. diarmait mac conchobair comes from the north from ulster. 'let a horseman go from you,' said diarmait, 'that mane may come to speak with me with one man, and i will come with one man to meet him.' they meet then. i have come,' said diarmait, 'from conchobar, who says to medb and ailill, that they let the cows go, and make whole all that they have done there, and bring the bull [note: i.e. bring findbennach to meet the dun of cualnge.] from the west hither to the bull, that they may meet, because medb has promised it.' 'i will go and tell them,' said mane. he tells this then to medb and ailill. 'this cannot be got of medb,' said mane. 'let us exchange arms then, 'said diarmait, 'if you think it better.' 'i am content,' said mane. each of them throws his spear at the other, so that the two of them die, and so that the name of this place is imroll belaig euin.) their forces rush at each other: there fall three twenties of them in each of the forces. hence is ard-in-dirma. [note: the height of the troop.] ailill's folk put his king's crown on tamun the fool; ailill dare not have it on himself. cuchulainn threw a stone at him at ath tamuin, so that his head broke thereby. hence is ath tamuin and tuga-im-tamun. [note: i.e., covering about tamun.] then oengus, son of oenlam the fair, a bold warrior of ulster, turned all the host at moda loga (that is the same as lugmod) as far as ath da ferta: he did not let them go past, and he pelted them with stones, and the learned say ---before till they should go under the sword at emain macha, if it had been in single combat that they had come against him. fair-play was broken on him, and they slew him in an unequal fight. 'let some one come from you against me,' said cuchulainn at ath da ferta. 'it will not be i, it will not be i,' said every one from his place. 'a scapegoat is not owed from my race, and if it were owed, it would not be i whom they would give in his stead for a scapegoat.' then fergus mac roich was asked to go against him. he refuses to go against his foster-son cuchulainn. wine was given to him, and he was greatly intoxicated, and he was asked about going to the combat. he goes forth then since they were urgently imploring him. then cuchulainn said: 'it is with my security that you come against me, o friend fergus,' said he, 'with no sword in its place.' for ailill had stolen it, as we said before. 'i do not care at all,' said fergus; 'though there were a sword there, it would not be plied on you. give way to me, o cuchulainn,' said fergus. 'you will give way to me in return then,' said cuchulainn. 'even so,' said fergus. then cuchulainn fled back before fergus as far as grellach doluid, that fergus might give way to him on the day of the battle. then cuchulainn sprang in to grellach doluid. 'have you his head, o fergus?' said every one. 'no,' said fergus, 'it is not like a tryst. he who is there is too lively for me. till my turn comes round again, i will not go.' then they go past him, and take camp at crich ross. then ferchu, an exile, who was in exile against ailill, hears them. he comes to meet cuchulainn. thirteen men was his number. cuchulainn kills ferchu's warriors. their thirteen stones are there. medb sent mand of muresc, son of daire, of the domnandach, to fight cuchulainn. own brothers were lie and fer diad, and two sons of one father. this mand was a man fierce and excessive in eating and sleeping, a man ill-tongued, foul-mouthed, like dubthach doeltenga of ulster. he was a man strong, active, with strength of limb like munremar mac gerrcind; a fiery warrior like triscod trenfer of conchobar's house. 'i will go, and i unarmed, and i will grind him between my hands, for i deem it no honour or dignity to ply weapons on a beardless wild boy such as he.' he went then to seek cuchulainn. he and his charioteer were there on the plain watching the host. 'one man coming towards us,' said loeg to cuchulainn. 'what kind of man?' said cuchulainn. 'a man black, dark, strong, bull-like, and he unarmed.' 'let him come past you,' said cuchulainn. he came to them therewith. to fight against you have i come,' said mand. then they begin to wrestle for a long time, and mand overthrows cuchulainn thrice, so that the charioteer urged him. 'if you had a strife for the hero's portion in emain,' said he, 'you would be mighty over the warriors of emain!' his hero's rage comes, and his warrior's fury rises, so that he overthrew mand against the pillar, so that he falls in pieces. hence is mag mand achta, that is, mand echta, that is, mand's death there. [from the yellow book of lecan] on the morrow medb sent twenty-seven men to cuchulainn's bog. fuilcarnn is the name of the bog, on this side of fer diad's ford. they threw their twenty-nine spears at him at once; i.e. gaile-dana with his twenty-seven sons and his sister's son, glas mac delgna. when then they all stretched out their hands to their swords, fiacha mac fir-febe came after them out of the camp. he gave a leap from his chariot when he saw all their hands against cuchulainn, and he strikes off the arms of the twenty-nine of them. then cuchulainn said: 'what you have done i deem help at the nick of time (?).' 'this little,' said fiacha, 'is a breach of compact for us ulstermen. if any of them reaches the camp, we will go with our cantred under the point of the sword.' 'i swear, etc., since i have emitted my breath,' said cuchulainn, 'not a man of them shall reach it alive.' cuchulainn slew then the twenty-nine men and the two sons of ficce with them, two bold warriors of ulster who came to ply their might on the host. this is that deed on the foray, when they went to the battle with cuchulainn. _this is the combat of fer diad and cuchulainn_ then they considered what man among them would be fit to ward off cuchulainn. the four provinces of ireland spoke, and confirmed, and discussed, whom it would be fitting to send to the ford against cuchulainn. all said that it was the horn-skin from irrus domnand, the weight that is not supported, the battle-stone of doom, his own dear and ardent foster-brother. for cuchulainn had not a feat that he did not possess, except it were the gae bolga alone; and they thought he could avoid it, and defend himself against it, because of the horn about him, so that neither arms nor many edges pierced it. medb sent messengers to bring fer diad. fer diad did not come with those messengers. medb sent poets and bards and satirists [note: ir. _aes glantha gemaidi_, the folk who brought blotches on the cheeks (i.e. by their lampoons).] to him, that they might satirise him and mock him and put him to ridicule, that he might not find a place for his head in the world, until he should come to the tent of medb and ailill on the foray. fer diad came with those messengers, for the fear of their bringing shame on him. findabair, the daughter of medb and ailill, was put on one side of him: it is findabair who put her hand on every goblet and on every cup of fer diad; it is she who gave him three kisses at every cup of them; it is she who distributed apples right frequent over the bosom of his tunic. this is what she said: that he, fer diad, was her darling and her chosen wooer of the men of the world. when fer diad was satisfied and happy and very joyful, medb said: 'alé! o fer diad, do you know why you have been summoned into this tent?' 'i do not know indeed,' said fer diad; 'except that the nobles of the men of ireland are there. what is there less fitting for me to be there than for any other good warrior?' 'it is not that indeed,' said medb; 'but to give you a chariot worth three sevens of cumals [see previous note about _cumal_.] and the equipment of twelve men, and the equal of mag murthemne from the arable land of mag ai; and that you should be in cruachan always, and wine to be poured for you there; and freedom of your descendants and of your race for ever without tribute or tax; my leaf-shaped brooch of gold to be given to you, in which there are ten score ounces and ten score half-ounces, and ten score _crosach_ and ten score quarters; findabair, my daughter and ailill's daughter, for your one wife, and you shall get my love if you need it over and above.' 'he does not need it,' said every, one: 'great are the rewards and gifts.' 'that is true,' said fer diad, 'they are great; and though they are great, o medb, it is with you yourself they will be left, rather than that i should go against my foster-brother to battle.' 'o men,' said she, said medb (through the right way of division and setting by the ears), 'true is the word that cuchulainn spoke,' as if she had not heard fer diad at all. 'what word is this, o medb?' said fer diad. 'he said indeed,' said she, 'that he would not think it too much that you should fall by him as the first fruits of his prowess in the province to which he should come.' 'to say that was not fitting for him. for it is not weariness or cowardice that he has ever known in me, day nor night. i swear, etc., [note: the usual oath, 'by the god by whom my people swear,' understood.] that i will be the first man who will come to-morrow morning to the ford of combat.' 'may victory and blessing come to you,' said medb. 'and i think it better that weariness or cowardice be found with you, because of friendship beyond my own men (?). why is it more fitting for him to seek the good of ulster because his mother was of them, than for you to seek the good of the province of connaught, because you are the son of a king of connaught?' it is thus they were binding their covenants and their compact, and they made a song there: 'thou shalt have a reward,' etc. there was a wonderful warrior of ulster who witnessed that bargaining, and that was fergus mac roich. fergus came to his tent. 'woe is me! the deed that is done to-morrow morning!' said fergus. 'what deed is that?' said the folk in the tent. 'my good fosterling cuchulainn to be slain.' 'good lack! who makes that boast?' 'an easy question: his own dear ardent foster-brother, fer diad mac damain. why do ye not win my blessing?' said fergus; 'and let one of you go with a warning and with compassion to cuchulainn, if perchance he would leave the ford to-morrow morning.' 'on our conscience,' said they, 'though it were you yourself who were on the ford of combat, we would not come as far as [the ford] to seek you.' 'good, my lad,' said fergus; 'get our horses for us and yoke the chariot.' the lad arose and got the horses and yoked the chariot. they came forth to the ford of combat where cuchulainn was. 'one chariot coming hither towards us, o cuchulainn!' said loeg. for it is thus the lad was, with his back towards his lord. he used to win every other game of _brandub_ [_brandub_, the name of a game; probably, like _fidchill_ and _buanfach_, of the nature of chess or draughts.] and of chess-playing from his master: the sentinel and watchman on the four quarters of ireland over and above that. 'what kind of chariot then?' said cuchulainn. 'a chariot like a huge royal fort, with its yolcs strong golden, with its great panel(?) of copper, with its shafts of bronze, with its body thin-framed (?), dry-framed (?), feat-high, scythed, sword-fair (?), of a champion, on two horses, swift, stout(?), well-yoked (?), ---(?). one royal warrior, wide-eyed, was the combatant of the chariot. a beard curly, forked, on him, so that it reached over the soft lower part of his soft shirt, so that it would shelter (?) fifty warriors to be under the heavy ---of the warrior's beard, on a day of storm and rain. a round shield, white, variegated, many-coloured on him, with three chains ----, so that there would be room from front to back for four troops of ten men behind the leather of the shield which is upon the ---of the warrior. a sword, long, hard-edged, red-broad in the sheath, woven and twisted of white silver, over the skin of the bold-in-battle. a spear, strong, three-ridged, with a winding and with bands of white silver all white by him across the chariot.' 'not hard the recognition,' said cuchulainn; 'my friend fergus comes there, with a warning and with compassion to me before all the four provinces.' fergus reached them and sprang from his chariot and cuchulainn greeted him. 'welcome your coming, o my friend, o fergus,' said cuchulainn. 'i believe your welcome,' said fergus. 'you may believe it,' said cuchulainn; 'if a flock of birds come to the plain, you shall have a duck with half of another; if fish come to the estuaries, you shall have a salmon with half of another; a sprig of watercress, and a sprig of marshwort, and a sprig of seaweed, and a drink of cold sandy water after it.' 'that portion is that of an outlaw,' said fergus. 'that is true, it is an outlaw's portion that i have,' said cuchulainn, 'for i have been from the monday after samain to this time, and i have not gone for a night's entertainment, through strongly obstructing the men of ireland on the cattle-foray of cualnge at this time.' 'if it were for this we came,' said fergus, 'we should have thought it the better to leave it; and it is not for this that we have come.' 'why else have you come to me?' said cuchulainn. 'to tell you the warrior who comes against you in battle and combat to-morrow morning,' said he. 'let us find it out and let us hear it from you then,' said cuchulainn. 'your own foster-brother, fer diad mac damain.' 'on our word, we think it not best that it should be he we come to meet,'said cuchulainn, 'and it is not for fear of him but for the greatness of our love for him.' 'it is fitting to fear him,' said fergus, 'for he has a skin of horn in battle against a man, so that neither weapon nor edge will pierce it.' 'do not say that at all,' said cuchulainn, 'for i swear the oath that my people swear, that every joint and every limb of him will be as pliant as a pliant rush in the midst of a stream under the point of my sword, if he shows himself once to me on the ford.' it is thus they were speaking, and they made a song: 'o cuchulainn, a bright meeting,' etc. after that, 'why have you come, o my friend, o fergus?' said cuchulainn. 'that is my purpose,' said fergus. 'good luck and profit,' said cuchulainn, 'that no other of the men of ireland has come for this purpose, unless the four provinces of ireland all met at one time. i think nothing of a warning before a single warrior.' then fergus went to his tent. as regards the charioteer and cuchulainn: 'what shall you do to-night?' said loeg. 'what indeed?' said cuchulainn. 'it is thus that fer diad will come to seek you, with new beauty of plaiting and haircutting, and washing and bathing, and the four provinces of ireland with him to look at the fight. it would please me if you went to the place where you will get the same adorning for yourself, to the place where is emer of the beautiful hair, to cairthend of cluan da dam in sliab fuait.' so cuchulainn went thither that night, and spent the night with his own wife. his adventures from this time are not discussed here now. as to fer diad, he came to his tent; it was gloomy and weary that fer diad's tent-servants were that night. they thought it certain that where the two pillars of the battle of the world should meet, that both would fall; or the issue of it would be, that it would be their own lord who would fall there. for it was not easy to fight with cuchulainn on the foray. there were great cares on fer diad's mind that night, so that they did not let him sleep. one of his great anxieties was that he should let pass from him all the treasures that had been offered to him, and the maiden, by reason of combat with one man. if he did not fight with that one man, he must fight with the six warriors on the morrow. his care that was greater than this was that if he should show himself once on the ford to cuchulainn, he was certain that he himself would not have power of his head or life thereafter; and fer diad arose early on the morrow. 'good, my lad,' said he, 'get our horses for us, and harness the chariot.' 'on our word,' said the servant, 'we think it not greater praise to go this journey than not to go it.' he was talking with his charioteer, and he made this little song, inciting his charioteer: 'let us go to this meeting,' etc. the servant got the horses and yoked the chariot, and they went forth from the camp. 'my lad,' said fer diad, 'it is not fitting that we make our journey without farewell to the men of ireland. turn the horses and the chariot for us towards the men of ireland.' the servant turned the horses and the chariot thrice towards the men of ireland. ... 'does ailill sleep now?' said medb. 'not at all,' said ailill. 'do you hear your new son-in-law greeting you?' 'is that what he is doing?' said ailill. 'it is indeed,' said medb, 'and i swear by what my people swear, the man who makes the greeting yonder will not come back to you on the same feet.' 'nevertheless we have profited by(?) the good marriage connection with him,' said ailill; 'provided cuchulainn fell by him, i should not care though they both fell. but we should think it better for fer diad to escape.' fer diad came to the ford of combat. 'look, my lad,' said fer diad; 'is cuchulainn on the ford?' 'he is not, indeed,' said the servant. 'look well for us,' said fer diad. 'cuchulainn is not a little speck in hiding where he would be,' said the lad. 'it is true, o boy, until to-day cuchulainn has not heard of the coming of a good warrior [note: gloss incorporated in the text: 'or a good man.'] against him on the cattle foray of cualnge, and when he has heard of it he has left the ford.' 'a great pity to slander cuchulainn in his absence! for do you remember how when you gave battle to german garbglas above the edge-borders of the tyrrhene sea, you left your sword with the hosts, and it was cuchulainn who killed a hundred warriors in reaching it, and he brought it to you; and do you remember where we were that night?' said the lad. 'i do not know it,' said fer diad. 'at the house of scathach's steward,' said the lad, 'and you went ---and haughtily before us into the house first. the churl gave you a blow with the three-pointed flesh-hook in the small of your back, so that it threw you out over the door like a shot. cuchulainn came into the house and gave the churl a blow with his sword, so that it made two pieces of him. it was i who was steward for you while you were in that place. if only for that day, you should not say that you are a better warrior than cuchulainn.' 'what you have done is wrong,' said fer diad, 'for i would not have come to seek the combat if you had said it to me at first. why do you not pull the cushions [note: ll _fortchai_. ybl has _feirtsi_, 'shafts.'] of the chariot under my side and my skin-cover under my head, so that i might sleep now?' 'alas!' said the lad, 'it is the sleep of a fey man before deer and hounds here.' 'what, o lad, are you not fit to keep watch and ward for me?' 'i am fit,' said the lad; 'unless men come in clouds or in mist to seek you, they will not come at all from east or west to seek you without warning and observation.' the cushions [note: ll _fortchai_. ybl has _feirtsi_, 'shafts.'] of his chariot were pulled under his side and the skin under his head. and yet he could not sleep a little. as to cuchulainn it is set forth: 'good, o my friend, o loeg, take the horses and yoke the chariot; if fer diad is waiting for us, he is thinking it long.' the boy rose and took the horses and yoked the chariot. cuchulainn stepped into his chariot and they came on to the ford. as to fer diad's servant, he had not long to watch till he heard the creaking of the chariot coming towards them. he took to waking his master, and made a song: 'i hear a chariot,' etc. (this is the description of cuchulainn's chariot: one of the three chief chariots of the narration on the cattle foray of cualnge.) 'how do you see cuchulainn?' said he, said fer diad, to his charioteer. 'i see,' said he, 'the chariot broad above, fine, of white crystal, with a yoke of gold with ---(?), with great panels of copper, with shafts of bronze, with tyres of white metal, with its body thin-framed (?) dry-framed (?), feat-high, sword-fair (?), of a champion, on which there would be room for seven arms fit for a lord (?). a fair seat for its lord; so that this chariot, cuchulainn's chariot, would reach with the speed of a swallow or of a wild deer, over the level land of mag slebe. that is the speed and ---which they attain, for it is towards us they go. this chariot is at hand on two horses small-headed, small-round, small-end, pointed, ----, red-breasted, ----, easy to recognise, well-yoked. ... one of the two horses is supple(?), swift-leaping, great of strength, great of foot, great of length, ----. the other horse is curly-maned, slender-footed, narrow-footed, heeled, ----. two wheels dark, black. a pole of metal adorned with red enamel, of a fair colour. two bridles golden, inlaid. there is a man with fair curly hair, broad cut (?), in the front of this chariot. there is round him a blue mantle, red-purple. a spear with wings (?), and it red, furious; in his clenched fist, red-flaming. the appearance of three heads of hair on him, i.e. dark hair against the skin of his head, hair blood-red in the middle, a crown of gold covers the third hair. 'a fair arrangement of the hair so that it makes three circles round about his shoulders down behind. i think it like gold thread, after its colour has been made over the edge of the anvil; or like the yellow of bees on which the sun shines in a summer day, is the shining of each single hair of his hair. seven toes on each of his feet, and seven fingers on each of his hands, and the shining of a very great fire round his eye, ---(?) and the hoofs of his horses; a hero's ---in his hands. 'the charioteer of the chariot is worthy of him in his presence: curly hair very black has he, broad-cut along his head. a cowl-dress is on him open; two very fine golden leaf-shaped switches in his hand, and a light grey mantle round him, and a goad of white silver in his hand, plying the goad on the horses, whichever way the champion of great deeds goes who was at hand in the chariot. 'he is veteran of his land (?): he and his servant think little of ireland.' 'go, o fellow,' said he, said fer diad; 'you praise too much altogether; and prepare the arms in the ford against his coming.' 'if i turned my face backwards, it seems to me the chariot would come through the back of my neck.' 'o fellow,' said he, 'too greatly do you praise cuchulainn, for it is not a reward for praising he has given you'; and it is thus he was giving his description, and he said: 'the help is timely,' etc. it is not long afterwards that they met in the middle of the ford, and fer diad said to cuchulainn: 'whence come you, o cua?' said he (for [note: an interpolation.] _cua_ was the name of squinting in old gaelic; and there were seven pupils in cuchulainn's royal eye, and two of these pupils were squinting, and the ugliness of it is no greater than its beauty on him; and if there had been a greater blemish on cuchulainn, it is that with which he reproached him; and he was proclaiming it); and he made a song, and cuchulainn answered: 'whence art thou come, o hound,' etc. then cuchulainn said to his charioteer that he was to taunt him when he was overcome, and that he was to praise him when he was victorious, in the combat against fer diad. then the charioteer said to him: 'the man goes over thee as the tail over a cat; he washes thee as foam is washed in water, he squeezes (?) thee as a loving mother her son.' then they took to the ford-play. scathach's ---(?)came to them both. fer diad and cuchulainn performed marvellous feats. cuchulainn went and leapt into fer diad's shield; fer diad hurled him from him thrice into the ford; so that the charioteer taunted him again ---and he swelled like breath in a bag. his size increased till he was greater than fer diad. 'give heed to the _gae bolga_,' said the charioteer; he sent it to him along the stream. cuchulainn seized it between his toes, and wielded it on fer diad, into his body's armour. it advances like one spear, so that it became twenty-four points. then fer diad turned the shield below. cuchulainn thrust at him with the spear over the shield, so that it broke the shaft of his ribs and went through fer diad's heart. [_fer diad_:] 'strong is the ash from thy right hand! the ---rib breaks, my heart is blood. well hast thou given battle! i fall, o hound.' [_cuchulainn_:] 'alas, o golden brooch, o fer diad! ----, o fair strong striker! thy hand was victorious; our dear foster brotherhood, o delight of the eyes! thy shield with the rim of gold, thy sword was dear. thy ring of white silver round thy noble arm. thy chess-playing was worthy of a great man. thy cheek fair-purple; thy yellow curling hair was great, it was a fair treasure. thy soft folded girdle which used to be about thy side. that thou shouldst fall at cuchulainn's hands was sad, o calf! thy shield did not suffice which used to be for service. our combat with thee is not fitting, our horses and our tumult. fair was the great hero! every host used to be defeated and put under foot. alas, o golden brooch, o fer diad!' *** this is the long warning of sualtaim while the things that we have related were done, suallaith heard from rath sualtaim in mag murthemne the vexing of his son cuchulainn against twelve sons of gaile dana [note: ll, 'twenty-seven sons of calatin.' in the story as related earlier in ybl it is 'gaile dana with his twenty-seven sons.'] and his sister's son. it is then that sualtaim said: 'is it heaven that bursts, or the sea over its boundaries, or earth that is destroyed, or the shout of my son against odds?' then he comes to his son. cuchulainn was displeased that he should come to him. 'though he were slain, i should not have strength to avenge him. go to the ulstermen,' says cuchulainn, 'and let them give battle to the warriors at once; if they do not give it, they will not be avenged for ever.' when his father saw him, there was not in his chariot as much as the point of a rush would cover that was not pierced. his left hand which the shield protected, twenty wounds were in it. sualtaim came over to emain and shouted to the ulstermen: 'men are being slain, women carried off, cows driven away!' his first shout was from the side of the court; his second from the side of the fortress; the third shout was on the mound of the hostages in emain. no one answered; it was the practice of the ulstermen that none of them should speak except to conchobar; and conchobar did not speak before the three druids. 'who takes them, who steals them, who carries them off?' said the druid. ailill mac mata carries them off and steals them and takes them, through the guidance of fergus mac roich,' said sualtaim. 'your people have been enslaved as far as dun sobairce; their cows and their women and their cattle have been taken. cuchulainn did not let them into mag murthemne and into crich rois; three months of winter then, bent branches of hazel held together his dress upon him. dry wisps are on his wounds. he has been wounded so that he has been parted joint from joint.' 'fitting,' said the druid, 'were the death of the man who has spurred on the king.' 'it is fitting for him,' said conchobar. 'it is fitting for him,' said the ulstermen. 'true is what sualtaim says,' said conchobar; 'from the monday night of samain to the monday night of candlemas he has been in this foray.' sualtaim gave a leap out thereupon. he did not think sufficient the answer that he had. he falls on his shield, so that the engraved edge of the shield cut his head off. his head is brought back into emain into the house on the shield, and the head says the same word (though some say that he was asleep on the stone, and that he fell thence on to his shield in awaking). 'too great was this shout,' said conchobar. 'the sea before them, the heaven over their tops, the earth under their feet. i will bring every cow into its milking-yard, and every woman and every boy from their house, after the victory in battle.' then conchobar struck his hand on his son, findchad fer m-bend. hence he is so called because there were horns of silver on him. the muster of the ulstermen 'arise, o findchad, i will send thee to deda,' etc. [note: rhetoric, followed by a long list of names.] it was not, difficult for findchad to take his message, for they were, the whole province of conchobar, every chief of them, awaiting conchobar; every one was then east and north and west of emain. when they were there, they all came till they were at emain macha. when they were there, they beard the uprising of conchobar in emain. they went past emain southwards after the host. their first march then was from emain to irard cuillend. 'what are you waiting for here?' said conchobar. 'waiting for your sons,' said the host. 'they have gone with thirty with them to temair to seek eirc, son of coirpre niafer and fedelm noicride. till their two cantreds should come to us, we will not go from this place.' 'i will not remain indeed,' said conchobar, 'till the men of ireland know that i have awaked from the sickness in which i was.' conchobar and celtchar went with three fifties of chariots, and they brought eight twenties of heads from ath airthir midi; hence is ath fene. they were there watching the host. and eight twenties of women, that was their share of the spoil. their heads were brought there, and conchobar and celtchar sent them to the camp. it is there that celtchar said to conchobar: [note: rhetoric.] (or it was cuscraid, the stammerer of macha, son of conchobar, sang this song the night before the battle, after the song which loegaire buadach had sung, to wit, 'arise, kings of macha,' etc., and it would be in the camp it was sung.) it was in this night that the vision happened to dubthach doeltenga of ulster, when the hosts were on garach and irgarach. it is there that he said in his sleep: the vision of dubthach 'a wonder of a morning,' [note: rhetoric.] a wonder of a time, when hosts will be confused, kings will be turned, necks will break, the sun will grow red, three hosts will be routed by the track of a host about conchobar. they will strive for their women, they will chase their flocks in fight on the morning, heroes will be smitten, dogs will be checked (?), horses will be pressed (?), -------, ---will drip, from the assemblies of great peoples.' therewith they awoke through their sleep (?). the nemain threw the host into confusion there; a hundred men of them died. there is silence there then; when they heard cormac condlongas again (or it is ailill mac matae in the camp who sang this): 'the time of ailill. great his truce, the truce of cuillend,' etc. [note: rhetoric.] the march of the companies while these things were being done, the connaughtman determined to send messengers by the counsel of ailill and medb and fergus, to look at the ulstermen, to see whether they had reached the plain. it is there that ailill said: 'go, o mac roth,' said ailill, 'and look for us whether the men are all(?) in the plain of meath in which we are. if they have not come, i have carried off their spoil and their cows; let them give battle to me, if it suits them. i will not await them here any longer.' then mac roth went to look at and to watch the plain. he came back to ailill and medb and fergus the first time then that mac roth looked from the circuit of sliab fuait, he saw that all the wild beast came out of the wood, so that they were all in the plain. 'the second time,' said mac roth, 'that i surveyed the plain, i saw a heavy mist that filled the glens and the valleys, so that it made the hills between them like islands in lakes. then there appeared to me sparks of fire out of this great mist: there appeared to me a variegation of every different colour in the world. i saw then lightning and din and thunder and a great wind that almost took my hair from my head, and threw me on my back; and yet the wind of the day was not great.' 'what is it yonder, o fergus?' said ailill. 'say what it means.' [note: literally, 'is like.'] 'that is not hard; this is what it means,' said fergus: 'this is the ulstermen after coming out of their sickness. it is they who have come into the wood. the throng and the greatness and the violence of the heroes, it is that which has shaken the wood; it is before them that the wild beasts have fled into the plain. the heavy mist that you saw, which filled the valleys, was the breath of those warriors, which filled the glens so that it made the hills between them like islands in lakes. the lightning and the sparks of fire and the many colours that you saw, o mac roth,' said fergus, 'are the eyes of the warriors from their heads which have shone to you like sparks of fire. the thunder and the din and the noise(?) that you heard, was the whistling of the swords and of the ivory-hilted weapons, the clatter of arms, the creaking of the chariots, the beating of the hoofs of the horses, the strength of the warriors, the roar of the fighting-men, the noise of the soldiers, the great rage and anger and fierceness of the heroes going in madness to the battle, for the greatness of the rage and of the fury(?). they would think they would not reach it at all,' said fergus. 'we will await them,' said ailill; 'we have warriors for them.' 'you will need that,' said fergus, 'for there will not be found in all ireland, nor in the west of the world, from greece and scythia westward to the orkneys and to the pillars of hercules and to the tower of bregon and to the island of gades, any one who shall endure the ulstermen in their fury and in their rage,' said fergus. then mac roth went again to look at the march of the men of ulster, so that he was in their camp at slemon midi, and fergus; and he told them certain tidings, and mac roth said in describing them: 'a great company has come, of great fury, mighty, fierce, to the hill at slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'i think there is a cantred therein; they took off their clothing at once, and dug a mound of sods under their leader's seat. a warrior fair and tall and long and high, beautiful, the fairest of kings his form, in the front of the company. hair white-yellow has he, and it curly, neat, bushy (?), ridged, reaching to the hollow of his shoulders. a tunic curly, purple, folded round him; a brooch excellent, of red-gold, in his cloak on his breast; eyes very grey, very fair, in his head; a face proper, purple, has he, and it narrow below and broad above: a beard forked, very curly, gold-yellow he has; a shirt white, hooded, with red ornamentation, round about him; a sword gold-hilted on his shoulders; a white shield with rivets(?) of gold; abroad grey spear-head on a slender shaft in his hand. the fairest of the princes of the world his march, both in host and rage and form and dress, both in face and terror and battle and triumph, both in prowess and horror and dignity. 'another company has come there,' said mac roth; 'it is next to the other in number and quarrelling and dress and terror and horror. a fair warrior, heroic, is in the front of this company. a green cloak folded round him; a brooch of gold over his arm; hair curly and yellow: an ivory-hilted sword with a hilt of ivory at his left. a shirt with ---to his knee; a wound-giving shield with engraved edge; the candle of a palace [note: i.e. spear.] in his hand; a ring of silver about it, and it runs round along the shaft forward to the point, and again it runs to the grip. and that troop sat down on the left hand of the leader of the first troop, and it is thus they sat down, with their knees to the ground, and the rims of their shields against their chins. and i thought there was stammering in the speech of the great fierce warrior who is the leader of that company. 'another company has come there,' said mac roth; 'its appearance is vaster than a cantred; a man brave, difficult, fair, with broad head, before it. hair dark and curly on him; a beard long, with slender points, forked, has he; a cloak dark-grey, ----, folded round him; a leaf-shaped brooch of white metal over his breast; a white, hooded shirt to his knees; a hero's shield with rivets on him; a sword of white silver about his waist; a five-pointed spear in his hand. he sat down in front of the leader of the first troop.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'i know indeed,' said fergus, 'those companies. conchobar, king of a province of ireland, it is he who has sat down on the mound of sods. sencha mac aililla, the orator of ulster, it is he who has sat down before him. cuscraid, the stammerer of macha, son of conchobar, it is he who has sat down at his father's side. it is the custom for the spear that is in his hand in sport yonder before victory ---before or after. that is a goodly folk for wounding, for essaying every conflict, that has come,' said fergus. 'they will find men to speak with them here,' said medb. 'i swear by the god by whom my people swear,' said fergus, 'there has not been born in ireland hitherto a man who would check the host of ulster.' [note: conjectural; the line is corrupt in the ms.] 'another company has come there,' said mac roth. 'greater than a cantred its number. a great warrior, brave, with horror and terror, and he mighty, fiery-faced, before it. hair dark, greyish on him, and it smooth-thin on his forehead. around shield with engraved edge on him, a spear five-pointed in his hand, a forked javelin beside him; a hard sword on the back of his head; a purple cloak folded round him; a brooch of gold on his arm; a shirt, white, hooded, to his knee.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'he is the putting of a hand on strife; he is a battle champion for fight; he is judgment against enemies who has come there; that is, eogan mac durthacht, king of fermoy is that,' said fergus. 'another company has come, great, fierce, to the hill at slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'they have put their clothing behind them. truly, it is strong, dark, they have come to the hill; heavy is the terror and great the horror which they have put upon themselves; terrible the clash of arms that they made in marching. a man thick of head, brave, like a champion, before it; and he horrible, hideous; hair light, grey on him; eyes yellow, great, in his head; a cloak yellow, with white ---round about him. a shield, wound-giving, with engraved edge, on him, without; a broad spear, a javelin with a drop of blood along the shaft; and a spear its match with the blood of enemies along its edge in his hand; a great wound-giving sword on his shoulders.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'the man who has so come does not avoid battle or combat or strife: that is, loegaire the victorious, mac connaid meic ilech, from immail from the north,' said fergus. 'another great company has come to slemon midi to the hill,' said mac roth. 'a warrior thick-necked, fleshy, fair, before that company. hair black and curly on him, and he purple, blue-faced; eyes grey, shining, in his head; a cloak grey, lordly (?), about him; a brooch of white silver therein; a black shield with a boss of bronze on it; a spear, covered with eyes, with ---(?), in his hand; a shirt, braided(?), with red ornamentation, about him; a sword with a hilt of ivory over his dress outside.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'he is the putting of a hand on a skirmish; he is the wave of a great sea that drowns little streams; he is a man of three shouts; he is the judgment of ---of enemies, who so comes,' said fergus; 'that is, munremar mac gerrcind, from moduirn in the north.' 'another great company has come there to the hill to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a company very fair, very beautiful, both in number and strife and raiment. it is fiercely that they make for the hill; the clatter of arms which they raised in going on their course shook the host. a warrior fair, excellent, before the company. most beautiful of men his form, both in hair and eyes and fear, both in raiment and form and voice and whiteness, both in dignity and size and beauty, both in weapons and knowledge and adornment, both in equipment and armour and fitness, both in honour and wisdom and race.' 'this is his description,' said fergus; 'he is the brightness of fire, the fair man, fedlimid, who so comes there; he is fierceness of warriors, he is the wave of a storm that drowns, he is might that is not endured, with triumphs out of other territories after destruction (?) of his foes; that is fedlimid ------there.' 'another company has come there to the hill to slemon midi,' said mac roth, 'which is not fewer than a warlike cantred (?). a warrior great, brave, grey, proper, ----, in front of it. hair black, curly, on him; round eyes, grey(?), very high, in his head. a man bull-like, strong, rough; a grey cloak about him, with a brooch of silver on his arm; a shirt white, hooded, round him; a sword at his side; a red shield with a hard boss of silver on it. a spear with three rivets, broad, in his hand.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'he is the fierce glow of wrath, he is a shaft (?) of every battle; he is the victory of every combat, who has so come there, connad mac mornai from callann,' said fergus. 'another company has come to the hill at slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'it is the march of an army for greatness. the leader who is in front of that company, not common is a warrior fairer both in form and attire and equipment. hair bushy, red-yellow, on him; a face proper, purple, well-proportioned; a face narrow below, broad above; lips red, thin; teeth shining, pearly; a voice clear, ringing; a face fair, purple, shapely; most beautiful of the forms of men; a purple cloak folded round him; a brooch with full adornment of gold, over his white breast; a bent shield with many-coloured rivets, with a boss of silver, at his left; a long spear, grey-edged, with a sharp javelin for attack in his hand; a sword gold-hilted, of gold, on his back; a hooded shirt with red ornamentation about him.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'we know, indeed,' said fergus. 'he is half of a combat truly,' said he, 'who so comes there; he is a fence(?) of battle, he is fierce rage of a bloodhound; rochad mac fathemain from bridamae, your son-in-law, is that, who wedded your daughter yonder, that is, findabair.' 'another company has come to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a warrior with great calves, stout, with great thighs, big, in front of that company. each of his limbs is almost as thick as a man. truly, he is a man down to the ground,' said he. 'hair black on him; a face full of wounds, purple, has he; an eye parti-coloured, very high, in his head; a man glorious, dexterous, thus, with horror and terror, who has a wonderful apparel, both raiment and weapons and appearance and splendour and dress; he raises himself with the prowess of a warrior, with achievements of ----, with the pride of wilfulness, with a going through battle to rout overwhelming numbers, with wrath upon foes, with a marching on many hostile countries without protection. in truth, mightily have they come on their course into slemon midi.' 'he was ---of valour and of prowess, in sooth,' said fergus; 'he was of ---pride(?) and of haughtiness, he was ---of strength and dignity, ---then of armies and hosts of my own foster-brother, fergus mac leiti, king of line, point of battle of the north of ireland.' 'another company, great, fierce, has come to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'strife before it, strange dresses on them. a warrior fair, beautiful, before it; gift of every form, both hair and eye and whiteness, both size and strife and fitness; five chains of gold on him; a green cloak folded about him; a brooch of gold in the cloak over his arm; a shirt white, hooded, about him; the tower of a palace in his hand; a sword gold-hilted on his shoulders.' 'fiery is the bearing of the champion of combat who has so come there,' said fergus. 'amorgene, son of eccet salach the smith, from buais in the north is that.' 'another company has come there, to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. it is a drowning for size, it is a fire for splendour, it is a pin for sharpness, it is a battalion for number, it is a rock for greatness, it is ---for might, it is a judgment for its ----, it is thunder for pride. a warrior rough-visaged, terrible, in front of this company, and he great-bellied, large-lipped; rough hair, a grey beard on him; and he great-nosed, red-limbed; a dark cloak about him, an iron spike on his cloak; a round shield with an engraved edge on him; a rough shirt, braided(?), about him; a great grey spear in his hand, and thirty rivets therein; a sword of seven charges of metal on his shoulders. all the host rose before him, and he overthrew multitudes of the battalion about him in going to the hill.' 'he is a head of strife who has so come,' said fergus; 'he is a half of battle, he is a warrior for valour, he is a wave of a storm which drowns, he is a sea over boundaries; that is, celtchar mac uithechair from dunlethglaisi in the north.' 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a warrior of one whiteness in front of it, all white, both hair and eyelashes and beard and equipment; a shield with a boss of gold on him, and a sword with a hilt of ivory, and a broad spear with rings in his hand. very heroic has his march come.' 'dear is the bear, strong-striking, who has so come,' said fergus; 'the bear of great deeds against enemies, who breaks men, feradach find fechtnach from the grove of sliab fuait in the north is that.' 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a hideous warrior in front of it, and he great-bellied, large-lipped; his lips as big as the lips of a horse; hair dark, curly, on him, and he himself ----, broad-headed, long-handed; a cloak black, hairy, about him; a chain of copper over it, a dark grey buckler over his left hand; a spear with chains in his right hand; a long sword on his shoulders.' 'he is a lion red-handed, fierce of ----, who so comes,' said fergus. 'he is high of deeds, great in battle, rough; he is a raging on the land who is unendurable, eirrgi horse-lipped from bri eirge in the north,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'two warriors, fair, both alike, in front of it; yellow hair on them; two white shields with rivets of silver; they are of equal age. they lift up their feet and set them down together; it is not their manner for either of them to lift up his feet without the other. two heroes, two splendid flames, two points of battle, two warriors, two pillars of fight, two dragons, two fires, two battle-soldiers, two champions of combat, two rods (?), two bold ones, two pets of ulster about the king.' 'who are those, o fergus?' said ailill. 'fiachna and fiacha, two sons of conchobar mac nessa, two darlings of the north of ireland,' said fergus. 'another company has come to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'three warriors, fiery, noble, blue-faced, before it. three heads of hair very yellow have they; three cloaks of one colour in folds about them; three brooches of gold over their arms, three shirts ---with red ornamentation round about them; three shields alike have they; three swords gold-hilted on their shoulders; three spears, broad-grey, in their right hands. they are of equal age.' 'three glorious champions of coba, three of great deeds of midluachair, three princes of roth, three veterans of the east of sliab fuait,' said fergus; 'the three sons of fiachna are these, after the bull; that is, rus and dairi and imchath,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'a man lively, fiery, before it; eyes very red, of a champion, in his head; a many-coloured cloak about him; a chain of silver thereon; a grey shield on his left; [a sword] with a hilt of silver at his side; a spear, excellent with a striking of cruelty in his vengeful right hand; a shirt white, hooded, to his knee. a company very red, with wounds, about him, and he himself wounded and bleeding.' 'that,' said fergus, 'is the bold one, unsparing; that is the tearing; it is the boar [note: ir. _rop_, said to be a beast that wounds or gores.] of combat, it is the mad bull; it is the victorious one of baile; it is the warlike one of the gap; it is the champion of colptha, the door of war of the north of ireland: that is, menn mac salchalca from corann. to avenge his wounds upon you has that man come,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth, 'and they very heroic, mutually willing. a warrior grey, great, broad, tall, before it. hair dark, curly, on him; a cloak red, woollen, about him; a shirt excellent; a brooch of gold over his arms in his cloak; a sword, excellent, with hilt of white silver on his left; a red shield has he; a spear-head broad-grey on a fair shaft [note: conjecture; the irish is obscure.] of ash in his hand. 'a man of three strong blows who has so come,' said fergus; 'a man of three roads, a man of three highways, a man of three gifts, a man of three shouts, who breaks battles on enemies in another province: fergrae mac findchoime from corann is that.' 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'its appearance is greater than a cantred. a warrior white-breasted, very fair, before it; like to ailill yonder in size and beauty and equipment and raiment. a crown of gold above his head; a cloak excellent folded about him; a brooch of gold in the cloak on his breast; a shirt with red ornamentation round about him; a shield wound-giving with rims of gold; the pillar of a palace in his hand; a sword gold-hilted on his shoulders.' 'it is a sea over rivers who has so come, truly,' said fergus; 'it is a fierce glow of fire; his rage towards foes is insupportable: furbaidi ferbend is that,' said fergus. 'another company has come there to the hill, to slemon midi,' said mac roth. 'very heroic, innumerable,' said mac roth; 'strange garments, various, about them, different from other companies. famously have they come, both in arms and raiment and dress. a great host and fierce is that company. a lad flame red before it; the most beautiful of the forms of men his form; ... a shield with white boss in his hand, the shield of gold and a rim of gold round it; a spear sharp, light, with in his hand; a cloak purple, fringed, folded about him; a brooch of silver in the cloak, on his breast; a shirt white, hooded, with red ornamentation, about him; a sword gold-hilted over his dress outside.' therewith fergus is silent. 'i do not know indeed,' said fergus, 'the like of this lad in ulster, except that i think it is the men of temair about a lad proper, wonderful, noble: with erc, son of coirpre niafer and of conchobar's daughter. they love not one another; ---without his father's leave has that man come, to help his grandfather. it is through the combat of that lad,' said fergus, 'that you will be defeated in the battle. that lad knows not terror nor fear at coming to you among them into the midst of your battalion. it would be like men that the warriors of the men of ulster will roar in saving the calf their heart, in striking the battle. there will come to them a feeling of kinship at seeing that lad in the great battle, striking the battle before them. there will be heard the rumble of conchobar's sword like the barking of a watch-dog in saving the lad. he will throw three walls of men about the battle in seeking the lad. it will be with the affection of kinsmen that the warriors of ulster will attack the countless host,' said fergus. 'i think it long,' said mac roth, 'to be recounting all that i have seen, but i have come meanwhile (?) with tidings to you.' 'you have brought it,' said fergus. 'conall cernach has not come with his great company,' said mac roth; 'the three sons of conchobar with their three cantreds have not come; cuchulainn too has not come there after his wounding in combat against odds. unless it is a warrior with one chariot,' said mac roth, 'i think it would be he who has come there. two horses ... under his chariot; they are long-tailed, broad-hoofed, broad above, narrow beneath, high-headed, great of curve, thin-mouthed, with distended nostrils. two wheels black, ----, with tyres even, smooth-running; the body very high, clattering; the tent ... therein; the pillars carved. the warrior in that chariot four-square, purple-faced; hair cropped short on the top, curly, very black has he, down to his shoulders; ... a cloak red about him; four thirties of feat-poles (?) in each of his two arms. a sword gold-hilted on his left; shield and spear has he, and twenty-four javelins about him on strings and thongs. the charioteer in front of him; the back of the charioteer's head towards the horses, the reins grasped by his toes (?) before him; the chessboard spread between them, half the men of yellow gold, the others of white metal; the _buanfach_ [note: the name of a game; probably in the nature of chess or draughts.] under their thighs. nine feats were performed by him on high.' 'who is that, o fergus?' said ailill. 'an easy question,' said fergus. 'cuchulainn mac sualtaim from the _sid_, [note: cuchulainn was of fairy birth.] and loeg mac riangabra his charioteer. cuchulainn is that,' said fergus. 'many hundreds and thousands,' said mac roth, 'have reached the camp of ulster. many heroes and champions and fighting-men have come with a race to the assembly. many companies,' said mac roth, 'were reaching the same camp, of those who had not reached or come to the camp when i came; only,' said mac roth, 'my eye did not rest on hill or height of all that my eye reached from fer diad's ford to slemon midi, but upon horse and man.' 'you saw the household of a man truly,' said fergus. then conchobar went with his hosts and took camp near the others. conchobar asked for a truce till sunrise on the morrow from ailill, and ailill ratified it for the men of ireland and for the exiles, and conchobar ratified it for the ulstermen; and then conchobar's tents are pitched. the ground between them is a space, ----, bare, and the ulstermen came to it before sunset. then said the morrigan in the twilight between the two camps: [note: rhetoric, seven lines] *** now cuchulainn was at fedan chollna near them. food was brought to him by the hospitallers that night; and they used to come to speak to him by day. he did not kill any of them to the left of fer diad's ford. 'here is a small herd from the camp from the west to the camp to the east,' said the charioteer to cuchulainn. 'here is a troop of lads to meet them.' 'those lads shall come,' said cuchulainn. 'the little herd shall come over the plain. he who will not ---(?) shall come to help the lads.' this was done then as cuchulainn had said. 'how do the lads of ulster fight the battle?' 'like men,' said the charioteer. 'it would be a vow for them, to fall in rescuing their herds,' said cuchulainn. 'and now?' 'the beardless striplings are fighting now,' said the charioteer. 'has a bright cloud come over the sun yet?' 'not so,' said the charioteer. 'alas, that i had not strength to go to them!' said cuchulainn. 'there will be contest without that to-day,' said the charioteer, 'at sunrise; haughty folk fight the battle now,' said the charioteer, 'save that there are not kings there, for they are still asleep.' then fachna said when the sun rose (or it is conchobar who sang in his sleep): 'arise, kings of macha, of mighty deeds, noble household, grind your weapons, fight the battle,' etc. 'who has sung this?' said every one. 'conchobar mac nessa,' said they; 'or fachtna sang it,' said they. 'sleep, sleep, save your sentinels.' loegaire the victorious was heard: 'arise, kings of macha,' etc. 'who has sung that?' said every one. 'loegaire the victorious, son of connad buide mac ilech. sleep, sleep, except your sentinels.' 'wait for it still,' said conchobar, 'till sunrise ... in the glens and heights of ireland.' when cuchulainn saw the kings from the east taking their crowns on their heads and marshalling (?) the companies, cuchulainn said to his charioteer that he should awaken the ulstermen; and the charioteer said (or it is amairgen, son of eccet the poet, who said): 'arise, kings of macha,' etc. 'i have awakened them,' said the charioteer. 'thus have they come to the battle, quite naked, except for their arms only. he, the door of whose tent is east, has come out through it west.' 'it is a "goodly help of necessity,"' said cuchulainn. the adventures of the ulstermen are not followed up here now. as for the men of ireland, badb and net's wife and nemain [note: nemain was the wife of net, the war-god, according to cormac.] called upon them that night on garach and irgarach, so that a hundred warriors of them died for terror; that was not the most peaceful of nights for them. the muster of the men of ireland here ailill mac matae sang that night before the battle, and said: 'arise, arise,' etc [note: here follows a list of names.] as for cuchulainn, this is what is told here now. 'look for us, o my friend, o loeg, how the ulstermen are fighting the battle now.' 'like men,' said the charioteer. 'though i were to go with my chariot, and oen the charioteer of conall cernach with his chariot, so that we should go from one wing to the other along the dense mass, neither hoofs nor tyres shall go through it.' 'that is the stuff for a great battle,' said cuchulainn. 'nothing must be done in the battle,' said cuchulainn to his charioteer, 'that we shall not know from you.' 'that will be true, so far as i can,' said the charioteer. 'the place where the warriors are now from the west,' said the charioteer, 'they make a breach in the battle eastwards. their first defence from the east, they make a breach in the battle westwards.' 'alas! that i am not whole!' said cuchulainn; 'my breach would be manifest like the rest.' then came the men of the bodyguard to the ford of the hosting. fine the way in which the fightingmen came to the battle on garach and irgarach. then came the nine chariot-men of the champions of iruath, three before them on foot. not more slowly did they come than the chariot-men. medb did not let them into the battle, for dragging ailill out of the battle if it is him they should defeat, or for killing conchobar if it is he who should be defeated. then his charioteer told cuchulainn that ailill and medb were asking fergus to go into the battle; and they said to him that it was only right for him to do it, for they had done him much kindness on his exile. 'if i had my sword indeed,' said fergus, 'the heads of men over shields would be more numerous with me than hailstones in the mire to which come the horses of a king after they have broken into the land (?).' then fergus made this oath: 'i swear, etc., there would be broken by me cheeks of men from their necks, necks of men with their (lower) arms, arms of men with their elbows, elbows of men with their arms, arms of men with their fists, fists of men with their fingers, fingers of men with their nails, [nails] of men with their skull-roofs, skull-roofs of men with their middle, middle of men with their thighs, thighs of men with their knees, knees of men with their calves, calves of men with their feet, feet of men with their toes, toes of men with their nails. i would make their necks whizz (?) ---as a bee would move to and fro on a day of beauty (?).' then ailill said to his charioteer: 'let there come to me the sword which destroys skin. i swear by the god by whom my people swear, if you have its bloom worse to-day than on the day on which i gave it to you in the hillside in the boundary of ulster, though the men of ireland were protecting you from me, they should not protect you.' then his sword was brought to fergus, and ailill said: 'take thy sword,' etc. [note: rhetoric, twelve lines.] 'a pity for thee to fall on the field of battle, thick [with slain ?],' said fergus to ailill. the badb and net's wife and the nemain called on them that night on garach and irgarach; so that a hundred warriors of them died for terror. that was not the quietest of nights for them. then fergus takes his arms and turns into the battle, and clears a gap of a hundred in the battle with his sword in his two hands. then medb took the arms of fergus (?) and rushed into the battle, and she was victorious thrice, so that she was driven back by force of arms. 'i do not know,' said conchobar to his retinue who were round him, 'before whom has the battle been broken against us from the north. do you maintain the fight here, that i may go against him.' 'we will hold the place in which we are,' said the warriors, 'unless the earth bursts beneath us, or the heaven upon us from above, so that we shall break therefrom.' then conchobar came against fergus. he lifts his shield against him, i.e. conchobar's shield ochan, with three horns of gold on it, and four ----of gold over it. fergus strikes three blows on it, so that even the rim of his shield over his head did not touch him. 'who of the ulstermen holds the shield?' said fergus. 'a man who is better than you,' said conchobar; 'and he has brought you into exile into the dwellings of wolves and foxes, and he will repel you to-day in combat in the presence of the men of ireland.' fergus aimed on him a blow of vengeance with his two hands on conchobar, so that the point of the sword touched the ground behind him. cormac condlongas put his hands upon him, and closed his two hands about his arm. '----, o my friend, o fergus,' said cormac. '... hostile is the friendship; right is your enmity; your compact has been destroyed; evil are the blows that you strike, o friend, o fergus,' said cormac. 'whom shall i smite?' said fergus. 'smite the three hills ... in some other direction over them; turn your hand; smite about you on every side, and have no consideration for them. take thought for the honour of ulster: what has not been lost shall not be lost, if it be not lost through you to-day (?). 'go in some other direction, o conchobar,' said cormac to his father; 'this man will not put out his rage on the ulstermen any more here.' fergus turned away. he slew a hundred warriors of ulster in the first combat with the sword. he met conall cernach. 'too great rage is that,' said conall cernach, 'on people and race, for a wanton.' 'what shall i do, o warriors?' said he. 'smite the hills across them and the champions (?) round them,' said conall cernach. fergus smote the hills then, so that he struck the three maela [note: i.e. flat-topped hills.] of meath with his three blows. cuchulainn heard the blows then that fergus gave on the hills or on the shield of conchobar himself. 'who strikes the three strong blows, great and distant?' said cuchulainn. ... then loeg answered and said: 'the choice of men, fergus mac roich the very bold, smites them.' ... then cuchulainn said: 'unloose quickly the hazeltwigs; blood covers men, play of swords will be made, men will be spent therefrom.' then his dry wisps spring from him on high, as far as ---goes; and his hazel-twigs spring off, till they were in mag tuag in connaught ... and he smote the head of each of the two handmaidens against the other, so that each of them was grey from the brain of the other. they came from medb for pretended lamentation over him, that his wounds might burst forth on him; and to say that the ulstermen had been defeated, and that fergus had fallen in opposing the battle, since cuchulainn's coming into the battle had been prevented. the contortion came on him, and twenty-seven skin-tunics were given to him, that used to be about him under strings and thongs when he went into battle; and he takes his chariot on his back with its body and its two tyres, and he made for fergus round about the battle. 'turn hither, o friend fergus,' said cuchulainn; and he did not answer till the third time. 'i swear by the god by whom the ulstermen swear,' said he, 'i will wash thee as foam [note: reading with l.l.] (?) is washed in a pool, i will go over thee as the tail goes over a cat, i will smite thee as a fond mother smites her son.' 'which of the men of ireland speaks thus to me?' said fergus. 'cuchulainn mac sualtaim, sister's son to conchobar,' said cuchulainn; 'and avoid me,' said he. 'i have promised even that,' said fergus. 'your promise falls due, then,' said cuchulainn. 'good,' said fergus, '(you avoided me), when you are pierced with wounds.' then fergus went away with his cantred; the leinstermen go and the munstermen; and they left in the battle nine cantreds of medb's and ailill's and their seven sons. in the middle of the day it is that cuchulainn came into the battle; when the sun came into the leaves of the wood, it is then that he defeated the last company, so that there remained of the chariot only a handful of the ribs about the body, and a handful of the shafts about the wheel. cuchulainn overtook medb then when he went into the battle. 'protect me,' said medb. 'though i should slay thee with a slaying, it were lawful for me,' said cuchulainn. then he protected her, because he used not to slay women. he convoyed them westward, till they passed ath luain. then he stopped. he struck three blows with his sword on the stone in ath luain. their name is the maelana [note: i.e., flat-topped hills] of ath luain. when the battle was broken, then said medb to fergus: 'faults and meet here to-day, o fergus,' said she. 'it is customary,' said fergus, 'to every herd which a mare precedes; ... after a woman who has ill consulted their interest.' they take away the bull then in that morning of the battle, so that he met the white-horned at tarbga in mag ai; i.e. tarbguba or tarbgleo.[note: 'bull-sorrow or bull-fight,' etymological explanation of tarbga.] the first name of that hill was roi dedond. every one who escaped in the fight was intent on nothing but beholding the two bulls fighting. bricriu poison-tongue was in the west in his sadness after fergus had broken his head with his draughtmen [note: this story is told in the _echtra nerai_. (see _revue celtique_, vol. x. p. 227.)] he came with the rest then to see the combat of the bulls. the two bulls went in fighting over bricriu, so that he died therefrom. that is the death of bricriu. the foot of the dun of cualnge lighted on the horn of the other. for a day and a night he did not draw his foot towards him, till fergus incited him and plied a rod along his body. ''twere no good luck,' said fergus, 'that this conbative old calf which has been brought here should leave the honour of clan and race; and on both sides men have been left dead through you.' therewith he drew his foot to him so that his leg (?) was broken, and the horn sprang from the other and was in the mountain by him. it was sliab n-adarca [note: mountain of the horn.] afterwards. he carried them then a journey of a day and a night, till he lighted in the loch which is by cruachan, and he came to cruachan out of it with the loin and the shoulder-blade and the liver of the other on his horns. then the hosts came to kill him. fergus did not allow it, but that he should go where he pleased. he came then to his land and drank a draught in findlethe on coming. it is there that he left the shoulderblade of the other. findlethe afterwards was the name of the land. he drank another draught in ath luain; he left the loin of the other there: hence is ath luain. he gave forth his roar on iraird chuillend; it was heard through all the province. he drank a draught in tromma. there the liver of the other fell from his horns; hence is tromma. he came to etan tairb. [note: the bull's forehead.] he put his forehead against the hill at ath da ferta; hence is etan tairb in mag murthemne. then he went on the road of midluachair in cuib. there he used to be with the milkless cow of dairi, and he made a trench there. hence is gort buraig. [note: the field of the trench.] then he went till he died between ulster and iveagh at druim tairb. druim tairb is the name of that place. ailill and medb made peace with the ulstermen and with cuchulainn. for seven years after there was no wounding of men between them. findabair stayed with cuchulainn, and the connaughtmen went to their country, and the ulstermen to emain macha with their great triumph. finit, amen. proofreaders is ulster right? a statement of the question at issue between ulster and the nationalist party, and of the reasons--historical, political, and financial--why ulster is justified in opposing home rule by an irishman london john murray, albemarle street, w. 1913 contents. preface chapter i. the ulster covenant. the questions stated. ireland under the celts and the danes ii. ireland from the time of henry ii to the time of henry viii iii. ireland under the tudors iv. the seventeenth century, until the end of the reign of james ii v. the period of the penal laws vi. the earlier part of the reign of george iii. the acquisition of independence by the irish parliament vii. the independent parliament. the regency question. the commencement of the rebellion viii. the rebellion ix. the union x. the period from the union until the rejection of the first home rule bill xi. the unionist government of 1886 xii. the gladstonian government of 1892. the political societies xiii. ireland under the present government xiv. criticism of the bill now before the country xv. the danger to the empire of any form of home rule. the questions answered index preface. in the following chapters i have endeavoured to lay before ordinary readers a simple statement of the present position of the irish question. following the maxim of confucius that it is well "to study the past if you would divine the future," i have first shown that the tales which are told about the glories of the ancient celtic kingdom are foolish dreams, not supported by the accounts given by contemporary annalists or the investigations of modern writers, and that ireland never was a nation in the political sense, with the possible exception of the few years between 1782 and 1800, during which the irish parliament was independent; that the charges made against the english government with reference to their action between the "conquest" by henry ii and the assumption of the title of king by henry viii are baseless; and that though there is much which the historian must look back upon with regret in the period between the reign of henry viii and the passing of the act of union, it is mere waste of time now to dwell on the wrongs of a former age which have long since passed away and which in any other country would be forgotten. then i have traced the brief history of the independent parliament, and shown that whatever may have been its virtues or its failings, it would be impossible to revive it now; all the circumstances of the country have changed. i have striven also to make it clear that the nationalists of to-day are not the representatives of the leaders of that parliament but of the party which fought against it and brought on the horrors of the rebellion; that the union was a political necessity, if the connection between the british islands was to be maintained at all; and that if the people of ireland have not derived all the benefits from the union which they might have done, it is their own fault, as the history of ulster during the last century has shown. next, i have explained the rise of the present home rule movement, and its dependence on agrarian agitation. i have analyzed some of the provisions of the present bill, which independent writers consider to be hopelessly unworkable; and lastly i have stated why in my opinion home rule in any form must be fraught with disaster not only to ireland but also to the empire at large. i have no desire unnecessarily to wound the feelings of those who take a different view; if it can be shown that any of my statements are incorrect or my inference illogical, i shall be glad to correct them; but to mere abuse, such as the nationalists are in the habit of pouring on unionist writers, i shall pay no heed. i admit that it may be said that there are several matters which i ought to have gone into more fully; to that i can only reply that i wished to be as brief as possible, and that i have done my best to compress with fairness. what i am really anxious to do is to draw the attention of thoughtful readers, before it is too late, to the terrible dangers with which we are faced. as an irish historian has said:- "no political madness could be greater than to put the legislative machinery of an integral and essential portion of the empire into the hands of men who are largely or mainly disaffected with that empire, and who, in times of difficulty, danger and disaster are likely to betray it." * * * * * the following are the principal works of which use has been made in preparing this volume. they are cited here in order to avoid the necessity of constant footnotes:- "short history of the irish people." by professor richey. "irish nationalism." by the late duke of argyll. "history of ireland in the eighteenth century." by w.e.h. lecky. "history of the legislative union of great britain and ireland." by dunbar ingram. "ireland and her fairy godmother." by j. warren. "the continuity of the irish revolutionary movement." by prof. brougham leech. "a fool's paradise." by professor dicey. chapter i. the ulster covenant. the questions stated. ireland under the celts and the danes. "being convinced in our consciences that home rule would be disastrous to the material well-being of ulster as well as of the whole of ireland, subversive of our civil and religious freedom, destructive of our citizenship and perilous to the unity of the empire, we, whose names are underwritten, men of ulster, loyal subjects of his gracious majesty king george v, humbly relying on the god whom our fathers in days of stress and trial confidently trusted, do hereby pledge ourselves in solemn covenant throughout this our time of threatened calamity to stand by one another in defending for ourselves and our children our cherished position of equal citizenship in the united kingdom, and in using all means which may be found necessary to defeat the present conspiracy to set up a home rule parliament in ireland. and, in the event of such a parliament being forced upon us, we further solemnly and mutually pledge ourselves to refuse to recognise its authority. in such confidence that god will defend the right, we hereunto subscribe our names." such is the solemn covenant which 220,000 resolute, determined ulstermen--of various creeds and of all sections of the community, from wealthy merchants to farm labourers--fully realizing the responsibility they were undertaking, signed on the 28th september, 1912. to represent that it was merely the idle bombast of ignorant rustics, or a passing ebullition of political passion coming from hot-headed youths excited by irresponsible demagogues, is folly. it expresses the calm resolution of earnest men who, having thought deeply over the matter had decided that it was better even to face the horrors of civil war rather than to submit to the rule of a nationalist government. the opinions of the nationalists with regard to the ulster covenant can be gathered from many speeches and sermons. the following extract from one of their papers--the _frontier sentinel_--may be taken as a specimen:- "it may not be out of place here to translate into simple english the terms of the covenant. it denies the claim of ireland to self-government and the capacity of irishmen to govern ireland. it asserts that the catholics of ireland are the spawn of the devil; that they are ruthless savages and dangerous criminals with only one object in life--the wiping out of protestants. it claims for the protestant unionist majority of four ulster counties a monopoly of christianity, public and private morality, and clean successful business enterprise. in the name of god it seeks to stimulate the basest passions in human nature, and calls on god to witness a catalogue of falsehoods. only a few of the local protestant clergymen, it should be stated, signed this notoriously wicked document." it is well then to pause and consider calmly two questions: what are the real objects of the nationalists; and, are the men of ulster justified in resisting them to the uttermost? it is a mere truism to remark that in every political question the main controversy is complicated by a number of side issues. thus in the tangled skein of politics in south eastern europe there is not merely the great struggle between the crescent and the cross, but there are also jealousies between greek and bulgarian, between servian and austrian, which have to be considered. so in ireland, if we take the religious question as the dominating one, we find ourselves involved in a maze of racial animosities, class prejudices, and trade disputes; by ignoring these we can arrive at a simple but unfortunately a totally erroneous solution of the question. and to weigh them all fairly involves more trouble than the average man cares to take. irish history is at best a dismal subject. and those who ought to be historians are too often politicians; regarding themselves as advocates and not as judges they deliberately omit incidents which tell against their views, and enlarge on others, frequently without even examining the evidence in support of them. then in arriving at the truth about any matter connected with ireland there is the additional difficulty arising from the custom, almost universal amongst irishmen, of talking in superlatives. the exaggerated expressions, both of praise and blame, which are constantly employed, at first puzzle a stranger coming to ireland from another country; he soon, however, gets to realize that they are mere forms of speech, and are no more intended to be taken seriously than similar phrases are when used by an oriental. they are therefore harmless. but it becomes a more serious matter when learned men employ inflated language in addressing ignorant and excitable audiences. thus bishop gaughran, when recently preaching to a crowded congregation in dublin a sermon which was reported in full in the roman catholic papers, said:- "the persecution of the catholics in ireland had no parallel in the history of the church save perhaps those of the early christians in the catacombs of rome. edicts were sent forth before which those of nero might be said to pale into insignificance--the edicts of elizabeth and cromwell, for example." yet these words came from a man who was doubtless familiar with the histories of spain, portugal, france and the netherlands; and who is a leader of a party which had not long before expressed the opinion that catholics have no reason to be ashamed of the inquisition, which was a coercive and corporally punitive force which had effected its ends splendidly! one of the many popular delusions under which english people labour with regard to ireland is that all the population of the country at the present day are celts, and that this is the key to the whole irish question. thus a review of father tyrrell's autobiography recently appeared in an english journal in which the reviewer said: "probably no englishmen could have written such a book; it needs a latin like rousseau, or a celt like tyrrell to lay bare his soul in this way." no doubt these words were written in perfectly good faith; but if the writer had cared to make any enquiry he could have found out in a moment that the tyrrell family were thoroughly english and that none of them had gone to ireland before the nineteenth century. the fact is that the inhabitants of ireland, like the inhabitants of all other countries in western europe, are of mixed origin. the celts were themselves immigrants, who conquered and enslaved a pre-existing race called the firbolgs; then came the scandinavian invasion; and then wave after wave of immigration from england and scotland, so that sir j. davies, writing three hundred years ago--that was, before the cromwellian settlement and the arrival of the french refugees who had escaped from the persecution of louis xiv--said that if the people of ireland were numbered those descended of english race would be found more in number than the ancient natives. this, however, is only one of many errors into which english writers have fallen. mistakes of course will always be made; but unfortunately it is a charge from which mr. gladstone's admirers cannot clear him that when he wished to bring the english people round to the idea of home rule he deliberately falsified irish history in order to make it serve his ends; and his misrepresentations have gained credence amongst careless thinkers who are content to shelter themselves under a great name without looking at what has been written in answer. the general idea of an average englishman about irish history seems to be that ireland in celtic times was a peaceful, orderly, united kingdom, famous for its piety and learning, where land was held by "tribal tenure"--that is, owned by the whole tribe who were closely related in blood--rent being unknown, and the chief being elected by the whole tribe in solemn assembly. into this happy country came the norman invaders, who fought against and conquered the king; drove the native owners out of their possessions, and introduced a feudal system and an alien code of law unsuited to the people; and the modern landlords are the representatives of the conquering normans and the tenants the descendants of the ancient tribesmen who naturally and rightfully resist paying rent for the lands which by ancestral right should be their own. there could not be a more complete travesty of history. the celtic church no doubt had its golden age. it produced saints and men of learning. it sent out its missionaries to the heathen beyond the seas. so famous were its schools that students came to them from distant lands. but centuries before the normans appeared in ireland the salt had lost its savour. the celtic church had sunk into being a mere appendage of the wild tribes it had once tried to tame. the chiefs of one tribe would sack the colleges and shrines of another tribe as freely as they would sack any of their other possessions. for instance, the annals tell us that in the year 1100 the men of the south made a raid into connaught and burned many churches; in 1113 munster tribe burned many churches in meath, one of them being full of people; in 1128 the septs of leitrim and cavan plundered and slew the retinue of the bishop of armagh; in the same year the men of tyrone raided down and a great number of people suffered martyrdom; four years later kildare was invaded by raiders from wexford, the church was burnt and many men slain; and so on with dreary monotony. bishops and abbots fought in the incessant tribal wars as keenly as laymen. worse still, it was not infrequent for one band of clergy to make war on another. in the ninth century, phelim, who claimed to be both bishop and king of leinster, ravaged ulster and murdered its monks and clergy. in the eleventh century the annals give an account of a fierce battle between the bishop of armagh and the bishop of clonard. nor did time work any improvement; we read of bloody conflicts between abbots and bishops as late as the middle of the fifteenth century. what influence for good could such a church have had upon the mass of the people? and even in its noblest period the celtic church seems to have had but little power beyond the walls of its own colleges. the whole history of celtic ireland, as we learn from the annalists, was one miserable succession of tribal wars, murders and plunderings. of course it may be said with perfect truth that the annals of other countries at the time tell much the same story. but there is this difference between them: wild and barbarous though the wars of other countries were, they were at any rate the slow and painful working up towards a higher civilization; the country became consolidated under the most powerful chief; in time peace was enforced, agriculture improved, and towns grew up. the tribal raids of celtic ireland, however, were merely for plunder and destruction. from such conflicts no higher state of society could possibly be evolved. the irish celts built no cities, promoted no agriculture, and never coalesced so as to form even the nucleus of a united kingdom. it was about the end of the eighth century that the first foreign influence was brought to bear on celtic ireland. the danish invasion began. heathen though the danes were, they brought some ideas of settled government and the germs of national progress. they founded cities, such as dublin, waterford and limerick. and when they, like their fellow-countrymen in england, accepted christianity, they established bishoprics in the new towns, but took care that they should be wholly independent of the celtic tribal episcopate; they looked to canterbury and rome. much has been written and sung about the fame of brian boroo. no doubt he was in some ways a great man; and it seemed for a time that he might do for ireland something like what alfred the great had done for england and kenneth macalpine had done for scotland--might consolidate the country into one kingdom. but the story of his life is a striking commentary on the wretchedness of the period. forming an alliance with some of the danes he succeeded in crushing the chiefs of several rival celtic tribes; then in turn he attacked his former allies, and beat them at the battle of clontarf in the year 1014, though they were aided by other celtic tribes who hated brian and his schemes even more than they hated the foreigners. important though this battle was, its effect has been much exaggerated and misunderstood. it certainly did not bring the danish power in ireland to an end; dublin was a flourishing danish colony long afterwards--in fact it was thirty years after the battle that the danish king of dublin founded the bishopric. but brian was slain in the moment of victory. the soldiers of his army murdered his only surviving son, and began fighting amongst themselves. brian's dream of a united ireland came to an end, and the country relapsed into chaos. if the immediate result of the battle was a victory of celt over dane, the lasting effect was a triumph of anarchy over order. it was on the celtic people that the ruin fell; and the state of things for the next two centuries was if possible worse than it had ever been before. it will be readily understood that throughout this terrible period of history anything like a peaceful cultivation of the soil or a regular election to the office of chief was out of the question. it was quite an ordinary thing for a chief to obtain his position by murdering his predecessor. the annalists give us a long list of kings of ireland dating from before the christian era until the arrival of the normans. of course the word "king" can mean little more than "prominent chief," for no one man ever had real authority over the whole of the distracted land. even of these prominent chiefs, however, according to the annalists, very few died natural deaths. some fell in battle, others were assassinated; but the most common fate for a monarch was to be "slain by his successor." if this was true of the most powerful men in the country, to speak of the office of chief as elective is really absurd. but more than this: there is no evidence that the "tribal system," in the sense of all the tribe being related by blood and all owning their lands in common, ever existed in ireland even in theory. at the earliest date of which we possess any distinct information on the subject, wealth, representing physical force, had become the acknowledged basis of political power and private right; and the richer members of the community were rapidly reducing the poorer freemen--many of whom were the descendants of an earlier race or of conquered tribes--to a state of serfdom. the system (if such a word can be applied at all) was in fact a bad form of feudalism without its advantages. there was no central overlord (like those in other countries who gradually developed into the sovereigns of mediã¦val kingdoms and thus became able to enforce peace and progress), each petty chief being independent; and on the other hand the dues payable by the retainers were not fixed by law or custom. we must probably reject the suggested derivation of the word "feodal" from the celtic "fiudir"; but if so, it is curious that two words accidentally resembling each other conveyed ideas so closely alike; for a celtic "fiudir" was practically a tenant at the will of the lord; and it must be admitted that the word "vassal" is of celtic origin. charters which date from before the norman invasion show that the land was regarded as the private property of the chiefs; frequently the wretched occupiers, instead of paying fixed rents, were liable to unlimited exactions, one of them being the right of the lord to "coigne and livery"--that is, to quarter himself and his retainers as long as he pleased on any occupier who possessed a few cows (which were the only form of wealth in those days of universal poverty); in some cases, however, land was let for a term of years, on a fixed payment of cattle. on the death of a freeholder his land was divided amongst his sons equally, according to what is called "the custom of gavelkind." whether primogeniture is a good or a bad thing in england or the british colonies at the present day is of course a totally different question; the circumstances of the times are totally different. but it can hardly be doubted by a thoughtful student of history that the adoption of primogeniture in the early days of feudalism in other european countries was a social necessity if civilization was to rise to a higher state; and that its not being introduced in ireland was if not a cause at least an evidence that civilization in that country did not progress. for in a condition not far removed from anarchy the connection between the ownership of land and political power is inevitable; hence if holdings are small their owners become an easy prey to stronger neighbours; whereas the possessors of larger areas can repel attacks and enable their dependents to live in some sort of security. it was the enormous number of petty independent chiefs that added to the miseries of celtic ireland. i shall probably be accused of having painted too dark a picture in the brief sketch that i have given of ireland before the coming of the normans. i admit that it is very different from the glowing accounts of "irish ireland" that may be found in the pages of nationalist journals. but the question to me is not which account is more pleasant but which is true. and i defy anyone who has cared to look through the works of such writers as richey, stokes, and sullivan, to prove that what i have said is incorrect or unfair. chapter ii. ireland from the time of henry ii to the time of henry viii. in the last chapter i dealt with the long period during which the celtic tribes of ireland were free from foreign influence except for the comparatively brief time when a small part of the country was under the rule of the danes; and i endeavoured to show that according to the evidence of their own annalists and in the opinion of modern writers of various political sentiments, the whole island throughout that period remained in a chronic state of anarchy, without any advance towards a higher civilization. as dr. richey, when describing the condition of ireland about the year 1170, says, "the state of the celtic people was beyond all hope of self-amendment. the want of law, order and justice, the absence of self-knowledge and self-control, paralysed their national action and reduced the power of their chief king to insignificance." i come now to what has been absurdly called the conquest of ireland under henry ii. that the english king was instigated in his efforts by the pope is perfectly clear. the bull of pope adrian, issued in 1155, is still extant:- "... there is indeed no doubt but that ireland, and all the islands on which christ, the sun of righteousness, hath shone, and which have received the doctrine of the christian faith, do belong to the jurisdiction of st. peter and the holy roman church ... therefore we are the more solicitous to propagate the righteous plantation of faith in this land, and the branch acceptable to god, as we have the secret conviction of conscience that this is more especially our bounden duty. you then, our dear son in christ, have signified to us your desire to enter into the island of ireland, in order to reduce the people to obedience under the laws, and to extirpate the plants of vice, and that you are willing to pay from each house a yearly pension of one penny to st. peter, and that you will preserve the rights of the churches whole and inviolate. we, therefore, do hold it good and acceptable that ... you enter this island and execute therein whatever shall pertain to the honour of god and welfare of the land; and that the people of the land receive you honourably and reverence you as their lord." and in 1172 pope alexander iii ratified the action of his predecessor. "forasmuch as these things which have been on good reasons granted by our predecessors, deserve to be confirmed ... and considering the grant of the dominion of the land by the venerable pope adrian, we ... do ratify and confirm the same (reserving to st. peter and to the holy roman church, as well in england as in ireland the yearly pension of one penny from every house) provided that, the abominations of the land being removed, the barbarous people, christians only in name, may by your means, be reformed, and their lives and conversations mended, so that their disordered church being thus reduced to regular discipline, that nation may, with the name of christians, be so in act and deed." whether the description here given was literally correct, or whether the pope's views were coloured by the fact that the celtic church did not acknowledge the supremacy of rome and was heretical on certain points of doctrine, is a question outside the present subject. the bulls are only quoted here as showing the part taken by rome. and it must be admitted that in the succeeding century the power of the pope became strong enough to enable him to levy taxes in ireland for the purpose of carrying on his wars against the emperor and the king of aragon. but henry did not conquer ireland. he did not even pretend to do so. previous to his arrival there had been some little fighting done by a few adventurous norman knights who had been invited by a native chief to assist him in a domestic war; but henry ii fought no battle in ireland; he displaced no ancient national government; the irish had no national flag, no capital city as the metropolis of the country, no common administration of the law. the english, coming in the name of the pope, with the aid of the irish bishops, with a superior national organization which the irish easily recognised, were accepted by the irish. the king landed at waterford; his journey to dublin was rather a royal progress than a hostile invasion. he came as feudal sovereign to receive the homage of the irish tribes; the chiefs flocked to his court, readily became his vassals, and undertook to hold the lands they already occupied as fiefs of the crown. but henry did not take the title, or assume the position of king of ireland. he merely sought to establish a suzerainty in which he would be the overlord. and in fact a conquest of ireland in the modern sense of the term would have been impossible. england possessed no standing army; the feudal levies of mediã¦val times were difficult and expensive. it might of course have been possible to have organized a wholesale immigration and an enslavement of the natives, something like that which the normans had accomplished in england, and the saxons had done centuries before; but nothing of the kind was attempted. whether henry's original intention was simply to leave the irish chiefs in possession or not, it is useless now to enquire. but if it was, he appears to have changed his views; for not long afterwards he granted large fiefs with palatinate jurisdiction to various normans who had made their way over to ireland independently. it may be that henry--knowing that the conqueror, whilst taking care that no powerful seignories should grow up in the heart of his kingdom, as rivals to the throne, yet made exceptions in cases where the lands verged on hostile territory, such as durham or chester--thought that he could best follow the spirit of that policy by establishing what were practically semi-independent principalities in an island already inhabited by another race. but the result was disastrous. that the normans were savage and brutal, dealing out no justice or mercy to their victims, is proved by the account of their conquest of england. yet they possessed certain great qualities, which eminently fitted them to become rulers in those wild, unsettled times; as their successes, not merely in britain, but also in southern italy and syria, show. they had the idea of a strong, centralized government; and more than that they had a marvellous capacity for receptivity. thus we see that in england, after a period of rough tyranny, they blended the existing anglo-saxon government--the strength of which lay in its local organization--with their own; and from the union of the two has come the british constitution. so too in the lowlands of scotland it was the norman knight robert bruce who, accepting the already existing saxon and roman civilization, raised scotland into a powerful kingdom. but in ireland all was different. the only state of society which the normans found was celtic barbarism. political institutions did not exist. as the normans in england had become anglified, and in scotland scottified, so in ireland they became ersefied. it is true that they built stone castles which at any rate were better than the hovels of the irish chiefs, and (like the danes before them) founded a few towns, such as kilkenny, galway and athenry; but there their efforts ended. scattered amongst the tribes, they learnt their ways. they sank to the position of the celtic chiefs around them; local wars went on the same as before; the only difference being that they were waged sometimes by normans against normans or against celts, but more frequently by one body of celts against another, each side being aided by norman allies. one class of nationalist writers has inveighed against the english kings for not having forcibly introduced english law and put an end to the barbarous celtic customs. the simple answer is, how could they do so? whilst england was being weakened by long continental wars or by struggles between rival houses, what strength had she left to undertake the real conquest of ireland? the english kings had turned to the only people who could have helped them--the normans settled in ireland; and they failed them. other nationalist writers have on the other hand declaimed with equal vehemence against the tyranny of england in forcing an alien system of law on an unwilling people. to this the answer is that nothing of the kind occurred. it is true that petitions were sent from ireland to the king urging him to introduce english law; but these petitions came mainly from the poorer classes of english settlers who found that instead of attaining greater liberty in their new home they were being ground down to the miserable position of the native irish. the king issued proclamations directing the english barons to permit the irish to be governed by the law of england; but his orders were totally disregarded; many of the unhappy english settlers fled from the country and returned to england; the barons supplied their places with native retainers. thus the ersefication of the degenerate normans became complete; they "donned the saffron"--that is, they adopted the yellow dress of the celts--abandoned their original language, and gave themselves up to a life of constant plunder and rapine. early in the fourteenth century the irish septs united so far as to form a joint effort to expel the english. the incident is specially interesting, in the light of later history. robert bruce, a norman knight, had recently consolidated the scottish tribes into a kingdom and succeeded in shaking off the english yoke. the irish celts resolved to imitate his example. king robert was shrewd enough to see that by aiding them he could attack his enemy at the most vulnerable point; consequently, when the chiefs offered the crown of ireland to his brother edward if he would come and help them, he gladly accepted the invitation. for three years a devastating war raged over a large part of ireland; the scotch went from the north of ulster almost to limerick, burning, slaying, plundering, sacking towns, castles and churches; and a terrible famine ensued. but the irish chiefs were no more energetic in supporting edward bruce than their ancestors had been in supporting brian; he and his chief officers fell in a battle against the english near dundalk, and the rest of his followers escaped to scotland. the coalition fell to pieces; and the only result of the scotch invasion was to increase the misery of the people, especially of the unhappy english settlers, who continued to flock back to england in greater numbers than before. as soon as the rebellion was put down, the great legislator edward iii made another effort at introducing order into the distracted land. acts were passed by the english parliament providing that the same law should be applicable to both english and irish, and forbidding landowners to keep larger bands of armed men than were necessary for self-defence. but the ersefied barons on whom he relied refused to obey the new laws; they renounced their allegiance and joined the rebellious celtic tribes. then the king, seeing the impossibility of carrying out his scheme for pacifying the whole of ireland, was reduced to the expedient of dividing the country into two; leaving the larger part of it for the natives and degenerate english to misgovern as they pleased according to their own customs, and preserving only a mere fraction (the "english pale") in allegiance to the crown of england. this was the real meaning of the "statutes of kilkenny," which have been so often misrepresented by modern writers. the next king, richard ii, attempted to imitate the policy of his ancestor henry ii. he went to ireland with great pomp. again the celtic chiefs flocked to dublin to swear allegiance to their lord; and as soon as his back was turned commenced not only fighting amongst themselves but even attacking the english pale. the result of all his efforts was that the limits of the pale were still further contracted; the english power was confined to a small area in the neighbourhood of dublin. but even within that narrow boundary the power of the king was far from being secure. when england was torn by the wars of the roses, the so-called parliament (which was really an irregular assembly at best representing a territory about the size of a modern county) seized the opportunity of declaring itself independent. it is interesting, in view of present-day questions, to observe that dr. richey, writing in 1869, seems to consider their action as not only justifiable but inevitable. he says:- "the irish parliament declared the complete independence of the irish legislature, and boldly affirmed those constitutional rights which, though involved in the existence of separate parliament, had not hitherto been categorically expressed. they asserted their rights to a distinct coinage, and their absolute freedom from all laws and statutes except such as were by the lords spiritual and temporal and commons of ireland freely admitted and accepted in their parliament. they declared that no irish subject was bound to answer any writs except those under the great seal of ireland, and enacted heavy penalties against any officer who should attempt to put english decrees in force in ireland. they, in fact, took the same position and laid down the same principles as the celebrated parliament of 1782." whether they imagined that they could form a separate kingdom of dublin, or dreamt of making an alliance with the tribes outside the pale, it is useless now to conjecture; but we can see that though they had no chance of benefiting themselves they might have caused serious injury to england. nor was it long before a difficulty arose. the inhabitants of the pale remained attached to the house of york even after the battle of bosworth, and readily accepted lambert simnel as king of ireland. he was crowned in the cathedral of dublin, and held a parliament. after the defeat of this pretender, the able and astute henry vii saw that it was necessary without further delay to make the shadowy suzerainty of england over ireland a reality. he accordingly persuaded the irish parliament to pass an act which from the name of the lord deputy was known as "poyning's act." by this act, all english statutes then existing in england were made of force in ireland; the chief fortresses were secured to the crown of england; and the irish parliament was relegated to the position of a subordinate legislature; for it was enacted that no parliament should be held in ireland unless the king's lieutenant and council should first certify the king, under the great seal of ireland, the acts which they considered should pass; then the king and his council should approve the proposed acts, and issue a licence under the great seal of england, summoning the parliament. though some writers have spoken of this as the most disgraceful act ever passed by an independent legislature, the people in ireland at the time considered it a boon and a favour; for it shielded them from the unauthorized power of a lord deputy supported by a parliament of his own creatures. and so, with the close of the mediã¦val period, ended the second chapter of irish history. it will be observed that there had been no religious persecution, unless indeed the conduct of the norman--that is, the roman--church towards the ancient celtic church, or the burning of some heretics in the fourteenth century, could be so described; a view which the nationalists of to-day will hardly care to put forward. nor can the english government be fairly blamed for the condition of affairs; for responsibility depends on power, and english power in ireland hardly existed. the suzerainty of england, feeble at best, had gradually been limited to a mere fraction of the country. the celtic tribes had long since thrown off even a nominal submission to the english crown; the anglo-norman lords had become either avowedly or practically independent. but the inhabitants of ireland did not constitute a nation or possess any common interest or bond of union. there was no trace of an organization by which the irish tribes could be united into one people. the ceaseless civil wars had indeed supplanted the original tribesmen by the mercenary followers of another set of rival chiefs; but there had been no union; and the mass of the people, still under the influence of their native customs, were probably in a more wretched condition than they had ever been before. chapter iii. ireland under the tudors. we have seen that at the close of the middle ages ireland was in the condition that some people in england now consider the panacea for all the woes of the country; it possessed a subordinate parliament and england interfered as little as possible in its local affairs. henry viii attempted "to govern ireland according to irish ideas"; having no army of his own, he appointed the most powerful of the norman barons his deputy. but this deputy used his authority precisely as an ersefied norman (who possessed no more patriotism or national feeling than a celtic chief) might have been expected to use it,--that was, to aid him in a succession of family quarrels and tribal wars in which, allied with some of the native septs he attacked others. even the towns outside the pale fared little better than the remoter districts; there was actually a civil war between cork and limerick. the state of affairs in celtic ireland during the brief period from 1500 to 1534 as stated in the annals (which, however, only deal with a part of the country, hardly referring to what took place in leinster or munster) has been summed up by dr. richey in the following words:- "battles, plunderings, etc., exclusive of those in which the english government was engaged, 116; irish gentlemen of family killed in battle, 102; murdered, 168--many of them with circumstances of great atrocity; and during this period, on the other hand, there is no allusion to the enactment of any law, the judicial decision of any controversy, the founding of any town, monastery or church; and all this is recorded by the annalist without the slightest expression of regret or astonishment, as if such were the ordinary course of life in a christian country." at length, in 1534, matters came to a head; the lord deputy broke out into open rebellion. we can learn from the state papers of the period what the condition of ireland then was. the pale--now but the remnant of a fraction--was constantly invaded and ravished by wild tribes, and was itself becoming ersefied; for the poorer english settlers had either fled back to england, joined the celtic tribes in despair, as their only way of escaping from the harshness of the english lords, or been crushed out of existence; and, as had already happened elsewhere, their place had been taken by irish retainers. then in the rest of the country there were some ninety chiefs, of whom about sixty represented ancient septs and the remainder degenerate normans, all claiming independence and preying sometimes on one another and sometimes on their unfortunate followers. not infrequently also a tribe was divided against itself, and a civil war was raging between the two factions. and one result of the ersefication of the norman barons was that, in addition to the regular feudal dues, they demanded every kind of celtic tribute from the occupiers of the land. in fact, how the wretched tenants managed to support life at all seems a mystery. whatever law there may at one time have been was now long extinct; and as king henry himself pointed out, if the natives were to have any sort of law at all, the only possible law was the law of england. at this time also a new factor came into the already complicated problem--the reformation. henry viii never was a protestant, in the sense of adopting the doctrines which are now usually called protestant; but he had renounced the authority of the pope. in 1535 pope paul iii passed sentence upon him, consigning his kingdoms to whoever might invade them, and commanding his nobles to take up arms against him. both the emperor and the king of france saw their opportunity, as robert bruce had done centuries before. they commenced a correspondence with the irish chiefs with the object of bringing about an invasion of ireland. thereupon king henry resolved to take the only course that seemed to him possible--to make the conquest of ireland a reality and to enforce law and order in that distracted land. his letters, which are still extant, show the care with which he thought out the matter, and his earnest desire for the welfare of the people of both races; a perusal of them would astonish those who regard him merely as a savage sensualist. strange to say, in their irish policy, the character of henry viii shows itself at the best, and that of elizabeth at its worst. when henry had with difficulty succeeded in crushing the geraldine rebellion and a series of others which broke out soon after, he got the irish parliament to pass an act conferring on him the title of king; he was solemnly proclaimed as such, and his title was confirmed by the almost unanimous consent of the irish princes. this was important in more ways than one: it was universally recognized that the word "king" meant much more than "lord"; and it gave him a title independent of the pope's donation. it is one of the ironies of history that the renunciation of the papal authority and the submission to the king's supremacy was far more rapid and general in ireland than it was in england. for not only did all the lay chiefs readily yield their adhesion, but only two of the bishops refused to take the oath of supremacy. rebellions such as that of fitzgerald had no connection with religion; it was not until years afterwards when england had become identified with protestantism and spain with catholicism that the irish became intensely papal. on the other hand, the reformation, as a religious movement, made no headway in ireland. it was purely negative and destructive, and emanated from the government, not from the mass of the people. the monasteries were destroyed; hence there were no vicars to supply the parish churches, which fell into ruin; the king endeavoured rather to anglify than to protestantise the people by sending to them bishops and clergy from england--but they were mere state officials, not fathers in god; unable even to speak the irish language; what real preaching there was was done by friars sent from rome and madrid. henry's efforts at establishing parish schools were also a total failure. had there not been later immigrations from england and scotland, irish protestantism would probably have died out. yet it is but fair to state, and to bear in mind, that there was no religious persecution as such in ireland during the tudor period. elizabeth's policy was, without making any actual promise of freedom of conscience, to leave the question of religious opinions alone as far as possible. the real difficulty came from the political nature of the church of rome; when the pope deposed elizabeth and gave ireland to philip of spain every irish roman catholic had either to be false to his religion or to become a traitor--_in esse_ or _in posse_--to the queen. when henry had resolved to do his utmost to bring ireland to a state of civilization, there were not wanting advisers who urged upon him that his only safe course was absolutely to destroy the whole native population by sword and famine and re-people the vacant lands by immigrants from england. such a course would have been quite in accordance with the ideas of the time. not thirty years previously, the combined forces of church and state had pursued the heretic population of the loise into the mountain fastnesses to which they had fled, and had piled logs of wood at the mouths of the caves in which they had taken refuge, and set them on fire. then, when all the unhappy people--men, women and children, numbering some thousands in all--had perished, their lands were distributed amongst strangers brought in from a distance to occupy them. and at a later date--in the middle of the sixteenth century--the native inhabitants of the canary islands were exterminated by the spanish inquisition, and their lands taken by the invading race. but to henry it appeared that there was one milder course that might still be possible. might not the native chiefs and the degenerate normans who had shown that their only idea of independency was anarchy yet be brought together as nobles under a strong central government with a parliament representing not merely the pale, but all ireland? might not the mass of the people, whose native customs had been well nigh crushed out by civil wars, be persuaded to _adopt_ the law of england? this was the policy deliberately adopted by henry and acted on by him during his life. it is easy for writers living in modern times to sneer at some of the details of his scheme; but it is not so easy for them to point out what other course would have been better; or indeed, whether any other course short of a policy of extermination, would have been possible. the remarkable thing, however, is that the change to a more severe line took place not under henry or his protestant son, but under the most catholic sovereigns philip and mary. it was by their orders that the first of the confiscations (which were to play so important a part in the later history of ireland) was carried out. by an act passed in their reign the lands occupied by the o'moores, o'connors and o'dempseys were confiscated and formed into the king's and queen's counties, leix and offaly being renamed "philipstown" and "maryborough"; and a "plantation" of english settlers was established. and here it is well to pause for a moment and consider these confiscations, about which so much has been written. that confiscations have taken place in every country is a plain fact of history. there is probably no part of western europe where land is now held by the descendants of the aboriginal inhabitants. forcible conquest and adverse occupation is nearly always the primary root of title. but it is part of the policy of every civilized country to recognize what lawyers call "statutes of limitations." when centuries have elapsed and new rights have grown up, it is impossible to rectify the wrongs of times long gone by. thus we cannot suppose that any future government of spain would ever recognize the title of the moors in africa to the properties from which their ancestors were driven by philip iv; or that the huguenots, now scattered over various countries, could ever succeed in recovering possession of the estates in france which were confiscated at the time of the revocation of the edict of nantes. and the only people who have a cause to complain, even on sentimental grounds, of the wrongs of past ages, are the lineal descendants of those who suffered ill-treatment. no englishman to-day can feel aggrieved because saxons drove out britons, or normans saxons. but more than that: the confiscation of the lands of rebels stands on a different basis, and has been so regarded in every country in the world, even new zealand. the lands confiscated by philip and mary were owned by the arch-rebel fitzgerald. naturally fertile and capable if properly cultivated of supporting a large population, they were at this time a wild pathless tract of forest and bog. the ceaseless tribal wars had prevented their being drained and cleared; the miserable remnants of the celtic tribes gained a precarious living by periodical raids on the more peaceful inhabitants of the pale. during the whole of the reign of edward vi fighting had gone on in leix and offaly with great loss of life and at enormous expense to the english government. the object of the confiscation was not to drive out the few existing tribesmen; for the land, when cleared and drained, might well support them as well as the new settlers. nor was it to confer great estates on absentee proprietors, but to establish a fairly thickly settled district which might be a source of strength rather than a constant cause of trouble to the dwellers in the pale. nor again was it to introduce feudalism; for as i have shown, the system already in existence was feudalism without its advantages; the substitution of fixed dues for the barbarous custom of "coigne and livery" was an unmixed benefit to the occupiers of land. and it cannot be denied that the first "plantation" was a thorough success--thriving settlements and prosperous farms took the place of forest and swamp. if the position of henry viii had been one of difficulty, that of elizabeth was far more critical. the separation of the church of england from rome was now complete. the great powers of the continent were united in one supreme effort to stamp out the new heresy. the massacre of st. bartholomew had taken place in france; philip ii had ordered a _te deum_ to be sung at madrid, and the pope had had a medal struck to commemorate the glorious event. the lowest computation of those put to death for heresy in the netherlands by charles v was 50,000; and his successor had, at the instigation of the holy office, issued a proclamation sentencing to death the whole population--men, women and children--with the exception of a few persons specially named. alva boasted that he had put 18,000 dutchmen to death on the scaffold, and the pope presented him with a consecrated hat and sword, an honour which had previously been bestowed only on reigning sovereigns. in spain it was regarded not only as a sacred duty but a pleasant amusement for the king and his court to watch the torturing of heretics. england alone--then a comparatively weak and insignificant country--stood out against this overwhelming combination. and in attempting to realize the position of affairs we must remember that in the sixteenth century the papacy was not merely a religious system but also a tremendous political power. we may now regard the claim of the pope to depose princes as a harmless dream; but at that time it was a stern reality. thus matters came to a crisis when the pope excommunicated elizabeth and all who remained loyal to her, released her subjects from their allegiance, offered plenary indulgence and remission of sins to all who would take up arms against her, promised a liberal supply of graces and indulgences to irish chieftains who would rebel, and gave ireland to philip of spain. it can hardly be denied therefore that england was engaged in a life and death struggle. and unless elizabeth would consent to the annexation of ireland by spain and to the conquest of england by some power that would treat the people there much as the heretics of the netherlands were being treated by philip, it must be admitted that any measures, however violent, became a political necessity--a mere act of self-defence. but though elizabeth had already on hand a war with france, spain and scotland, her difficulties did not end there. the north of ireland was being invaded by celts from scotland, and the principal chief, shan o'neill (who was described by the spanish ambassador as "so good a christian that he cuts off the head of any man who enters his country if he be not a catholic") was in open rebellion with the avowed object of crushing out the english power, exterminating the rival tribes, and making himself king of ulster. to so miserable a state had that part of ireland been reduced by petty local wars between rival chiefs that hundreds of people had died of hunger. can it be wondered that elizabeth conceived the idea of imitating her sister's policy and forming a "plantation" in the north? then came another formidable rebellion in munster, headed by an ersefied norman, desmond. these rebellions were fomented by the pope, and in the south the rebels were aided by spanish troops. in the amount of the aid sent from spain, however, the irish rebels were sadly disappointed. that has been one of the characteristic features of all irish rebellions; the foreign powers on which they have relied have been liberal enough with promises of aid, but when the time for performance has come they have left the unfortunate irish to their fate. (thus in 1641 not only did the rebels fully expect that a powerful spanish force would come to their assistance, but they even believed that 18,000 spanish troops had actually landed at wexford.) that these rebellions were crushed by the forces of queen elizabeth with a savage violence that is more suggestive of the government of the netherlands by spain than of what should have been the action of a christian nation cannot be denied; but when reading the accounts of the terrible condition to which the country was reduced one cannot help thinking that the stories of outrages committed by the english troops must be exaggerated. in the first place, the writers, even when eye-witnesses, seem to have assumed that the country was peaceful and prosperous up to that time; whereas not only had the tribal wars which had gone on incessantly until a few years before reduced the people almost to a condition of famine, but the rebels themselves, such as o'neill and desmond, had ravaged the country anew. and if it was obvious that the object of elizabeth was to exterminate the whole irish population and the roman catholic religion, it seems impossible (even allowing for the eccentricity of human nature in general and of the irish character in particular) to believe that a large part of the queen's forces should have been composed of irish roman catholics; or that the inhabitants of the towns, most of whom were also irish roman catholics, should have taken her side; but such was undoubtedly the case. again, if nearly the whole native population had been exterminated by slaughter and famine it would have taken at least a century to recover. yet--a few years after the commencement of the english settlement we find spenser complaining that the new proprietors were acting as the norman barons had done centuries before; instead of keeping out the irish they were making them their tenants and thrusting out the english; and some of the proprietors were themselves becoming "mere irish." then, although no doubt a certain proportion of the elizabethan settlers renounced their protestantism and embraced the roman catholic religion, that can hardly have been the case with the mass of them; and yet before the middle of the seventeenth century we find that the great majority of the freeholders of ireland and even of the members of the irish parliament were roman catholics; surely they must have represented the earlier population. and lastly, considering the wild exaggerations that occur in the accounts of every other event of irish history, we cannot suppose that this period alone has escaped. towards the end of the queen's reign occurred the last of the native rebellions. it too was crushed; and, by the "flight of the earls"--tyrone and tyrconnell--was completed the work which had been commenced by henry ii. and so the third chapter of irish history was ended. chapter iv. the seventeenth century, until the end of the reign of james ii. the seventeenth century is a terrible period of european history. it has been described as "the age of religious wars"; and those wars were waged with a savage ferocity which it is impossible even now to read of without a shudder. it is a plain matter of history that from the very commencement of the reformation the idea of toleration never entered into the heads of any of the authorities of the church of rome. france, spain, portugal, savoy and germany all tell the same story. except in countries such as england where the sovereigns adopted the new opinions, the only chance which the reforming party had of being able to exercise their religion was by means of rebellion and all the horrors of civil war. what that meant, the history of the rise of the dutch republic tells us. as lord acton has said: "in the seventeenth century the murder of a heretic was not only permitted but rewarded. it was a virtuous deed to slaughter protestant men and women until they were all exterminated. pius v held that it was sound catholic doctrine that any man may stab a heretic; and every man was a heretic who attacked the papal prerogatives." and it is equally true that in those cases where the reforming party succeeded in gaining the upper hand, they did not show much more mercy than had been shown to them previously or was being shown to their co-religionists in other countries at the time. yet it is only fair to add that when the idea of toleration did arise, it arose amongst the reformed churches. probably the only roman catholic state in the world where toleration existed during the seventeenth century was the little english colony of maryland, of which lord baltimore was the proprietor. and when at length the religious wars died out it was, as far as catholic countries were concerned, because the lay mind had become thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing, and men's minds were turning in other directions--not because the clerical rulers showed the slightest desire to relax their efforts or change their policy. it would be well if the whole dreadful period could be buried in oblivion. but it is necessary to mention the subject here, for the nationalist party are continually referring to the horrors of the cromwellian massacres and the penal laws; and if such matters are to be gone into at all it is only fair, in order to make a just estimate of them, to glance at the great european struggle of which they formed an incident. in the century which saw germany deluged with blood for thirty years, and which witnessed the revocation of the edict of nantes and the revival of vehement persecution in france, it was not likely that ireland should remain unaffected. soon after james i came to the throne he commenced his famous scotch plantation in the desolated and half-emptied province of ulster. that it was even a greater success than the plantation formed by philip and mary everyone is of course aware; it is the descendants of those immigrants who, though they live in a district not so highly favoured by nature as other parts of the country, form the only really prosperous and progressive section of the community at the present day. the native irish do not seem to have looked on the scotchmen with much disfavour, perhaps partly because there being plenty of room for all in the desolated tract, and lands being assigned to them, they realised that they were safer in the immediate neighbourhood of a peaceful settlement than they would have been had they remained a prey to unscrupulous adventurers like shan o'neill. a member of the legal profession must feel shame and sorrow in recording the fact that the chicanery of the lawyers added much to the harshness of the politicians. that, however, is only another way of saying that the humane policy of the nineteenth century was unknown in the seventeenth. had courts been established in ireland like the native land courts of new zealand in which claims under customary law might be investigated, and equitable awards made, the later history of ireland might have been very different. yet one must remember that even in the reign of queen victoria there was a strong party in england and there were not a few people in new zealand who argued that maori customary claims should be disregarded and the treaty of waitangi ignored. and in the seventeenth century such ideas were unheard of. lawyers searched for every technicality of english law by which the titles of holders of land could be upset, in favour of english claimants. then matters became strangely complicated, as they seem to be periodically throughout irish history. the struggle between charles i and the parliament began, and it soon became evident that the parliamentary party was the stronger of the two. to the irish the parliamentarians meant the puritans; and they believed, not wholly without reason, that a determined attempt would be made not only to seize all their lands but also to stamp out their religion. (it must be observed that the elizabethan anti-roman acts had never been strictly carried out in ireland, and during the reign of james i their severity had been relaxed still further--a line of conduct which had no parallel in any roman catholic country in europe at the time.) thereupon in 1641 the roman catholics of ulster broke into open rebellion, and soon afterwards they applied to the kings of france and spain for aid; and the pope issued a bull granting a full and plenary indulgence and absolute remission for all their sins to all who would do their utmost to extirpate and totally root out those workers of iniquity who in the kingdom of ireland had infected and were always striving to infect the mass of catholic purity with the pestiferous leaven of their heretical contagion. the stories told of the actual outbreak of the rebellion are interesting as an illustration of the universal habit of exaggeration about irish affairs, to which i have already alluded. clarendon affirms that 40,000 english protestants were murdered before they suspected themselves to be in any danger; temple states that in the first two months of the rebellion 150,000 protestants had been massacred. the jesuit, o'mahony, writing in 1645, says "persevere, my countrymen, in the path you have entered on, and exterminate your heretical opponents, their adherents and helpers. already within four or five years you have killed 150,000 of them, as you do not deny. i myself believe that even a greater number of the heretics have been cut off; would that i could say all." he had doubtless obtained his information from the returns made by the priests engaged in the rebellion to the military leaders, the figures of which were much the same. yet lecky (who, though in certain passages of his history he shows himself to be somewhat biassed in favour of the irish roman catholic party, is on the whole a remarkably fair and impartial historian) argues with much force that there is no evidence of anything like a general massacre, and brings down the number murdered to about 8,000. still, that there was a widespread rebellion and all the consequent horrors of civil war, there can be no doubt. the rebels of ulster at one time tried to identify their cause with that of charles i by producing a forged commission from the king--which annoyed the royalists and made the parliamentary party all the more bitter. charles certainly did his utmost to bring about a peace--no doubt being anxious to obtain the assistance of his irish subjects in his scotch and english wars. but his efforts were thwarted by the papal nuncio, whose instructions from rome were that the holy see could never by any positive act approve of the civil allegiance of catholic subjects to an heretical prince; and thus the royalist cause became as completely lost in ireland as it was in england. before the peace was finally concluded, charles was a prisoner in the hands of his enemies. then came the terrible episode of the cromwellian war, in which romanist and royalist alike went down before the puritan force. still, though he would be a bold man who could attempt to excuse--much less to justify--the barbarities that took place, it may be doubted whether all the cromwellian outrages put together equalled a single one of those which the imperial troops had committed during the war which had been raging for thirty years in germany--such for instance as the sacking of magdeburg. it is estimated, however, that about 600,000 people (of whom 500,000 were of the irish race and 100,000 of the english) perished by the sword, pestilence or famine in the fearful years between 1641 and 1652--in other words, about a third part of the population was wiped out. and the war was followed by a wholesale confiscation--having fought for the king being considered as much an act of treason as having rebelled against him. the confiscated lands were allotted to soldiers, to persons who had supplied money to the parliamentary forces, and to other supporters of the new government. it is but just, however, to add that 700,000 acres of profitable land in connaught were allotted to dispossessed romanists, and that they were allowed to occupy 100,000 acres in other parts of the country; a striking contrast to the lot of the unhappy waldenses who were at that time being driven from their homes and slaughtered without mercy for no crime but heresy; or to the treatment a few years later by louis xiv of his huguenot subjects whose lands were confiscated without compensation and who were only given the choice of death or the galleys. at the restoration some effort was made to undo the injustice of the cromwellian confiscations. but the matter was one of great difficulty. in many cases land had been allotted by cromwell in payment for money received; in others the grantees had sold their holdings to purchasers who had paid in cash, regarding the original grant as indefeasible. a reconfiscation of such lands would obviously have worked a great injustice; and it is a common maxim of law that between two claimants each with a good title the one in possession is to be preferred. still it cannot be said that the decisions of the royal commissioners were always equitable according to our ideas; for instance, the award of 80,000 acres to the duke of york (afterwards james ii) of land which had been forfeited under cromwell because the owner had fought for his father, would be hard to justify on any possible grounds. still, an act of settlement was passed, by which a certain amount of justice was done; it is difficult to arrive at the figures accurately, but it appears that after the passing of the act nearly one-third of the island was vested in roman catholic proprietors. archbishop king estimated that at the time when he was writing--1689--two-thirds of the protestant landowners held their estates under the act of settlement. and lecky says, "only an infinitesimal portion of the soil belongs to the descendants of those who possessed it before cromwell." but archbishop king was influenced by the fear he had felt as to what the effect of a repeal of the act would be; and there can hardly be a doubt that his feelings led him to overestimate the number. with regard to lecky's remark, one can only take it as a strange instance of a gross exaggeration having crept into a book which is usually careful and accurate. it may be that the statement was not very incorrect according to the evidence the author had before him; but if so, that only proves that the evidence was wrong; for the proceedings in the land courts which have been set up in ireland during the last half century have shown that the proportion of titles to estates which date from an earlier period was far larger than people had supposed. during the peaceful and tolerant reign of charles ii the country made steady progress. under james ii, however, everything was reversed. that unhappy monarch, having ascended the throne tranquilly, with many protestations of toleration and justice to all, succeeded in less than two years in making it clear to the people of england that his object was to confine liberty to those who professed his own creed and that his idea of good government was something like that which was then existing in france and savoy. driven from great britain, on his arrival in ireland he issued a proclamation declaring that his protestant subjects, their religion, privileges and properties were his especial care; and he had previously directed the lord lieutenant to declare in council that he would preserve the act of settlement inviolable. but the protestants soon had reason to fear that his promises were illusory and that the liberty which might be allowed to them would be at best temporary. in a word, what the one party looked forward to with hope and the other with dread was "a confederacy with france which would make his majesty's monarchy absolute." in order to understand what that meant, to irish protestants, it is well to glance at the condition of france at the time. louis xiv had begun by directing that the edict of nantes was to be interpreted by the strictest letter of the law; and soon after that the condition of the huguenots became more unhappy than that of the irish roman catholics ever was during the penal laws. the terrible "dragonnades" commenced in 1682; soldiers were billeted on heretics, and unfortunate women were insulted past endurance; huguenots were restricted even as to holding family prayers; children at the age of seven were encouraged to renounce their faith, and if they did so they were taken from their parents who, however, were obliged to pay for their maintenance in convent schools. protestant churches were closed, and their endowments handed over to roman catholic institutions. huguenot children were forbidden all education except the most elementary. no heretic was allowed to sue a catholic for debt. all this, however, did not satisfy the monarch or his ecclesiastical advisers. on the 18th of october 1685, he issued his famous revocation of the edict of nantes:- "we by the present edict which is perpetual and irrevocable, revoke the edict given at nantes in 1583 together with every concession to the protestants of whatever nature they be. we will that all temples of that religion be instantly demolished. we prohibit our protestant subjects to assemble for worship in any private house. we prohibit all our lords to exercise that religion within their fiefs under penalty of confiscation of property and imprisonment of person. we enjoin all ministers of the said faith to leave the kingdom within fifteen days of the publication of this edict, under penalty of the galleys. we enjoin that all children who shall be born henceforth be baptized by the catholic curates. persons awaiting the enlightening grace of god may live in our kingdom unhindered on account of their religion on condition that they do not perform any of its exercises or assemble for prayer or worship under penalty of body and wealth." this edict met with cordial approval from the catholic party in france. the famous madame de sevignã© wrote: "i admire the king for the means he has devised for ruining the huguenots. the wars and massacres of former days only gave vigour to the sect; but the edict just issued, aided by the dragoons, will give them the _coup de grace_." the irish protestants saw with alarm that amongst the soldiers who came from france to aid king james were some who had taken an active part in the dragonnades organized by louis xiv in order to carry out his edict. then one act was passed by the dublin parliament repealing the act of settlement; and by another 2,461 persons were declared guilty of high treason unless they appeared before the dublin authorities on a certain day and proved they were not guilty. what steps king james was prepared to take in order to subdue the rebels of derry who held out against him can be gathered from the proclamation which he directed conrade de rosen, his mareschal general, to issue. he warned the rebels that if they did not surrender immediately, all the members of their faction, whether protected or not, in the whole neighbourhood, would be brought close to the walls of the city and there starved to death; that he would ravish the countryside, and see that no man, woman or child escaped; and that if the city still held out he would give no quarter and spare neither age nor sex, in case it was taken by force. even if there had been no derry to relieve and no protestants in other parts of the country, the conquest of ireland was a political necessity to king william. england was at this time in much the same position that it had been in the days of elizabeth, substituting the name france for spain. the continental powers were again united in a supreme effort to stamp out protestantism, and england once more stood almost alone. in spain and portugal, heresy was of course still punishable with death; the pope had celebrated the revocation of the edict of nantes with a triumphal _te deum_; a terrible persecution was raging not only throughout the protestant districts of france but also on the rhine, in hungary, savoy and the alpine valleys; if ireland had remained a separate kingdom ruled by the ally and admirer of louis xiv, the next step would certainly have been an invasion of england by the joint forces of france and ireland. all that we in modern times include in the term "religious liberty" hung on the issue of the battle that was fought and won on the banks of the boyne. chapter v. the period of the penal laws. the flight of james ii brings us to the era of the "penal laws." to one who lives in the twentieth century and is embued with the spirit of modern thought, the whole subject is more than painful--it is detestable. but to pass it over in silence is impossible; and in order to get a clear view of the position it is necessary to examine what the penal laws were, what they were not, and what were the circumstances of the time during which they were in force. the penal laws were a series of enactments carefully planned so as to harass the roman catholics at every moment of their lives, in the hope of inducing them to abandon their religion. the unhappy people were prohibited from becoming or voting for members of parliament; they were excluded from corporations, the army, the navy and the legal profession. they were forbidden to bear arms, or even to possess a horse worth more than â£5. education was denied to them, as they could not send their sons to the university and were forbidden either to have schools of their own in ireland or to send their children abroad. they were not allowed to possess freehold estates in land, and even as to leaseholds they were seriously restricted. on the death of a roman catholic his estate was divided amongst his children equally, unless the eldest son became a protestant, in which case he inherited the whole. and as no roman catholic was allowed to act as a guardian, a man never knew that if he should die his children might not be brought up in a faith that he detested. the performance of roman catholic worship was barely tolerated, as no bishops or other dignitaries were allowed to remain in ireland, and the only priests authorized to say mass were those who were "registered" and had taken the oath of abjuration--that is, an oath declaring that the pretender had no right to the throne. such in brief were those terrible statutes. but without attempting to excuse them, there are various matters which must be taken into account if we are to judge them fairly. in the first place, the political aspect of the question should not be forgotten. the protestant minority might justly fear that if the roman catholic party were as powerful as their numbers would naturally cause them to be, they would aid in bringing about a french invasion for the restoration of the stuarts and the re-establishment of the system which had been in evidence under james ii. an army was actually formed in france, and on more than one occasion was in readiness to start. the stuarts were regarded by the pope as the rightful sovereigns. the roman catholic prelates whose entry into ireland was forbidden were appointed by the pretender and were his political agents; it was that fact, and no doctrinal reason, that caused their expulsion. it is necessary to make this quite clear, as there has been as much exaggeration on this point as on most other subjects connected with irish history. the words of the "oath of abjuration" were as follows: "i do solemnly and sincerely declare that i do believe in my conscience that the person pretended to be prince of wales during the life of the late king james and since his decease taking upon himself the style and title of king of england by the name of james iii hath not any right or title whatever to the crown of this realm." a modern roman catholic writer has thus described the oath:- "by the oath of abjuration the priest was ordered to swear that the sacrifice of the mass and the invocation of the blessed virgin and the saints were damnable and idolatrous. in other words, the priest was ordered to apostatize, or fly for his life." and even if roman catholics took the oath of allegiance, the old difficulty arose as to the papal right to depose princes and to order their subjects to rebel. so late as 1768, when a declaration was drawn up which it was hoped the leaders of the roman catholic party would sign, so that the penal laws might be finally done away with, the papal nuncio vetoed the proposal because the declaration contained a reprobation of the doctrines that faith need not be kept with heretics and that if the pope banned a sovereign his subjects might depose and slay him. it is but fair to add, however, that a large number of roman catholics did sign the declaration; and the penal laws (which had been relaxed from time to time when it was seen that the irish took no part in the stuart rebellions of 1715 and 1745) were soon afterwards practically abolished. then it must be borne in mind that the irish penal laws, although to some extent modelled on the legislation of louis xiv against the huguenots, were absolutely insignificant compared with those which were in force at the time in every roman catholic country in europe. galling though the irish laws were, they never went so far as to make the mere holding of heretical opinions criminal. thus no one in ireland was ever put to death for believing in transubstantiation; whereas in one diocese of portugal 20,000 people were sent to the stake for denying it. as every one who has visited the madrid picture gallery will recollect, it was still the custom in the eighteenth century for the king of spain to preside in state at the burning of heretics; and it was not until that century was drawing to a close that it was for the first time enacted in portugal that sentence of death for heresy when passed by the ecclesiastical court should not be carried into effect unless the order was countersigned by the king. in france, for two or three heretics to meet for worship anywhere (their churches had of course all been pulled down) was a crime punishable with death; and any huguenot caught whilst attempting to escape from the country was sent to the galleys--a fate worse than mere death, for it meant death by slow torture. and every child was forcibly taken from its heretic parents at the age of five, and educated in a convent. but more than that: roman catholics who fled from the tyranny of the penal laws at home had no scruple, when they reached the continent, in taking part in persecutions far more terrible than anything they had seen in ireland. during the dragonnades in languedoc, louis xiv's irish brigade joined eagerly in the butchery of old men, women and children and the burning of whole villages. the same heroes distinguished themselves by destroying everything they could find in remote alpine valleys so that the unfortunate waldenses might die of starvation. and the irish troops under lord mountcashel aided in the burning of 1,000 villages in the palatinate of the rhine, in which all the inhabitants--men, women and children--were slain by the sword, burnt to death, or left to perish from hunger. these persecutions were practically brought to an end by the french revolution and the rise of modern ideas; but the ecclesiastical authorities, though they have lost their power, have shown no sign of having changed their principles. even in the middle of the nineteenth century king victor emmanuel was excommunicated by pope pius ix for allowing his vaudois subjects to build a church for themselves at turin. of course it may be said with perfect truth that two blacks do not make one white. still, the constant complaints about the tyranny of the penal laws have less force when they come from the representatives of a party who acted in the same way themselves whenever they had the opportunity. it is indeed frequently urged as a matter of aggravation that whereas other persecutions were those of a minority by a majority, this was of a majority by a minority. to me, so far as this makes any difference at all, it tells the other way. as a matter of morality, i fail to see any difference; putting all the inhabitants of an alpine valley to death as heretics does not seem to me one whit the less horrible because the sovereign also ruled a large catholic population on the plains. on the other hand, the fact that the roman catholics in ireland formed the majority of the population prevented the persecution from being strictly carried out. it was comparatively easy for louis xiv to surround a heretic district with a cordon of soldiers, and then draw them closer together searching every house as they went, seizing the clergy and taking them off to the galleys; but it was impossible to track unregistered priests through the mountains and valleys of munster. hence the law as to the registration of priests soon became a dead letter. there was indeed one great difference, between irish and continental persecution. on the continent it was the holiest and best men who were the keenest persecutors. (this may seem strange to modern readers; but anyone who has studied the lives of bossuet and san carlo borromeo will admit that it is true.) hence the persecution was carried out with that vigour which was necessary to make it a success. in spain, if a heretic under torture or the fear of it consented to recant, the holy office was not satisfied with a mere formal recantation; for the rest of his life the convert was watched day and night to see that there was no sign of back-sliding; and even the possession of a fragment of the new testament was considered as sufficient evidence of a relapse to send the wretched man to the stake. consequently, in a generation or two heresy became as extinct as christianity did amongst the kabyles of north africa after the mohammedan persecution. in ireland, however, persecution was always against the grain with religiously-minded protestants. seven bishops protested against the first enactment of the penal laws; and during the period when they were in force, the bishops repeatedly spoke and voted in favour of each proposed mitigation of them. (with this one may contrast the action of the french bishops who on the accession of louis xvi in 1774 presented an address to the new king urging him to increase the persecution of the huguenots which had become somewhat slack during the later years of his predecessor. by the irony of fate the same men were a few years later pleading vainly for the mercy which they had never shown in the days of their power.) nor was this tolerant feeling confined to the bishops. by the aid of the protestant gentry, the laws were continually being evaded. protestants appointed by the court as guardians of roman catholic children, used to carry out the wishes of the roman catholic relations; roman catholic proprietors frequently handed over their estates to protestant friends as trustees, and, though such trusts were of course not enforceable at law, there were very few instances in which they were not faithfully performed. many strange stories are told of the evasions of the acts. on one occasion whilst it was still illegal for a popish recusant to own a horse of a greater value than â£5, a man met a roman catholic gentleman who was riding a handsome horse; he held out â£5 in one hand, and with the other caught hold of the bridle. the rider, naturally infuriated at this, struck the man with his whip so heavily that he fell down dead. when he was tried for murder, the judge decided that as the man had laid a hand on the bridle, the rider had reason to suppose that he intended to take it as well as the horse, which would have been an illegal act; consequently he was justified in defending himself against highway robbery; and therefore the charge must be dismissed. again, a roman catholic proprietor found out that an effort was likely to be made to deprive him of his estate. he rode up to dublin on a saturday; on sunday he received the holy communion at a protestant church; on monday he executed a deed transferring his estate to a protestant friend as trustee; on tuesday he was received back into the church of rome; and on wednesday he rode home again, to enjoy his estate free from further molestation. the schools which were founded in order to convert the rising generation were a strange contrast to the admirably conducted institutions established in france and spain for a similar purpose. they were so disgracefully mismanaged that the pupils who had passed through them looked back on everything that had been taught them there with a lifelong disgust. it is needless to say that laws thus carried out were a dead failure as far as winning converts was concerned. on the other hand, they became in one sense the more galling as the enforcement of them fell into the hands of a low class of informers who had no object beyond making money for themselves. still, public feeling was so strong that by the middle of the century the laws had almost fallen into abeyance. brook, writing in 1762, says: "though these laws are still in force, it is long since they have been in action. they hang like a sword by a thread over the heads of these people, and papists walk under them in security and peace; for whoever should adventure to cut this thread would become ignominious and detestable." and in 1778 and 1782 (that is, when, as an irish roman catholic writer has pointed out, there was still neither toleration nor peace for protestant populations in any catholic state in europe) the irish protestant parliament formally repealed nearly all the penal laws. probably their most lasting effect was that relating to the tenure of land. if free purchase and sale regardless of religion had been allowed throughout the eighteenth century, one may conjecture that the effect of the cromwellian confiscations would long since have died away. but these laws perpetuated that peculiar state of things which has been the cause of so much unhappiness in ireland--the landlords generally belonged to one religion, and their tenants and dependents to another. it may be asked, as these odious laws all came to an end generations ago, what is the good of recalling the sorrows of the past which had much better be forgotten? i reply, none whatever; and very glad i should be if the whole subject were quietly dropped. but unfortunately that is just what the roman catholic party in ireland will not do. one of the ways in which religious animosity is being kept alive (and i regret to say is being steadily increased) is by the teaching in the roman catholic schools of exaggerated accounts of the penal laws without referring to any of the mitigating circumstances. even in the present year--1913--the lenten pastoral of one of the bishops goes back to the same old subject. if other countries acted in a similar manner, how could the grievances of bygone centuries ever be forgotten? the jews, cruelly treated though they were during the time of the norman kings, do not harp on the subject in england to-day. it may be doubted whether all the religious persecutions of europe put together were as great a disgrace to christendom as the slave trade--in which, i am ashamed to say, england strove to obtain the pre-eminence amongst european nations and which she forced upon her colonies against their will. yet i should regret it deeply if that were the one passage of history selected for study in the schools and colleges for coloured pupils in the west indies at the present day. when a man who has suffered wrong in former years broods over it instead of thinking of his present blessings and his future prospects, one may be sure that he is a man who will not succeed in life; and what is true of individuals is true also of nations. the expression "protestant ascendancy," although it never came into use during the period with which we are dealing, has so frequently since then been employed with reference to it, that it is necessary to explain its meaning. probably no word in the english language has suffered more from being used in different senses than the word "protestant." in ireland it frequently used to be, and still sometimes is, taken as equivalent to "anglican" or "episcopalian"; to an irishman of the last century it would have appeared quite natural to speak of "protestants and presbyterians," meaning thereby two distinct bodies. this is a matter of historical importance; for so far from the presbyterian element being favoured during the period of the penal laws, the english toleration act had not been extended to ireland; presbyterians were by the sacramental test excluded from all municipal offices; their worship, though never in practice interfered with, remained technically illegal. their share in "protestant ascendancy" was therefore very limited. but if the established church was the one favoured body, it had to pay dearly for its privileges. in truth, the state of the irish church at this period of its history, was deplorable. all the positions of value--bishoprics, deaneries and important parishes--were conferred on englishmen, who never resided in their cures, but left the duties either to be performed by half-starved deputies or not at all. many of the churches were in ruins, and the glebes had fallen into decay; a union of half-a-dozen parishes would scarcely supply a meagre salary for one incumbent. a large proportion of the tithes had been appropriated by laymen; how small a sum actually reached the clergy is shown by the fact that the first-fruits (that is, the year's income paid by incumbents on their appointment) did not amount to more than â£500 a year in all. it may be that the standard of religious life was not lower in ireland than it was in england when the spiritually-minded non-jurors had been driven out and hanoverian deadness was supreme; but in england there was no other church to form a contrast. in ireland the apathy and worldliness of the protestant clergy stood out in bold relief against the heroic devotion of the priests and friars; and at the time when the unhappy peasants, forced to pay tithes to a church which they detested, were ready to starve themselves to support their own clergy and to further the cause of their religion, the well-to-do protestant graziers and farmers were straining the law so as to evade the payment of tithes, and never thought of doing anything further to support the church to which they were supposed to belong. (it is but fair, however, to state that this condition of things has long since passed away; the evangelical revival breathed new life into the dry bones of irish protestantism.) but it was not merely in religious matters that ireland suffered during this melancholy period. students of modern history whose researches usually commence with the early part of the nineteenth century, are wont to gather from text-books the idea that the policy of the manufacturing party in england has always been liberal, progressive and patriotic; whereas that of the landed interest has been retrograde and selfish. there cannot be a greater delusion. english manufacturers have been just as self-seeking and narrow-minded as other people--no more and no less; they have been quite as ready to sacrifice the interests of others when they believed them to be opposed to their own, as the much-abused landowners. at this time every nation in europe regarded the outlying portions of the empire as existing only for the benefit of the centre; in fact, the english development of the "colonial system" even then was more liberal than those of spain or holland. the english system, if perfectly carried out, was by no means unfair. the ground idea was that the mother country voluntarily restricted herself in matters of trade for the benefit of the colonies, and the colonies had to do the same for the benefit of the mother country. thus, when england refused to admit timber from the baltic in order to benefit the canadian lumber trade; and placed a prohibitive duty on sugar from cuba so as to secure the english market for jamaica; it was but fair that the trade in other articles from canada and jamaica should be directed to england. to say that the whole thing was a mistake, as such restrictions really injured both parties, is no answer, as no one at that time dreamed of such a thing as free trade. the real answer is that it was impossible to keep the balance true; some slight change of circumstances might render that unfair which up to then had been perfectly equal. and as the english merchants were on the spot and commanded votes in parliament, any injustice against them would be speedily rectified; the colonists living at a distance and having no means of making their voice heard, would be left to suffer. in applying the colonial system to ireland, it is true that in theory england undertook to protect her by means of the british army and navy, from foreign foes; but beyond that, the system was to ireland all loss and no gain. every branch of irish industry was deliberately ruined by the english government. by the navigation act of 1663, trade between ireland and the british colonies was forbidden; soon after, the importation of irish beef, mutton, pork and butter into england was prohibited; then, at the request of the english woollen manufacturers, the export of woollen goods from ireland to any country was stopped; and finally, with a refinement of cruelty, the export of linen articles--the one industry that had hitherto been left to the unfortunate country--was restricted to the coarsest and poorest varieties, for fear of offending the dutch. the result of all this wretched misgovernment was not merely destitution bordering on famine, but a wholesale emigration. whilst the roman catholics were leaving the country to avoid the penal laws, the most skilful and industrious of the artizan class,--the very backbone of the nation--were being driven out by the prohibition of their trades. it is said that no less than 30,000 men were thrown out of employment by the destruction of the woollen industry alone. these were nearly all protestants; to encourage them would have done more to protestantize the country than all the penal laws and charter schools put together; but they were ruthlessly sacrificed to the greed of the english manufacturers. some went to the continent, many more to new england and the other american colonies, where they prospered, and they and their sons became some of washington's best soldiers in the war of independence. it was only natural that thoughtful men in ireland should cast envious eyes on scotland, which had recently secured the benefit of union with england, and consequently was able to develop her commerce and manufactures unhindered. but though the subject of a union was discussed, and even referred to in addresses from the irish parliament to queen anne, no active steps were taken. still, in considering these commercial restrictions, as in the case of the penal laws, we must not lose sight of the fact that the state of circumstances we are dealing with has long passed away. it is necessary for a historian to refer to it, even if he finds it hard to do so in a perfectly dispassionate way; but it is waste of time and energy for the present generation to go on brooding over woes which had come to an end before their grandfathers were born. yet that is what the nationalists of to-day are doing. not long ago, the old boys' association of an irish roman catholic college resolved, very laudably, to found an annual prize at their alma mater. the subject they selected was an essay on the treatment by england of irish industries before the year 1800! had it been a scotch or a german college, the subject chosen would probably have been, the progress in scientific knowledge during the last century, or, improvements in means of travel since 1820; and one must ask, which subject of study is likely to be most profitable to young men who have to make their way in the modern world? it may be asked, why did the irish parliament do nothing to stay this national ruin? the answer is that the irish parliament possessed very little power. the bill of rights of course did not apply to ireland; general elections were very rare, and a large number of members were paid officers of the government; the english parliament had a co-ordinate power of legislating for ireland; and since poyning's act (as explained by the declaratory act of george i) was still in force, no bill could be introduced into the irish parliament until it had been approved both by the irish and the english councils; and the irish parliament might then pass it or reject it but had no power to amend it. and the use which the english government made of the irish parliament was as disgraceful as their treatment of irish industries. miserably poor though the country was, it was burdened by the payment of pensions of a nature so scandalous that the english parliament even of that period would not have tolerated them. the conditions of land tenure also added to the miseries of the country. it is often said that the land belonged to wealthy english absentees, and the unfortunate occupiers, who had no security of tenure, were ground down by the payment of exorbitant rents. this is literally true; but, like most partial statements, misleading. much of the land was owned by wealthy englishmen--which of itself was a serious evil; but they let it in large farms at low rents on long leases, in the hope that the occupiers would execute their own improvements. instead of that, however, their tenants sublet their holdings in smaller lots to others; and these subtenants did the same again; thus there were sometimes three or four middlemen, and the rent paid by the actual occupier to his immediate landlord was ten times the amount the nominal owner received. as the rate of wages was miserably low, and the rent of a cabin and a plot of ground scandalously high, how the wretched occupiers managed to keep body and soul together is a mystery. much has been written about the useless, dissipated lives of these middlemen or "squireens"; and no doubt it is to a great extent true, although, like everything else in ireland, it has been exaggerated. travellers have told us of some landlords who resided on their estates, did their utmost to improve them, and forbade subletting (in spite of the unpopularity caused by their doing so). and one of the remarkable features of later irish history is that whenever there was a period of acute difficulty and danger there were always country gentlemen to be found ready to risk their lives and fortunes or to undertake the thankless and dangerous duties of county magistrates. it is curious how close a parallel might be drawn between the way in which norman ireland was ersefied and that in which cromwellian ireland was catholicized. many of those who became large landowners by the cromwellian confiscations, having no religious prejudices (some might say, no religious or humane feelings), when the leases of their tenants fell in, put the farms up to auction regardless of the feelings of the occupiers. as the roman catholics were content with a simpler manner of life than the protestants, they generally offered higher rents; the dispossessed protestants, driven from their homes, joined their brethren in america. then in the south, the poorer of cromwell's settlers, in some cases, neglected by their own pastors, joined the religion of the majority; in others, intermarrying with the natives, allowed their children to be brought up in the faith of their mothers. hence we arrive at the curious fact that at the present day some of the most ardent romanists and violent nationalists, who are striving to have the irish language enforced all over the country, and pose as the representatives of ancient irish septs, are really the descendants of cromwell's soldiers. so passed the greater part of the eighteenth century; and the unhappy country seemed as far off from progress and prosperity as ever. chapter vi. the earlier part of the reign of george iii. the acquisition of independence by the irish parliament. when we come to the reign of george iii we have arrived at a specially interesting period of irish history. for we are no longer dealing with a state of society that has wholly passed away; the great events that occurred towards the close of the eighteenth century are continually referred to as bearing, at least by analogy, on the questions of the present day. it is for the honest historian to examine how far that analogy is real, and how far it is delusive. for some time after the accession of george iii, the state of ireland was almost as miserable as before. trade and manufactures being nearly crushed out, want of employment brought the people in the towns to the brink of starvation. in the country, although the middle classes were on the whole becoming more prosperous, the condition of the labourers and cottiers was wretched in the extreme. it is not to be wondered at therefore that we now hear of the commencement of two movements which were destined later on to play so important a part in the history of ireland--the agitation against the payment of tithes and the rise of secret societies. few men at the present day could be found who would attempt to justify the tithe system as it prevailed in the eighteenth century. it was not merely that the starving peasantry were forced to contribute towards the maintenance of a religion in which they did not believe, but the whole manner of levying and collecting the tithes was bad; and what made them still more annoying was the fact that the clergy never thought of performing the duties for which tithes were supposed to exist; the large majority of the rectors did not even reside in their parishes. the principal secret societies were the oakboys and the steelboys of the north, and the whiteboys of the south. the northern societies soon came to an end; but the organization of the whiteboys continued to spread, and for a time it assumed alarming proportions. commencing as a war against tithe proctors, the enclosure of commons, and the substitution of grazing land for tillage, they went on to commit outrages of various sorts, and something like a reign of terror spread over a large tract of country. but it may safely be said that generally speaking their conduct was not nearly so violent as that of other secret societies of a later date; and the evidence of any foreign influence being at work, or of religious animosity being connected with the movement, is slight. it is interesting to observe that, whenever there was a violent and abnormal outbreak of crime, the irish parliament did not hesitate to pass special laws to meet the case. such measures as the whiteboy act of 1787, or the insurrection act and the habeas corpus suppression act of 1796, which were readily passed whilst the irish parliament was completely independent, are frequently referred to by modern agitators as amongst the brutal coercion acts which the tyranny of england has forced on an innocent people. the harshness of the penal laws was steadily being relaxed. all restrictions on worship, or the number of clergy allowed, had long since fallen into abeyance. roman catholic students were admitted into trinity college, dublin; and the authorities of the university expressed their readiness to appoint a divinity professor of their own faith for them if they wished it. the restrictions on property were becoming obsolete; and political restrictions were not felt so keenly since most of the roman catholics would have been ineligible for the franchise on the ground of their poverty even if the stumbling block of religion had been removed. and the loyal sentiments expressed by the roman catholics made the best of the protestants all the more anxious to repeal the laws which they had never regarded with favour. then amongst educated people not only in ireland but elsewhere, religion was ceasing to be the great line of cleavage; other matters--political, social, and commercial--were occupying men's thoughts and forming new combinations. the political state of the country was peculiar. the real government was carried on by the lord lieutenant and his officials; but as the hereditary revenue did not supply funds sufficient for that purpose, it was necessary to have recourse to parliament. and the constitution of that parliament was as extraordinary as most things in ireland. a session was usually held every second year, but a parliament might last for a whole reign. the house of commons consisted of 300 members, of whom only 64 represented counties, and most of the rest nominally sat for small boroughs, but really were appointed by certain individuals. it was at one time computed that 124 members were nominated by 53 peers, whilst 91 others were chosen by 52 commoners. a large number of the members--a third of the whole house, it is said--were in receipt of pensions, or held offices of profit under the crown. of course there was no such thing as party government--in fact, parties did not exist, though individuals might sometimes vote against the wish of the government. the lord lieutenant, however, managed to retain a majority by what would now be called flagrant and wholesale bribery. peerages, sinecures and pensions were bestowed with a lavish hand; and every appointment, ecclesiastical or civil, was treated as a reward for political services. but history affords many instances of how assemblies constituted in what seems to be the most unsatisfactory way possible, have been remarkable for the ability and patriotism they have shown; and certainly this was the case with that unrepresentative collection of protestant landlords, dublin barristers, and paid officials, who composed the irish parliament. a "national" party arose (i shall presently explain what was the meaning attached to that word at the time) who strove to win for ireland the laws which in england had been enacted long before and which were regarded as the very foundations of british liberty. statutes were passed limiting the duration of parliament to eight years; establishing the _habeas corpus_; and making judges irremoveable. afterwards, most of the penal laws were repealed; and at the same time the disabilities of the protestant dissenters were abolished. but meanwhile foreign affairs were tending to bring about changes yet more sweeping. when england went to war with both france and spain, the condition of ireland was well-nigh desperate. the country was almost denuded of regular troops; steps had indeed been taken for the establishment of a militia, and arms had actually been purchased; but in the hopelessly insolvent condition of the irish exchequer, it was impossible to do anything further. and a french invasion might arrive at any moment. at this crisis the country gentlemen came forward. they formed their tenants and dependants into regiments of volunteers, of which they took command themselves, and strained their resources to the utmost in order to bear the expense of the undertaking. and the rank and file--farmers and labourers--seemed fired by the same enthusiasm. the movement spread rapidly over the country, but it possessed more vitality in ulster than elsewhere. it soon became evident that ulster volunteers may form a body not to be disregarded. the troubles of england, however, were not limited to the continent. the american war broke out. we, who view the question impartially through the long vista of years, can see that there was much to be said for the english claim. the mother country had been brought to the verge of bankruptcy by a long and exhausting war waged with france for the protection of the american colonies; surely it was only fair that those colonies, who had taken but a very small part in the war, should at least bear a fraction of the cost. but the cry of "no taxation without representation" was raised; the americans rebelled; and england was placed in the humiliating position of being defeated by her own colonists. during that period ireland remained thoroughly loyal; the efforts of franklin and his party to enlist ireland on their side were as complete a failure as those of the french emissaries had been shortly before. but it was inevitable that the success of the american revolution should have a strong effect on irish affairs. amongst the northern presbyterians there had always been a feeling somewhat akin to republicanism; and (as we have seen) many of their relations were fighting in washington's army. then in ireland there was something much worse than taxation without representation: the english parliament, in which ireland had no part, claimed to legislate for ireland and was actually at that moment keeping the country in a state of semi-starvation by imposing severe restrictions on commerce. irish politicians read the offers of conciliation made by the english government to the revolted colonies, in which not only was the power of taxation given up and freedom of internal legislation established, but all power of the parliament of great britain over america was renounced; and began to ask whether england could withhold from loyal irishmen the boons which she offered to rebellious americans. the claims were urged in parliament and at meetings of the volunteers and other public bodies; the english government for some time refused to grant any concession; but at length, fearing an irish revolution, gave way on every point. they granted, in fact, as an irish statesman expressed it, "everything short of separation." first (in spite of the opposition of the english manufacturing classes) all restrictions on trade were swept away; then, in 1782, the declaratory act of george i, by virtue of which the english parliament had claimed the right to legislate for ireland, was repealed, and with it went the right of the english house of lords to act as a court of final appeal for ireland; the restrictions imposed by poyning's act on the legislative powers of the irish parliament were abolished; and the irish executive was made practically dependent on the irish parliament by the mutiny act, which had previously been perpetual, being limited to two years. thus ireland became a nation in a sense she had never been before. the only tie to any power beyond sea was that the king of england was also king of ireland; ireland could legislate for itself, and enter into commercial treaties with foreign powers; but, on the other hand, it had to pay its own debts and provide its own army and navy. as grattan was not merely the most prominent politician of the period, but also the leader of the now triumphant "national" party, we may fairly take the views expressed by him as representative of those of the party that followed him. a study of his speeches and letters will show how utterly different were the ideas and aims of the national party of 1782 from those of the nationalists of to-day. in the first place, grattan was intensely loyal; that is to say, it never occurred to him that ireland could ever wish to be independent in the sense of not being subject to the king of england, or could seek to be united to any other power. secondly, he was intensely aristocratic. his idea was that government should and would always be in the hands of the propertied and educated classes; that parliament should consist of country gentlemen and professional men from the towns, elected on a narrow franchise. (it must be remembered that the country gentlemen had recently given evidence of their patriotic zeal by the inauguration of the volunteer movement; and the ability and eloquence of the irish bar at that period is proverbial). thirdly, he regarded protestant ascendancy as a fundamental necessity. it is true that other politicians at the time saw that they were faced with a serious difficulty: the very principles to which they had appealed and by virtue of which they had obtained their legislative independence made it illogical that three-fourths of the community should be unrepresented; whereas if votes were given to the roman catholic majority it was inevitable that they would soon become eligible for seats in the legislature; and if so, the protestant minority must be swamped, and the country ruled by a very different class and according to very different ideas from those which prevailed in the parliament of which grattan was a member. and would a roman catholic parliament and nation care to remain subject to a king of england whose title depended on his being a protestant? grattan, however, swept all such considerations aside with an easy carelessness. he believed that under the influences of perfect toleration large numbers of roman catholics would conform; and the remainder, quite satisfied with their position, would never dream of attacking the church or any other existing institution. we may smile at his strange delusions as to the future; but he was probably not more incorrect than many people are to-day in their conjectures as to what the world will be like a hundred years hence; and if we try to place ourselves in grattan's position, there is something to be said for his conjectures. at that time the influence of the church of rome was at its lowest; spain had almost ceased to exist as a european power; and in france the state of religious thought was very different from what it had been in the days of louis xiv. irish roman catholic gentlemen who sent their sons to be educated in france found that they came back voltaireans; even the young men who went to study for the priesthood in french seminaries became embued with liberalism to an extent that would make a modern ultramontane shudder. then in ireland all local power was in the hands of the landlords; the roman catholic bishops possessed hardly any political influence. it would have required more keenness than a mere enthusiast like grattan possessed to foresee that the time would come when all this would be absolutely reversed. what was there in the eighteenth century to lead him to surmise that in the twentieth the landlords would be ruined and gone, and that local government would have become vested in district councils in which protestants would have no power, but over which the authority of the bishops would be absolute? so grattan and his party entered on the new conditions of political life with airy optimism. but there were, both in england and france, shrewder and more far-seeing men than he, who realised from the first that the new state of affairs could not possibly be a lasting one, but must lead either to union or complete separation. of course so long as all parties happened to be of the same mind, no difficulties would arise; but it was merely a question of time when some cause of friction would occur, and then the inherent weakness of the arrangement would be apparent. a moment's thought will show that for ireland to be subject to the english king but independent of the english parliament was a physical impossibility. the king would act on the advice of his ministers who were responsible to the english parliament; either the irish parliament must obey, or a deadlock would ensue. then, suppose that england were to become engaged in a war of which the people of ireland disapproved, ireland might not only refuse to make any voluntary grant in aid, but even declare her ports neutral, withdraw her troops, and pass a vote of censure on the english government. again, with regard to trade; ireland might adopt a policy of protection against england, and enter into a treaty for free trade with some foreign country which might be at the moment england's deadliest rival. the confusion that might result would be endless. considerations such as these presented themselves at once to the master-mind of pitt. he pointed out that as england had relinquished her right to limit irish trade for the benefit of english, she was in fairness relieved from the corresponding duty of protecting ireland against foreign foes; the two countries should therefore both contribute to their joint defence in proportion to their means. he proposed that regular treaties should be drawn up between the two countries, by which ireland should contribute a certain sum to the navy, free trade between ireland and england should be established, and regulations made whereby the duties payable on foreign goods should be assimilated. by such measures as these he hoped to make things run smoothly for a time at least; but when his projects were rejected by the irish parliament, he saw more clearly than ever that sooner or later the gordian knot would have to be cut, and that the only way of cutting it would be the union. chapter vii. the independent parliament. the regency question. the commencement of the rebellion. that ireland increased in prosperity rapidly towards the end of the eighteenth century, there is no doubt. politicians will say that this prosperity came from the increased powers gained by the parliament in 1782; economists will reply that that had little if anything to say to it; far more important causes being the abolition of trade restrictions and the relaxation of the penal laws, which encouraged people to employ their money in remunerative works at home instead of having to send it abroad. it may sound somewhat hibernian to mention the rise in rents, as another cause of prosperity; yet anyone who knows ireland will admit that it is not impossible; and it was certainly put forward gravely by writers of the period who were by no means biassed towards the landlord interest. thus mckenna, writing in 1793, says:- "in several parts of ireland the rents have been tripled within 40 years. this was not so much the effect as the cause of national prosperity; ... before the above-mentioned period, when rent was very low and other taxes little known, half the year was lavished in carousing. but as soon as labour became compulsory, fortunes have been raised both by the tenantry and landlords, and civilization has advanced materially." there was also another cause of prosperity, which modern economists cannot look on with much favour. it was the policy of the irish government to grant enormous bounties for the development of various industries, especially the growth of corn. this no doubt gave much employment, promoted the breaking up of grass lands, the subdivision of farms and the erection of mills; and so long as the price of corn was maintained, brought much prosperity to the country, and thus was indirectly one cause of the enormous increase of population, which rose from about 2,370,000 in 1750, to about 4,500,000 in 1797. but when, during the nineteenth century, prices fell, the whole structure, built on a fictitious foundation, came down with a crash. not long after the irish parliament had acquired its independence, a controversy arose which, although it had no immediate result, yet was of vast importance on account of the principle involved. the king became insane. it was necessary that there should be a regent, and it was obvious that the prince of wales was the man for the post. but the british constitution contained no provision for making the appointment. after much deliberation, the english parliament decided to pass an act appointing the prince regent and defining his powers, the royal assent being given by commission. the two houses of the irish parliament, however, without waiting for the prince to be invested with the regency in england, voted an address to him asking him to undertake the duties of regent, without naming any limitations. as the king recovered almost immediately, the whole matter ended in nothing; but thoughtful men realized what was involved in the position which the irish parliament had taken up. grattan's resolution was to the effect that in addressing the prince to take upon himself the government of the country the lords and commons of ireland were exercising an undoubted right and discharging an indispensable duty to which in the emergency they alone were competent. by the act of henry viii the king of england was _ipso facto_ king of ireland. an irish act of william and mary declared that the crown of ireland and all the powers and prerogatives belonging to it should be for ever annexed to and dependent on the crown of england. and the act of 1782 made the great seal of great britain necessary to the summoning of an irish parliament and the passing of irish acts. now did the words "king" and "crown" merely refer to the individual who had the right to wear a certain diadem, or did they include the chief executive magistrate, whoever that might be--king, queen or regent? it was ably contended by lord clare that the latter was the only possible view; for the regent of great britain must hold the great seal; and so he alone could summon an irish parliament; therefore the irish parliament in choosing their regent had endangered the only bond which existed between england and ireland--the necessary and perpetual identity of the executive. if the irish parliament appointed one person regent and the english parliament another, separation or war might be the result; and even as it was, the appointment of the prince with limited powers in england and unlimited in ireland, must lead to confusion. but more than that; suppose that the house of brunswick were to die out, and another act of settlement were to become necessary, might not the irish parliament choose a different sovereign from the one chosen by england? constitutional lawyers recollected that such a difficulty nearly arose between scotland and england, but was settled by the act of union; and that it was the recognition of lambert simnel by the irish parliament that was the immediate cause of the passing of poyning's act; and saw what the revived powers of the irish parliament might lead to. although the parliament had now become independent, there was still nothing like a responsible ministry as we now understand it, and the government managed to maintain its control, partly by the peculiar composition of the parliament (to which i have already referred), and partly by the disposal of favours. and it cannot be denied that the parliament passed much useful legislation. two questions, however, were now coming forward on which the whole political condition of the country depended, and which were closely entwined with one another. the first was the reform of the legislature, so as to make the house of commons a really representative body; the second was the final abolition of the penal laws. as to reform, the parliament was naturally slow (did any political assembly in the world ever divest itself of its own privileges without pressure from without?); but as to the abolition of the penal laws there was a cordiality which is remarkable, and which is seldom referred to by the nationalist writers of the present day when they discourse about the penal laws. with regard to social matters--such as admission to corporations, taking degrees at the university, and holding medical professorships,--there was hardly any hesitation; the political question, however, was more difficult. in both england and ireland at that time a forty-shilling freehold gave a vote. that was a matter of slight importance in england, as the number of small freeholders was limited, land being usually let for a term of years. in ireland, however, the ordinary arrangement was for peasants to hold their scraps of land for life; and land having recently increased in value enormously, a large proportion of these were of the value of forty shillings. hence, the whole constituency would be altered; thousands of new electors, all of them poor and illiterate, would be added in many constituencies; and the representation of the country would at once pass into roman catholic hands. to fix a higher qualification for roman catholics than for protestants would be not to abolish but to perpetuate the penal laws; to deprive the existing voters of the franchise was out of the question; hence the franchise was granted but not without considerable hesitation on the part of the more thoughtful members. on the other hand it was urged with great force that to give these privileges to the uneducated mass but to continue the disabilities of the roman catholic gentry by not allowing them to sit in parliament was absurd. the proposal to abolish the religious test in the case of members of parliament was, however, defeated. looking back, with the light of later history to aid us, it is interesting to see how much more correct were lord clare's predictions of the future than grattan's. grattan (as i have already explained), taking his ideas from his lay friends among the cultured classes, and seeing the decline of the papal influence on the continent, considered that anyone who regarded popery as a political influence of the future totally misunderstood the principles which then governed human action; for controverted points of religion (such as belief in the real presence) had ceased to be a principle of human action. he maintained that the cause of the pope, as a political force, was as dead as that of the stuarts; that priestcraft was a superannuated folly; and that in ireland a new political religion had arisen, superseding all influence of priest and parson, and burying for ever theological discord in the love of civil and religious liberty. clare, who was not only a shrewder observer but a much more deeply read man, realized that in order to find out what would guide the roman catholic church in the future one must look not at the passing opinions of laymen but at the constitution of the church; he foresaw that if the artificial supports which maintained the protestant ascendancy were removed, the mere force of numbers would bring about a roman catholic ascendancy; and in enumerating the results of that he even said that the time would come when the church would decide on all questions as to marriage. in order to show how far lord clare's expectations have been verified, i will quote, not the words of an orange speaker or writer, but of an eminent roman catholic, the rev. j.t. mcnicholas, o.p., in his recently published book on "the new marriage legislation" which, being issued with an _imprimatur_, will be received by all parties as a work of authority. he says:- "many protestants may think the church presumptuous in decreeing their marriages valid or invalid according as they have or have not complied with certain conditions. as the church cannot err, neither can she be presumptuous. she alone is judge of the extent of her power. anyone validly baptised, either in the church or among heretics, becomes thereby a subject of the roman catholic church." but whilst politicians were amusing themselves with fervid but useless oratory in parliament, stirring events were taking place elsewhere. to trace in these pages even a bare outline of the main incidents of those terrible years is impossible; and yet without doing so it is not easy to obtain a correct view of the tangled skein of irish politics at the time. in studying any history of the period, we cannot but be struck by observing on the one hand how completely in some respects circumstances and ideas have changed since then; it is hard to realize that ulster was for a time the scene of wild disorder--assassination, arson, burglary and every form of outrage--brought about mainly by a society which claimed to be, and to a certain extent was, formed by a union of the presbyterian and roman catholic parties--whilst the south and west remained fairly orderly and loyal. and yet on the other hand we find many of the phenomena which have been characteristic of later periods of irish political agitation, already flourishing. boycotting existed in fact, though the name was not yet invented; also nocturnal raids for arms, the sacking of lonely farmhouses, the intimidation of witnesses and the mutilation of cattle. again, we see all through the history of irish secret societies that their organization has been so splendid that the ordinary law has been powerless against them; for witnesses will not give evidence and juries will not convict if they know that to do so will mean certain ruin and probable death; and yet those same societies have always possessed one element of weakness: however terrible their oaths of secrecy have been, the government have never had the slightest difficulty in finding out, through their confidential agents, everything that has taken place at their meetings, and what their projects are. as early as 1785 there had been two societies carrying on something like civil war on a small scale in the north. how they originated, is a matter of dispute; but at any rate before they had long been in existence, the religious element became supreme--as it does sooner or later in every irish movement; whatever temporary alliances may be formed for other reasons, religion always ultimately becomes the line of cleavage. in this case, the "peep of day boys" were protestants, the "defenders" roman catholic. some of the outrages committed by the defenders were too horrible to put in print; many roman catholic families fled the country on account of the treatment which they received from the peep of day boys, and took refuge among their co-religionists in the south. but now a greater crisis was at hand. the terrible upheaval of the french revolution was shaking european society to its foundation. the teaching of paine and voltaire had borne fruit; the wildest socialism was being preached in every land. ulster had shown sympathy with republican ideas at the time of the american war of independence; and now a large number of the presbyterians of belfast eagerly accepted the doctrines of jacobinism. nothing can sound more charmingly innocent than the objects of the united irish society as put forward publicly in 1791; the members solemnly and religiously pledged themselves to use all their influence to obtain an impartial and adequate representation of the irish nation in parliament; and as a means to this end to endeavour to secure the co-operation of irishmen of all religious persuasions. some writers have tried to make out that if the relief act of 1793 had been extended in 1795 by another act enabling roman catholics to become members of parliament; and if a reform bill had been passed making the house of commons really representative, the society would never have been anything but a perfectly legal and harmless association. of course it is always possible to suggest what might have been; but in this case it is far more probable that if parliament had been so reformed as to be a fair reflex of the opinion of the country, it would immediately have passed a resolution declaring ireland a republic and forming an alliance with france; for whatever objects were stated in public, the real guiding spirits of the united irish society from the beginning (as of other societies of a later date with equally innocent names) were ardent republicans, who joined the society in order to further those views; it is absurd to suggest that men who were actually in correspondence with the leaders of the directory and were trying to bring about an invasion from france in order to aid them in establishing a republic on jacobin lines would have been deterred by the passing of a bill making it lawful for roman catholics to sit in parliament. nor again is it reasonable to contend that earnest-minded roman catholics would, in consequence of the failure of such a bill to become law, have rebelled against a government under which they were able to exercise their religion in peace and which was at that moment founding and endowing a college for the training of candidates for the priesthood, in favour of one which had confiscated the seminaries and was sending the priests to the guillotine. the fact seems to have been that the society was formed by presbyterians, for political reasons; they tried to get the roman catholics to join them, but the lower class roman catholics cared very little about seats in parliament; so the founders of the society cleverly added abolition of tithes and taxes, and reduction of rents, to their original programme; this drew in numbers of roman catholics, whose principles were really the very antithesis of jacobinism. it is a fair instance of the confusion which has always reigned throughout irish politics, that after the relief act of 1793 had been passed, the catholic committee expressed their jubilation by voting â£2,000 for a statue to the king, and presenting a gold medal to their secretary, wolfe tone, who was at that moment scheming to set up a jacobin republic. this celebrated man, wolfe tone, was not unlike many others who have posed as irish patriots. hating the very name of england, he schemed to get one appointment after another from the english government--at one time seeking to be put in command of a filibustering expedition to raid the towns of south america, at another time trying for a post in india; hating the pope and the priests, he acted as secretary to the catholic committee; then hating grattan and the irish parliament and everything to say to it, he showed his patriotism by devoting his energies to trying to persuade the french republican government to invade ireland. on the 21st of september, 1795, an incident occurred which, though apparently trivial at the time, was destined to be of great historical importance. ulster had now for some time been in a state bordering on anarchy; not only were the secret societies constantly at war, but marauding bands, pretending to belong to one or other of the societies, were ravishing the country. something like a pitched battle was fought between the protestants and the defenders, in which the defenders, although they were the stronger party and made the attack, were utterly routed. in the evening, the victors agreed to form themselves into a society which should bear the name of william of orange. there had previously been some societies called by that name; but this was the foundation of the orange society of the present day. the oath which at first was taken by every member of the society was to defend the king and his heirs so long as he or they support the protestant ascendancy. (this conditional form of oath of allegiance has long since been abolished.) it was industriously circulated by the united irishmen that the actual words of the oath were: "i will be true to the king and government and i will exterminate as far as i am able the catholics of ireland." there is no evidence, however, that any words of the kind ever formed part of an oath prescribed by the orange society; and those who make the statement now must be aware that they are repeating a calumny. after this time, the quarrel gradually tended more and more to become a religious one; the peep of day boys becoming merged in the orange society, and the protestants slowly withdrawing from the united irish society; on the other hand, the defenders ultimately coalesced with the united irishmen and thus, by an illogical combination of inconsistent forces, formed the party which brought about the terrible rebellion. the close of the year 1796 was one of the most critical moments in the history of england. on the continent the power of republican france under the genius of napoleon and his generals was sweeping all before it. england was in a state of bankruptcy, and almost as completely isolated as she had been in the time of elizabeth. wolfe tone and his irish plotters saw their opportunity as clearly as their predecessors had in the times of edward bruce and philip ii. they laid a statement of the condition of ireland before the french government which, though as full of exaggerations as most things in irish history, was sufficiently based on fact to lead the french government to believe that if a french force were landed in ireland, the irishmen in the british army and navy would mutiny, the yeomen would join the french, and the whole of the north of ireland would rise in rebellion. accordingly a french fleet of forty-three sail, carrying about 15,000 troops, sailed from brest for bantry bay. no human power could have prevented their landing; and had they done so, they could have marched to cork and seized the town without any difficulty; the united irishmen would have risen, and the whole country might have been theirs. but the same power which saved england from the armada of catholic spain 200 years before now shielded her from the invasion of republican france. storms and fogs wrought havoc throughout the french fleet. in less than a month from the time of their starting, wolfe tone and the shattered remains of the invading force were back at brest, without having succeeded in landing a single man on the irish shore. had this projected invasion taken place fifty years before, amongst the french troops would have been the irish brigade, who were always yearning for the opportunity of making an attack on their native land. but half a century had caused strange changes; the irish brigade had fallen with the collapse of the french monarchy; and some of the few survivors were now actually serving under king george iii. it was a remarkable fact that no one in the neighbourhood of bantry showed the slightest sympathy with the frenchmen. the few resident gentry, the moment the danger was evident, called together the yeomanry and organized their tenantry to oppose the foe--though the utmost they could have done would have been to delay the progress of the invaders for a little at the cost of their own lives; and the peasantry did all in their power to support their efforts. if it is possible to analyse the state of political feeling at this time, we may say that first there was a very limited number of thoughtful men who saw that after the acts of 1782 and 1793 either separation or union was inevitable, and who consequently opposed all idea of parliamentary reform, because they thought it would tend to separation and make union more difficult. a second party (a leading member of which was charlemont) approved of the existing state of things, and believed that it could be continued; a third (of which grattan was one) fondly imagined that all would go smoothly if only a catholic relief bill and a reform bill were carried, and so directed all their efforts towards those objects; and a fourth believed that no reform would be granted without pressure, and so were ready even to work up a rebellion in order to obtain it; but that was a very small party at best, and was soon carried away by the whirlwind of those revolutionists who cared nothing about the parliament then sitting in dublin, or about any other possible parliament which might own allegiance to the king of england, for their real aim was to sever ireland from england altogether and establish a separate republic. as wolfe tone wrote: "to break the connection with england and to assert the independence of my country were my objects." it is this party that is represented by the nationalists of to-day, except that when they look for foreign aid, their hopes lie in the direction of germany rather than france. i know that this remark may call forth a storm of denials from those who judge by the speeches which nationalist leaders have made in england when trying to win the radical vote, or in the colonies when aiming at getting money from people who had not studied the question. but i judge not by speeches such as those, but by statements continually put forward by political writers and orators when they have cast off the mask and are addressing their sympathizers in ireland and america:- "the nationalists of ireland stand for the complete independence of ireland, and they stand for nothing else. in the english empire they have no part or lot, and they wish to have no part or lot. we stand for the irish nation, free and independent and outside the english empire."--(_irish freedom_.) "our aim is the establishment of an irish republic, for the simple and sole reason that no other ending of our quarrel with england could be either adequate or final. this is the one central and vital point of agreement among all who are worthy of the name of irish nationalists--that ireland is a separate nation--separate in thought, mind, in ideals and outlooks. come what may, we work for ireland as separate from england as germany is separate."--(ib.) "year by year the pilgrimage to the grave of theobald wolfe tone grows more significant of the rising tide of militant and uncompromising nationalism, more significant of the fact that young ireland has turned away from the false thing that has passed for patriotism, and has begun to reverence only the men and the things and the memories that stand for ireland an independent nation. paying tribute to the memory of men like tone, lifting up the language of ireland from the mire, linking up the present with the old days of true patriotic endeavour--these are the doings that will eventually bring our land from the mazes of humbug into the clear dawn that heralds nationhood."--(_the leinster leader_.) "the object aimed at by the advanced national party is the recovery of ireland's national independence and the severance of all political connection with england."--(_j. devoy_.) "in the better days that are approaching, the soil of ireland will be populated by a race of irishmen free and happy and thriving, owning no master under the almighty, and owning no flag but the green flag of an independent irish nation."--(_w. o'brien, m.p._) "in supporting home rule for ireland we abandon no principle of irish nationhood as laid down by the fathers in the irish movement for independence, from wolfe tone and emmett to john mitchell, and from mitchell to kickham and parnell."--(_j. redmond_.) "our ultimate goal is the national independence of our country."--(ib.) "in its essence the national movement is the same to-day as it was in the days of hugh o'niell, owen roe, emmett, or of wolfe tone."--(ib.) "we are as much rebels to england's rule as our forefathers were in '98."--(ib.) "i remember when parnell was asked if he would accept as a final settlement the home rule compromise proposed by mr. gladstone. i remember his answer. he said 'i believe in the policy of taking from england anything we can wring from her which will strengthen our hands to go for more.'"--(ib.) "when we have undermined english misgovernment we have paved the way for ireland to take her place among the nations of the earth. and let us not forget that that is the ultimate goal at which all we irishmen aim. none of us, whether we be in america or in ireland, or wherever we may be, will be satisfied until we have destroyed the last link which keeps ireland bound to england." (_c.s. parnell_.) "i know there are many people in america who think that the means which we are operating to-day for the good of ireland are not sufficiently sharp and decisive ... i would suggest to those who have constituted themselves the censors of our movement, would it not be well to give our movement a fair chance--to allow us to have an irish parliament that will give our people all authority over the police and the judiciary and all government in the nation, and when equipped with comparative freedom, then would be the time for those who think we should destroy the last link that binds us to england to operate by whatever means they think best to achieve that great and desirable end? i am quite sure that i speak for the united irish league in the matter." (_j. devlin, m.p._) "what was it, after all, that wolfe tone, and fitzgerald, and mitchell, and smith o'brien, and o'meagher condon, and allen, larkins and o'brien, and all the other gallant irishmen strove for, who from generation to generation were inspired with the spirit of revolution? ... in what respect does our policy differ from the purpose of these men?"--(ib.) "in my opinion, and in the opinion of the vast majority of the advanced nationalists of ireland, the repeal of the union is not the full nationalist demand; separation is the full nationalist demand; that is the right on which we stand, the nationalist right of ireland."--(_j. dillon, m.p._) "i should never have dedicated my life to this great struggle if i did not see at the end the crowning and the consummation of our work--a free and independent nation."--(ib.) "we aim at nothing else than establishing a new nation upon the map of europe."--(_dr. douglas hyde_.) "if there is any man in this audience who says to us as representing that parliamentary movement--'i don't believe in your parliamentary ideas, i don't accept home rule, i go beyond it; i believe in an independent irish nation'--if any man says this, i say that we don't disbelieve in it. these are our tactics--if you are to take a fortress, first take the outer works."--(_t.m. kettle, m.p._) "we want to carry on the work that the fenians tried to do to a triumphal issue. the fenians stood for an irish republic, and so do we. no policy which left england in control of the irish nation could be regarded as final. there is only one way, and that is to get the absolute and complete independence of ireland, free from english rule and english domination. the fenians did not go to the prime minister for concessions. no: they started into arms, and if people of the present day believed in that they should arm themselves to get the independence of ireland."--(_b. hobson_, speaking at a demonstration at cork, on the anniversary of the "martyrdom" of allen, larkins, and o'brien.) "should the germans land in ireland, they will be received with willing hearts and strong hands, and should england be their destination, it is to be hoped that they will find time to disembark 100,000 rifles and a few score of ammunition for the same in this country, and twelve months later this ireland will be as free as the lord god meant it should be."--(_major mcbride_, who organized an irish force to aid the boers against england, and has consequently been appointed to a municipal inspectorship by the corporation of dublin.) "i appeal to you most earnestly to do all in your power to prevent your countrymen from entering the degraded british army. if you prevent 500 men from enlisting you do nearly as good work, if not quite so exciting, as if you shot 500 men on the field of battle, and also you are making the path smoother for the approaching conquest of england by germany."--(ib.) chapter viii. the rebellion. early in 1797 it became evident to all but the most shortsighted of politicians that a rebellion, of which none could foretell the result, was imminent. as one shrewd observer wrote: "i look upon it that ireland must soon stand in respect to england in one of three situations--united with her, the legislatures being joined; separated from her, and forming a republic; or as a half-subdued province." the supporters of law and order were naturally divided in opinion as to the course to pursue. some were in favour of a policy of conciliation. grattan induced his friend ponsonby to bring forward another reform bill, abolishing the religious test and the separate representation of boroughs, and dividing each county into districts; and when he saw that the motion could not be carried, delivered an impassioned speech, declaring that he would never again attend the house of commons, and solemnly walked out. it was a piece of acting, too transparent to deceive anybody. grattan was a disappointed man--disappointed not so much because his proposals were not adopted, as because his own followers were slipping away from him. they had begun to realize that he was an orator but not a statesman; his ideas were wild, fanciful dreams. whilst vehemently upholding the english connection he was playing into the hands of england's opponents by reminding them that england's difficulty was ireland's opportunity; whilst hating the very idea of a union, he was making the existing system impossible by preventing the passing of a commercial treaty; whilst passionately supporting protestant ascendancy, he was advocating a measure which at that moment would have brought about the establishment either of a roman catholic ascendancy or more probably of a jacobin republic. he saw his supporters dwindling slowly from seventy-seven in 1783 to thirty in 1797. men were now alive to the fact that the country was in an alarming condition. they saw what had happened in france but a few years before, and how little louis xvi had gained by trying to pose as a liberator and a semi-republican; and, knowing that the rebellion with which they were faced was an avowed imitation of the french revolution, they were coming to the opinion that stern measures were necessary. in almost every county of three provinces conspirators were at work, trying to bring down on their country a foreign invasion, and stirring up the people to rebellion and crime by appealing to their agrarian grievances and cupidity, their religious passion, and the discontent produced by great poverty. for a second time it appeared that wolfe tone would succeed in obtaining aid from abroad--this time from spain and holland; and the rebel party in ireland were now so well organized, and jacobin feeling was so widespread, that had he done so, it was almost inevitable that ireland would have been lost to england. but once more the unexpected was destined to occur. early in february jervis shattered the power of the spanish fleet off cape st. vincent; and in the summer, just when the dutch ships, with 14,000 troops on board, were ready to start, and resistance on the part of england seemed hopeless, a violent gale arose and for weeks the whole fleet remained imprisoned in the river; and when at length they did succeed in making a start, the english were ready to meet them within a few miles of the coast of holland; after a tremendous battle the broken remnant of the dutch fleet returned to the harbour defeated. the rage and mortification of wolfe tone at his second failure knew no bounds. in the north of ireland, however, the rebellion had practically begun. the magistrates were powerless; the classes who had supported the gentry during the volunteer movement were amongst the disaffected. the country was in a state of anarchy; murders and outrages of every sort were incessant. that the measures which the government and their supporters took to crush the rising rebellion were illegal and barbarous, cannot be denied; that they in fact by their violence hurried on the rebellion is not improbable. but it is still more probable that they were the means of preventing its success; just as, had the government of louis xvi shown more vigour at the outset of the revolution, the reign of terror would probably never have taken place. through evidence obtained by torture, the government got possession of vast stores of arms which the rebels had prepared; by twice seizing the directors of the movement they deprived it of its central organization; and if they were the cause of the rebellion breaking out sooner than had been intended, the result was that they were able to quell it in one district before it had time to come to a head in another. war at best is very terrible; and there were two circumstances which made the war in ireland more terrible than others. it was a religious war, and it was a civil war. it often happens that when religion is turned to hatred it stirs up the worst and most diabolical passions of the human breast; and the evil feelings brought on by a civil war necessarily last longer than animosity against a foreign foe. the horrors of 1798 make one shudder to think what must happen in ireland if civil war ever breaks out there again. from ulster the united ireland movement spread during 1797 to leinster, as far south as wexford, and began to assume a more decidedly religious character. as a contemporary historian wrote:- "so inveterately rooted are the prejudices of religious antipathy in the minds of the lower classes of irish romanists, that in any civil war, however originating from causes unconnected with religion, not all the efforts of their gentry, or even priests, to the contrary could (if i am not exceedingly mistaken) restrain them from converting it into a religious quarrel." (had he lived a century later, he might have used the same words.) but though this was generally the case, there were complications as embarrassing as they usually are in irish affairs. the yeomanry were mainly protestants, but the majority of the militia were roman catholics, and those commanded by lord fingall entirely so. there was much disaffection in both branches of the service; besides which, officers and men alike lacked the discipline and experience of regular troops; but as the supply of soldiers from england was wholly inadequate for the situation, the government were obliged to rely on any forces they could obtain. as the rebellion drifted into being a roman catholic movement, the orangemen became intensely loyal, and were eager to fight on the king's side, but the government dreaded lest by employing them they might offend the militia. by 1798, when the rebellion in the south was at its height, the north had become comparatively calm. the severities of the previous year had had some salutary effect; the staunch protestants had no desire to aid in what had become a roman catholic rebellion; and the republican party had seen that the universal fraternity of the jacobin government of france had turned into a military despotism which was engaged in crushing the neighbouring republics and was almost at war with the sister republic of america. but whilst ulster was growing calmer, the condition of the south was becoming daily more appalling. on the 23rd of may the rebellion actually broke out in the counties of dublin, kildare and meath; and many skirmishes took place in which the losses on the king's side were comparatively few but those of the rebels enormous, in consequence of their ignorance of the use of firearms. the better-trained forces soon got to know that an irish peasant when armed with a pike was a deadly foe; but when armed with a musket was almost harmless. this part of the campaign will always be specially memorable for the attack made on the little town of prosperous, in the county of kildare. it was cleverly made in the early morning; the garrison, taken unawares, were nearly all killed; the commander, captain swayne, being amongst the victims. it was soon afterwards found out that the leader of the rebels was dr. esmonde, a gentleman of good family, and first lieutenant in a regiment of yeomanry stationed a few miles off, who had been dining with captain swayne the previous evening. he appeared in his regiment the next day, but was identified by a yeoman who had seen him at prosperous; arrested, tried, and hanged as a traitor. a nationalist has recently referred to him as a martyr to the cause of irish liberty. by the month of june wexford had become the centre of the rebellion. in that county it had assumed an essentially religious character (there being, however, a few exceptions on each side), and in no other part of ireland was the war so terrible either on account of its magnitude or barbarity. the passions of the ignorant peasantry were inflamed by all protestants being spoken of as orangemen and a report being diligently circulated that all orangemen had sworn to destroy the catholic faith--exactly the same course that was followed a hundred years later. roman catholic priests, wearing their sacred vestments and carrying crucifixes, led the rebel forces; and the ignorant peasants, believing them to be endowed with miraculous powers, followed them with the blind adherence that only fanaticism can inspire. and yet--so strangely contradictory is everything in ireland--there is clear evidence that amongst those priestly agitators many were at heart deists, who were making use of religion in the hope of furthering jacobinism. many protestants saved their lives by apostatizing, or by allowing their children to be rebaptized; it is but fair to add, however, that several of the older priests, shocked at the conduct of the rebels, concealed heretics in their houses and churches; and that all through the war many priests, in spite of the difficulty of their position, remained loyal and did what they could to aid the king's troops. the rebels for some weeks held command of the town and county of wexford, their chief camp being at a place called vinegar hill. the country around was searched and plundered; the protestants who were captured were brought into the rebel camp, and there deliberately butchered in cold blood. how many perished it is impossible to say; the number must have been at the least 400. i would willingly pass over this dreadful episode. i have no more desire to dwell on it than i have on cromwell's conduct at drogheda. i regard it merely as one of those terrible incidents which alas have taken place in almost every campaign. it was probably equalled in character if not in magnitude by several outrages committed by the other side; and certainly parallels could be found in the french invasion of algeria fifty years later and in many other wars of the nineteenth century. when men have been fired with the diabolical passions that war arouses, and have grown accustomed to the ghastly sights on battlefields, they cease to be reasoning beings; they become fiends. but unfortunately it is necessary to explain what really occurred, as it is to vinegar hill and its terrible associations that the nationalists of to-day refer with triumph. songs in praise of the massacre are sung at nationalist gatherings; and w. redmond, speaking at enniscorthy (close to the scene of the massacre) on the 110th anniversary of the outrages said: "the heroic action of the men who fought and died around vinegar hill was the heritage of all ireland. whatever measure of comparative freedom we now enjoy was entirely attributable to the insurrection of '98. it was the pikemen of '98 who made the world and england understand that irishmen knew how to fight for their rights, and it is to the knowledge of that fact by england that we may look for the real driving force of any effort we may make for our liberty. the irish people are in no position to resort to arms, but the spirit is there, and by demonstrations like this we show our rulers that it is essential for any real and lasting peace that the aspirations of the patriots of '98 must be satisfied, and that a full measure of national freedom must be granted to ireland." (it will be observed that in the opinion of this orator--a prominent nationalist member of parliament, who was selected to go round the colonies collecting money for the home rule cause--the possession of an independent parliament, of everything in fact short of separation, goes for nothing; it is only those who rebelled against that parliament who are to be regarded as models for modern nationalists to follow. it is interesting also to note the different views which have been put forward by irish politicians with regard to the rebellion. in 1843 the leaders of the repeal association stated in one of their manifestoes, as an argument in favour of repeal, that england had resorted to the diabolical expedient of fomenting a rebellion in order to distract the country and give excuse for military violence and so bring about a union. but the nationalists of to-day have so completely identified themselves with the rebels of 1798 that within the last few years splendid monuments have been erected in all the towns of wexford and the adjoining counties; some of these are bronze figures of patriots brandishing pikes, others are representations of the priestly leaders of the rebel forces. these monuments have been unveiled with great ceremony, impassioned speeches being made on the occasion by leading orators, both clerical and lay). in order to realize the terrible position in which the loyalists were placed, we must recollect that whilst the wexford rebels were triumphant in that county, and the movement seemed to be spreading into kilkenny and carlow, there was a fresh outbreak in the north; it appeared probable that dublin might rise at any moment; the french fleet was hourly expected, and the long looked-for aid from england was still delayed. but the irish loyalist minority showed the same dogged determination that they had done in the time of james ii, and that they will show again in the future. the numbers engaged in the different battles and skirmishes have been variously estimated; it seems that at the battle of arklow the loyalists did not exceed 1,600, of whom nearly all were militia and yeomanry, with a few artillery; whilst the rebels, commanded by father michael murphy, amounted to at least 20,000. yet after a terrible afternoon's fighting the rebels, disheartened by the fall of their leader (whom they had believed to be invulnerable) retired, leaving more than 1,000 dead on the field. soon, however, the reinforcements from england began to arrive; and the french invasion, on which the rebels were building their hopes, was still delayed. by july, although fighting was still going on in the wicklow mountains and some other parts of the country, the worst of the rebellion in wexford was crushed, and an act of amnesty was carried through parliament. it is worthy of note that the trials of the rebels which took place in dublin were conducted with a fairness and a respect for the forms of law which are probably unparalleled in the history of other countries at moments of such terrible excitement; we can contrast them for instance with the steps that were taken in putting down the outbreak of the commune in paris in 1871. it is easy now to argue that, as the force of the rebellion was being broken, it would have been more humane to have allowed those who had plotted and directed it to go unpunished. but as lecky has pointed out, "it was scarcely possible to exaggerate the evil they had produced, and they were immeasurably more guilty than the majority of those who had already perished. "they had thrown back, probably for generations, the civilization of their country. they had been year by year engaged in sowing the seed which had ripened into the harvest of blood. they had done all in their power to bring down upon ireland the two greatest curses that can afflict a nation--the curse of civil war, and the curse of foreign invasion; and although at the outset of their movement they had hoped to unite irishmen of all creeds, they had ended by lashing the catholics into frenzy by deliberate and skilful falsehood. the assertion that the orangemen had sworn to exterminate the catholics was nowhere more prominent than in the newspaper which was the recognised organ of the united irish leaders. the men who had spread this calumny through an ignorant and excitable catholic population, were assuredly not less truly murderers than those who had fired the barn at scullabogue or piked the protestants on wexford bridge." a strong party, however, led by lord clare were in favour of clemency wherever possible; and there seemed good reason for hoping that the rebellion would slowly die out. cooke, the under secretary, wrote on the 9th of august: "the country is by no means settled nor secure should the french land, but i think secure if they do not." suddenly, however, the alarming news came that the french were actually in ireland. wolfe tone and his fellow-plotters, undaunted by their previous failures, had continued ceaseless in their efforts to induce napoleon to make an indirect attack on england by invading ireland; and if they had succeeded in persuading the french government to send an expedition two months earlier when the rebellion was at its height and the english reinforcements had not arrived, ireland must have been lost. once again, however, fortune favoured the english cause. the first instalment of the french fleet, carrying 1,000 soldiers, did not start until the 6th of august, and only arrived on the 22nd. they landed at killala, in mayo, and were not a little surprised at the state of things existing there. they had expected to find a universal feeling of republicanism; but instead of this, whilst the protestants refused to join them, the roman catholic peasantry received them with delight, and declared their readiness to take arms for france and the blessed virgin. "god help these simpletons," said one of the officers, "if they knew how little we care about the pope or his religion, they would not be so hot in expecting help from us!" arriving at the wrong time and the wrong place, the expedition was foredoomed to failure. the french were brave men and trained soldiers; but they found their irish allies perfectly useless. they succeeded in capturing castlebar, and routing a force of militia; but their campaign was brief; on the 8th of september the whole force surrendered. the connaught rebellion was speedily and severely put down. the second instalment of the french invasion consisted of one ship. they landed on the island of arran on the 16th of september; but after spending eight hours on shore, re-embarked and sailed away to norway. the third instalment was, however, more serious. it consisted of a ship of the line, eight frigates and a schooner, having on board an army of about 3,000 men. they arrived at lough swilly early in october, where they were met by a more powerful english fleet, and nearly all were destroyed or captured. amongst the prisoners taken was wolfe tone; who soon afterwards in order to avoid a felon's death, ended his life by suicide.[see note at the end of the volume] a fortnight later the fourth and last instalment arrived at killala bay; but the admiral, hearing that the rebellion was over, promptly weighed anchor and returned to france. thus ingloriously ended the french attempts at the invasion of ireland. the calling-in of the foreigner had been of as little use to the cause of irish rebellion as it had been two centuries before. by the end of the year the worst of the rebellion was over. but the evil it had wrought was incalculable. how many had perished during that terrible summer will never be known; the numbers have been variously computed at from 15,000 to 70,000. at the outset of the rebellion--in february 1798--lord clare had made a memorable speech in the house of lords, which has been so often misquoted that it is well here to cite the passage in full:- "if conciliation be a pledge of national tranquillity and contentment; if it be a spell to allay popular ferment; there is not a nation in europe in which it has had so fair a trial as in the kingdom of ireland. for a period of nearly twenty years a liberal and unvaried system of concession and conciliation has been pursued and acted on by the british government. concession and conciliation have produced only a fresh stock of grievances; other discontents of ireland have kept pace with her prosperity; for i am bold to say there is not a nation on the habitable globe which has advanced in cultivation and commerce, in agriculture and in manufactures with the same rapidity in the same period. her progress is now retarded, and it is a heart-breaking spectacle to every man who loves the country to see it arrested only by the perverse and factious folly of the people, stimulated and encouraged by disappointed statesmen." within a few months after that speech was made, ireland was well-nigh ruined. all the progress in material prosperity which had taken place in the years immediately following 1782 was swept away. the national debt, which in 1791 had stood at â£2,442,890, involving an annual charge of â£142,716, had risen to â£26,662,640, with an annual charge of â£1,395,735; the exports of woollen goods had almost ceased, and those of linen gone down by more than a third; other industries showed a decay nearly as lamentable; public bankruptcy seemed inevitable. though the violent outbreak of rebellion had been put down, many parts of the country were in a state of anarchy. in the west, armed bands went about every night houghing the cattle and murdering all who dared to oppose them. if any man prosecuted one of the offenders, he did it at the moral certainty of being murdered. the same fate hung over every magistrate who sent a hougher to gaol, every witness who gave evidence against him, every juryman who convicted him. in limerick one man ventured on his own part and on that of eight others to prosecute an offender who had destroyed their property. all nine were murdered in one night. it was not safe to travel along the high road within six miles of dublin. the militia had, from their misbehaviour in the field, and their extreme licentiousness, fallen into universal contempt and abhorrence; officers of english regiments declared that it would be impossible to maintain discipline amongst their troops if they remained in such a country. it was discovered that the rebels were forming another directory, and, still expecting aid from france, planning a fresh outbreak. religious animosities were more violent than ever. government was becoming impossible; for the roman catholic population, now thoroughly disaffected, would not continue to submit to the rule of the protestant oligarchy; but the only way to put an end to it would be by another rebellion which if successful would (as the roman catholic bishops and educated laymen fully realized) probably result in the establishment of a jacobin republic; clear-headed men of all parties were beginning to think that there was but one solution of the problem; and that was--the union. chapter ix. the union. we come now to the great turning point in the modern history of ireland--the union. it has been so constantly and so vehemently asserted that this momentous event was prompted by the wicked desire of england to ruin ireland, and was carried out by fraud, bribery, intimidation, and every form of political crime, that not only ordinary readers, but even writers who are content to receive their information at second hand without investigating evidence for themselves, generally assume that no other view is possible. thus o'connell boldly asserted that the irish catholics never assented to the union. others have blindly repeated his words; and from those reiterated statements has been developed an argument that as the catholics did not assent to the union, they cannot be bound by it. i believe that there has been as much exaggeration about this as about most other episodes of irish history; and that anyone who, fairly and without prejudice, takes the trouble to go through the history of the union as it may be gathered from contemporary documents, will come to the conclusion that it was devised by great and earnest statesmen who had the good of both countries at heart. as to the means by which it was carried, there is much to be said on both sides of the question; lecky has stated the case against the union ably and temperately; other writers, equally honourable, have taken the opposite side. there is at any rate very much to be said for the opinion, that, considering the circumstances and the peculiar constitution of the irish parliament, there was nothing which the government did that was not perfectly justifiable. as to whether it was in accordance with the wish of the people or not, there are several points which ought to be borne in mind but to which sufficient attention is not usually given. a very large part of the nation were ignorant peasants, who did not and could not properly understand the question; and as a matter of fact cared little about it. then of those who were against the measure, many opposed it not because they wished the existing state of things to continue, but because they thought that the union would prevent the one object of their ambition--total separation and the establishment of a republic; their opinion therefore has but little weight. when we come to the more educated and propertied classes, it seems that the majority were in favour of the measure; and as to the opinion of the roman catholic section (which after all was far the largest part of the nation) i think there can be no doubt whatever. fortunately it is no longer necessary to wade through the mass of original papers; for the evidence has been so carefully investigated during recent years by various impartial writers, and has been presented to the general reader in so clear and concise a manner that no one now has any excuse for being led away by the impassioned statements of partisan orators. i refer specially to the "history of the legislative union of great britain and ireland," by dr. dunbar ingram, published in 1887. that careful writer commences his work by stating that, dissatisfied with endless assertions unaccompanied by proof, he had determined to investigate the subject for himself, examining closely the original and contemporary authorities. he soon found that there was no evidence to sustain the accusations made against the manner in which the union was carried; and that all the charges against the government rested finally on harrington's worthless romances or the declamatory statements of the opposition during the sessions of 1799 and 1800, which, when challenged, they declined to substantiate. then, as he proceeded in his work, he discovered that, after its terms were known and the public had had time for reflection, the union was thankfully accepted by the two communities which made up ireland; that the protestants, after the first burst of clamour, were as a body converted and became well-wishers to the measure; and that the roman catholics, after a short hesitation, gave the union their hearty assent and support. and finally, the whole inquiry left a strong conviction on his mind that the union was undertaken from the purest motives, that it was carried by fair and constitutional means, and that its final accomplishment was accompanied with the hearty assent and concurrence of the vast majority of the two peoples that dwelt in ireland. i feel that i cannot do better than follow some of the lines of his argument. it is true that in the time of the plantagenets representatives from ireland were on several occasions summoned to attend the english parliament; and that during the commonwealth ireland was incorporated with the rest of the empire and sent members to the parliaments of 1654 and 1657. these incidents, however, are unimportant; it is more to the purpose to point out that from the time of the restoration onwards we find a long list of distinguished thinkers recommending such a union; and in the beginning of the eighteenth century both houses of the irish parliament twice petitioned queen anne to the same effect. it may be asked why the english politicians, who were so anxious to bring about the union with scotland, turned a deaf ear to these petitions. the answer is simple. the scotch parliament was independent, and the impossibility of having two independent parliaments under one sovereign had become manifest. trade jealousies had arisen; the action of the scotch had nearly involved england in a war with spain; the scotch parliament had passed an act declaring that until provision was made for settling the rights and liberties of the scotch nation independently of england the successor to the scotch crown should not be the same person that was possessed of the crown of england. the parliament of england commenced arming the militia and fortifying the towns near the border. england being at war with france the scotch parliament passed an act allowing scotchmen to trade with that country; it therefore was a choice between union and war; and the two countries wisely chose union. in the case of ireland, however, england saw no such danger; the irish legislature was subordinate; ireland was bound by english statutes; and the irish parliament represented not the whole people but only that one section of it which was necessarily bound to the english connection; the irish petitions for union therefore remained unheeded. the great bishop berkeley, writing in 1735, strongly advocated a union; at a later time adam smith wrote: "by a union with great britain ireland would gain besides the freedom of trade other advantages much more important ... without a union with great britain the inhabitants of ireland are not likely for many ages to consider themselves as one people." but, as we have seen, by the act of 1782, the irish parliament had become independent--that is, it was placed in the same position as the scotch parliament had been; and by the act of 1893, the bulk of the constituencies in the counties had become roman catholic. except in the opinion of thoughtless optimists like grattan, matters were approaching a deadlock; for sooner or later the roman catholic electors would demand representation in parliament; the borough members would most probably refuse it, in which case war might break out again; and if they granted it, the irish parliament, then almost entirely roman catholic, would be anxious to break the tie that bound ireland to england. but apart from the religious question, it was evident that the constitution, as fixed by the act of 1782, was fraught with dangers. and it is no answer to say that not many difficulties had arisen in the few years between 1782 and 1799; for, even though that is partially true, the question for a statesman to consider was whether they were likely to arise in the future; and the rebellion, which was still seething, had made this all the more probable. first, on a declaration of war by england, ireland might refuse to take part in it; and her refusal would paralyse the empire. as early as 1791, wolfe tone had pointed out that ireland need not embark on the side of great britain in the contest which was then pending; and one of his followers had advocated an alliance with france. (this is of all the more importance at the present day, when the nationalists state that their principles are the same as those of wolfe tone.) secondly, during a war, ireland might refuse supplies to england. this course was actually hinted at by grattan. thirdly, she might provoke a commercial war of rates with england. this course was proposed in the irish house of commons in 1784. fourthly, she might put pressure on the sovereign to declare war against a country with which england was at peace. this also was proposed in the irish house, in the case of portugal. fifthly, she might differ from england in any international question in reference to the connection between them, as she did in the regency question. sixthly, she might refuse--as she did--to make a commercial treaty with great britain; and thus keep open the most fertile sources of mutual jealousies and discontent. grattan's best friends had urged upon him in vain that refusing to assent to a commercial treaty made the permanent government by two independent legislatures impossible, and would bring about separation; he refused to be guided by their advice, and at that time he still had supreme power in the house. it is remarkable that even at a later date, whilst vehemently opposing the union, he took a delight in pointing out how many ways there were in which an irish parliament might injure england; seeming not to realize that he was supplying a forcible argument in favour of the measure he was opposing. the dangers of the situation were summed up by pitt in a few words:--"a party in england may give to the throne one species of advice by its parliament. a party in ireland may advise directly opposite upon the most essential points that involve the safety of both; upon alliance with a foreign power, for instance; upon the army; upon the navy; upon any branch of the public service; upon trade; upon commerce; or upon any point essential to the empire at large." and long afterwards sir robert peel pointed out that within the short period of six years from the establishment of what is called the independence of the irish parliament--from 1782 to 1788--the foreign relations of the two countries, the commercial intercourse of the two countries, the sovereign exercise of authority in the two countries, were the subjects of litigation and dispute; and it was more owing to accident than to any other cause that they did not produce actual alienation and rupture. the idea of a union was first brought before parliament by the lord lieutenant (lord cornwallis) in his speech at the opening of the session in january 1799. it appeared at first that a majority of the peers were in favour of the proposal, but a small majority of the house of commons hostile--some to the scheme altogether, others to its being brought forward at that time. this small majority, however, rapidly diminished; and before many weeks had passed, the government possessed a majority in both houses. the citizens of dublin were naturally strongly against the measure, thinking that it would injure the prestige of the capital; as were also the proprietors of boroughs and the legal members of the house; and soon after the scheme had been proposed, several counties held meetings and passed resolutions against it; but as the year went on, when the details of the measure had been more carefully considered, there was a general change of feeling throughout the country. lord cornwallis went on tours both north and south, through both protestant and roman catholic districts, everywhere receiving addresses in favour of the union from corporations, grand juries, leading residents, and especially from roman catholic bodies. and, if we may believe lord cornwallis's own letters, these addresses were entirely spontaneous, and represented the real feelings of the community. before parliament met in march 1800, twenty-two counties had passed resolutions in favour of the union; and lord castlereagh was able to say in the house that the great body of the landed property of ireland, and all the great commercial towns except dublin and drogheda, were friendly to the measure. the opposition attempted to meet this by presenting a number of petitions showing that the people of ireland were against it. of the fifty-four petitions presented, five were not against the union at all, but merely requests for compensation in the event of its coming about; three were from individuals or commercial firms; and eight were from dublin alone. the number therefore was much smaller than appears at first sight. besides obtaining these petitions, the opposition also collected a large sum of money for the purchase of seats; in the circumstances and according to the ideas of the time, i do not say that they were in the least morally wrong in doing so; but the fact takes away from the value of the votes given; and it neutralizes anything that was done by the government in the same way--if it can be proved that the government so acted. but as the roman catholics constituted three-fourths of the population of ireland, it is more important to investigate what their feelings were than to scrutinize the division lists of the house, if we wish to ascertain what was really the wish of the nation. fortunately we have an opportunity of testing whether there is any truth in the statement of o'connell to which i have already referred--that the irish catholics did not assent to the union. the evidence shows conclusively that the roman catholic peerage, episcopate, priesthood and laity all gave the movement their hearty concurrence and co-operation. lords kenmare and fingall assured lord cornwallis that the catholics were in favour of a union; the entire episcopate--that is, the four archbishops and nineteen bishops, three sees being vacant--expressed the same view by their letters which are still extant or by resolutions signed by them; for instance, the archbishop of tuam wrote: "i have had an opportunity of acquiring the strongest conviction that this measure alone can restore harmony and happiness to our unhappy country." the bishop of cork wrote: "nothing in my opinion will more effectively tend to lay these disgraceful and scandalous party feuds and dissensions, and restore peace and harmony amongst us, than the great measure in contemplation, of the legislative union, and incorporation of this kingdom with great britain. i am happy to tell you it is working its way, and daily gaining ground in the public opinion. several counties which appeared most adverse to it have now declared for it, and i have no doubt but, with the blessing of god, it will be effected, notwithstanding the violent opposition of mr. foster and his party. the roman catholics in general are avowedly for the measure. in the south, where they are the most numerous, they have declared in its favour." the bishop of ferns presided at a meeting of catholics of wexford at which an address in favour of incorporation of both legislatures was signed by 3,000 persons; and throughout the country meetings, presided over by parish priests, were held to further the movement; and the laity were quite as eager as the clergy in the matter. plowden, the roman catholic historian, says: "a very great preponderancy in favour of the union existed in the catholic body, particularly in their nobility, gentry and clergy." thomas mckenna, the secretary to the catholic committee, wrote two pamphlets in the same interest; whilst on the other hand not a single petition against it was presented by any roman catholic body. when the session of 1800 commenced, a leading member of the opposition sadly confessed that the people had deserted them. but the struggle in the house of commons was tremendous. the anti-unionists had the advantage of the oratory of grattan, who, though he had not been in parliament since 1797, now purchased a seat for â£2,400, and entered the house in a theatrical manner in the midst of the discussion. but his vehement and abusive style of declamation could not in debate be compared with the calm reasoning of castlereagh. the most able speeches against the measure were not those of grattan, but foster. many divisions were taken, the government majority steadily rising from forty-two to sixty-five, and comprising an actual majority of the members of the house. in the house of lords it was relatively much larger. but it is constantly affirmed that this majority was only brought about by bribery and intimidation. the word "bribery" has an ugly sound; and in such a case as this, it is only fair to examine what is exactly meant by the term. there is no doubt that compensation was given to the proprietors of boroughs which were not allowed representation in the united parliament; and it is said that as the return of members to parliament is a public trust and not a species of property, this was not a fair matter for pecuniary compensation; hence it amounted to bribery. but the ownership of boroughs had grown up insensibly; and they had long been looked upon and treated as private property, not only in ireland but in england and scotland also; and there were many honest men in all three countries who contended that the system worked well, as it was the means whereby a large number of distinguished men obtained their first introduction into public life--amongst them being pitt, canning, and fox in england, grattan, flood and plunkett in ireland. then in other cases when powers which had long been regarded as property have been abolished, compensation has been given. this was the case when the heritable jurisdictions in scotland were abolished, and when by the disestablishment of the irish church the right of patrons to nominate to livings was taken away. and even granting for the sake of argument that this is wrong, is it fair to call it bribery? eighty-four places were disfranchised, and a sum of â£1,260,000 (which did not nearly amount to the price which the boroughs at that time fetched in the market) was paid. of this, â£67,500 was paid to englishmen who owned seats in the irish parliament; â£60,000 to boroughs who had no owners; â£30,000 to the executors of a deceased owner; â£18,750 to two ladies; and â£1,100,000 to irishmen who owned boroughs--of which â£400,000 went to anti-unionists who opposed the bill. in many cases, of course, the actual occupant of the seat was a different person from the owner who received the compensation; for instance, there is reason to believe that all the fifty barristers in the house had purchased their seats, but not one of them was the permanent owner. now, if compensation is bribery, who was bribed? really it must be admitted that on investigation the charge of bribery, so far as it refers to compensation to borough-owners, falls to the ground. then it is said that the government made actual payments to members for their votes. this charge was brought forward in a general way at the time in both houses; the government indignantly denied it, and called on the opposition to prove their accusation; but they failed to do so. to repeat it now is therefore unjust. it may be admitted that amongst lord castlereagh's letters there is one which taken by itself looks as if a certain sum of money was to be used in bribery; but, as dr. ingram has pointed out, a careful investigation of the matter shows that it refers to proposed changes in the tariff, and not to bribery at all. again, it is argued that the lavish distribution of titles amounted to bribery. if so, it is hard to find any government in england or ireland that has not been to some extent guilty of bribery--though it is true that no british premier has ever created peerages or salaried offices on anything like the scale that mr. asquith has done. after the bill had passed, pitt created twenty new irish peerages and four english ones; and promoted sixteen peers a step in their order; which after all is not very much more than lord north had done in 1779, on no special occasion, when he had created eighteen irish peerages and promoted twelve existing peers. as to the charges of intimidation, they may be dismissed at once; the very few that were brought forward were so completely answered at the time, that even the opposition dropped them. the presence of such a large number of troops in ireland was quite accounted for by the fact that the rebellion was still to some extent going on, and that there was again a danger of a french invasion. and i must contend further that even admitting that there were some acts on the part of the government which will not bear strict investigation according to present ideas, it is only fair to remember the tremendous difficulties of the occasion. the english house of commons was almost unanimously in favour of the union--not more than thirty members ever voted against it; and in the opinion of lord cornwallis, who throughout his long and varied career showed himself to be a shrewd observer and an upright, honourable man, "this country could not be saved without the union." but really the whole discussion is beside the mark. the nationalists continually repeat the charge that the union was carried by fraud; and so it must be answered; but it has no bearing on anything existing at the present day. for the old irish parliament has disappeared--merged in the greater and more honourable assembly of the united kingdom; and to revive it now would be a physical impossibility. the whole state of circumstances has changed; no assembly that could now be formed in ireland would bear the faintest resemblance to that which met in the eighteenth century. as lecky has well expressed it:- "to an historian of the eighteenth century, however, few things can be more grotesquely absurd than to suppose that the merits or demerits, the failure or the successes of the irish parliament has any real bearing on modern schemes for reconstructing the government of ireland on a revolutionary and jacobin basis; entrusting the protection of property and the maintenance of law to some democratic assembly consisting mainly of fenians and land-leaguers, of paid agitators and of penniless adventurers. the parliamentary system of the eighteenth century might be represented in very different lights by its enemies and by its friends. its enemies would describe it as essentially a government carried on through the instrumentality of a corrupt oligarchy, of a large, compact body of members holding place and pensions at the pleasure of the government, removed by the system of rotten boroughs from all effectual popular control. its friends would describe it as essentially the government of ireland by the gentlemen of ireland and especially the landlord class. "neither representation would be altogether true, but each contains a large measure of truth. the nature of the irish constituencies and the presence in the house of commons of a body of pensioners and placemen forming considerably more than a third of the whole assembly, and nearly half of its active members, gave the government a power, which, except under very rare and extraordinary circumstances, must, if fully exercised, have been overwhelming ... on the other hand, the irish parliament was a body consisting very largely of independent country gentlemen, who on nearly all questions affecting the economical and industrial development of the country, had a powerful if not a decisive influence ... and it was in reality only in a small class of political questions that the corrupt power of government seems to have been strained. the irish house of commons ... comprised the flower of the landlord class. it was essentially pre-eminently the representative of the property of the country. it had all the instincts and the prejudices, but also all the qualities and the capacities, of an educated propertied class, and it brought great local knowledge and experience to its task. much of its work was of that practical and unobtrusive character which leaves no trace in history." chapter x. the period from the union until the rejection of the first home rule bill. as soon as the union had become law, the opposition to it died down rapidly. all the members who had voted for it who became candidates for the imperial parliament were elected, and irish orators soon began to make their mark in the greater assembly. in 1805, however, there was another slight rebellion, led by robert emmett. it never had a chance of success; the mass of the people, thoroughly tired of anarchy, refused to take part in it; and though the rebels succeeded in committing a few murders, the movement was speedily quelled, mainly by the yeomen of dublin. at the trial of emmett, plunket, who had been a vehement opponent of the union, was counsel for the prosecution, and in his speech bitterly denounced the conduct of those men who, having done their utmost to oppose the irish parliament, now made the abolition of that parliament the pretext for rebellion. "they call for revenge," said he, "on account of the removal of the parliament. these men, who, in 1798, endeavoured to destroy the parliament, now call upon the loyal men who opposed its transfer, to join them in rebellion; an appeal vain and fruitless." it will be observed from statements already quoted, that the nationalists of to-day claim that they are the successors of emmett; he is counted amongst the heroes who fell in the cause of ireland--thus making it all the more clear how wide is the gulf between the parliamentary opponents of the union and the modern nationalists. during the early part of the century, ireland had another period of prosperity. travellers through ireland at the present day cannot fail to notice how many of the country seats (now, in consequence of later legislation, mostly deserted and already beginning to fall into ruin) were built at that time. no doubt much of the prosperity was caused by the rebound which often takes place after a period of anarchy and desolation; and it would not be fair to attribute it wholly to the effect of the union; but at least it proves that the melancholy prognostications of the opponents of the measure were happily unfulfilled. the total value of the produce and manufactures exported from ireland between 1790 and 1801 amounted to â£51,322,620; between 1802 and 1813 it amounted to â£63,483,718. in 1800 the population of ireland was under 5,000,000; in 1841 it was over 8,000,000. the tonnage in irish ports in 1792 was 69,000; by 1797 it had fallen to 53,000; before 1852 it had risen to 5,000,000. the export of linen in 1796 was 53,000,000 yards; in 1799 it had fallen to 38,000,000; in 1853 it had risen to 106,000,000; and every other department of industry and commerce showed figures almost as satisfactory. there were, however, three important measures which the leading advocates of the union had desired to see carried as soon as possible after the great change had been effected, but which--as many writers of various schools of thought to this day consider unfortunately--were postponed. the first was a provision by the state for the payment of the roman catholic clergy. the bishops had fully expected that this would be carried. some modern nationalists, wishing to win the favour of the english nonconformists, have represented that the roman catholic church refused to accept the money; but that is not the case. whether the policy of "levelling up" would have been a wise one or not, it is useless now to conjecture; for once the policy of "levelling down" had been decided upon, and the irish church had been disestablished and disendowed, it became impracticable. the second measure was roman catholic emancipation. this had been intended by pitt and other statesmen who helped to bring about the union; but unforeseen difficulties arose; and unfortunately nothing was done until the agitation led by o'connell brought matters to a crisis; and the emancipation which might have been carried gracefully years before, and in that case would have strengthened the union, was grudgingly yielded in 1829. the third measure was a readjustment of tithes. all will now admit, and very many politicians and thinkers at the time fully realized, that the old law as to tithes was a cruel injustice; but no change was made until the opposition to the payment of tithes amounted to something like civil war, involving a series of murders and outrages. then the fatal precedent was set of a successful and violent revolt against contracts and debts. in 1838 an act was passed commuting the tithes into a rent-charge payable not by the occupiers but the landlords. some modern writers have argued that the change was merely a matter of form, as the landlords increased the rents in proportion; and it seems such a natural thing to have happened that earlier writers may well be excused for assuming that it actually occurred. but there is no excuse for repeating the charge now; for in consequence of recent legislation it has been necessary for the land courts to investigate the history of rents from a period commencing before 1838; and the result of their examination has elicited the strange fact that in thousands of cases the rent remained exactly the same that it had been before the tithe commutation act was passed. but ere long economic causes were at work which tended to check the prosperity of ireland. it was soon found that the proportion which by the act of union ireland was to contribute to the imperial government was too large for the country to bear. the funded debt of ireland which amounted to â£28,000,000 in 1800 rose by 1817 to â£130,000,000; in that year the whole liability was taken over by the imperial government. then the fall in prices which naturally resulted from the peace of 1815 pressed heavily on an agricultural community. improvements in machinery and the development of steam power squeezed out the handlooms of ulster and the watermills of other parts of the country. wages were low; and the people who depended mainly on the potato were underfed and undernourished. in 1846 and 1847 came the two terrible blows to ireland--first, the potato disease; and then the repeal of the corn laws, which made the profitable growing of wheat with its accompanying industries, impossible. during the fearful years of the potato famine, it is only too probable that some of the efforts for relief were unwisely conducted and that some persons sadly failed in their duties; no measures or men in the world are ever perfect; and the difficulties not only of obtaining food but of getting it to the starving people in days when there were few railways and no motors were enormous. but when modern writers shower wholesale abuse over the landlords of the period, and even hint that they brought about the famine, it is well to turn to the writings of an ardent home ruler, who was himself an eye-witness, having lived as a boy through the famine time in one of the districts that suffered most--mr. a.m. sullivan. he says:- "the conduct of the irish landlords throughout the famine period has been variously described, and has been, i believe, generally condemned. i consider the censure visited on them too sweeping. i hold it to be in some respects cruelly unjust. on many of them no blame too heavy could possibly fall. a large number were permanent absentees; their ranks were swelled by several who early fled the post of duty at home--cowardly and selfish deserters of a brave and faithful people. of those who remained, some may have grown callous; it is impossible to contest authentic instances of brutal heartlessness here and there. but granting all that has to be entered on the dark debtor side, the overwhelming balance is the other way. the bulk of the resident irish landlords manfully did their best in that dread hour ... no adequate tribute has ever been paid to the memory of those irish landlords--they were men of every party and creed--perished martyrs to duty in that awful time; who did not fly the plague-reeking work-houses or fever-tainted court. their names would make a goodly roll of honour ... if they did too little compared with what the landlord class in england would have done in similar case, it was because little was in their power. the famine found most of the resident gentry of ireland on the brink of ruin. they were heritors of estates heavily overweighted with the debts of a bygone generation. broad lands and lordly mansions were held by them on settlements and conditions that allowed small scope for the exercise of individual liberality. to these landlords the failure of year's rental receipts meant mortgage fore-one and hopeless ruin. yet cases might be named by the score in which such men scorned to avert by pressure on their suffering tenantry the fate they saw impending over them.... they 'went down with the ship.'" soon after the famine, the incumbered estates act was passed, by which the creditors of incumbered landlords could force a sale. this in effect worked a silent revolution; for whatever might have been said up to that time about the landed proprietors being the representatives of those who acquired their estates through the cromwellian confiscations, after those proprietors had been forced to sell and the purchasers had obtained a statutory title by buying in the court, the charge became obsolete. the motive of the act was a good one; it was hoped that land would thus pass out of the hands of impoverished owners and be purchased by english capitalists who would be able to execute improvements on their estates and thus benefit the country as a whole. but the scheme brought with it disadvantages which the framers of the act had not foreseen. the new purchasers had none of the local feelings of the dispossessed owners; they regarded their purchases as an investment, which they wished to make as profitable as possible, and treated the occupants of the land with a harshness which the old proprietors would never have exercised. like most things in ireland, however, this has been much exaggerated. it is constantly assumed that the whole soil of ireland after this belonged to absentee proprietors who took no interest in the country. that absenteeism is a great evil to any country, and to ireland especially, no one can deny; but a parliamentary enquiry in 1869 elicited the fact that the number of landed proprietors in the rural area of ireland then (and there is no reason to suppose that any great change had taken place in the previous eighteen years) was 19,547, of whom only 1,443 could be described as "rarely or never resident in ireland"; and these represented 15.7 per cent. of the rural area, and only 15.1 per cent. of the total poor-law valuation of that area. between 1841 and 1851 the population of the country fell from 8,200,000 to 6,574,000. the primary causes of this were of course the famine and the fever which broke out amongst the half-starved people; but it was also to a large extent caused by emigration. a number of devoted and noble-hearted men, realizing that it was hopeless to expect that the potato disease would disappear, and that consequently the holdings had become "uneconomic" (to use the phrase now so popular) as no other crop was known which could produce anything like the same amount of food, saw that the only course to prevent a continuation of the famine would be to remove a large section of the people to a happier country. in this good work the quakers, who had been untiring in their efforts to relieve distress during the famine, took a prominent part; and the government gave assistance. at the time no one regarded this as anything but a beneficent course; for the emigrants found better openings in new and rising countries than they ever could have had at home, and the reduced population, earning larger wages, were able to live in greater comfort. one evidence of this has been that mud cabins, which in 1841 had numbered 491,000 had in 1901 been reduced to 9,000; whilst the best class of houses increased from 304,000 to 596,000. in 1883 the roman catholic bishops came to the conclusion that matters had gone far enough, and that in future migration from the poorer to the more favoured districts was better than emigration from the country; but they did not say anything against the work that had been done up to that time. yet a recent nationalist writer, wishing to bring every possible charge against the landlords, has hinted that the total loss of population from 1841 to 1901 was caused by the brutality of the landlords after the famine, who drove the people out of the country! to show the fallacy of this, it is sufficient to point out that the powers of the landlords for good or evil were considerably reduced by the land act of 1870, and after that they were further diminished by each successive act until the last shred was taken away by the act of 1887; yet the population went down from 5,412,377 in 1871 to 4,453,775 in 1901--the emigration being larger in proportion from those counties where the national league was omnipotent than from other parts of ireland. in the early thirties o'connell commenced his famous agitation for the repeal of the union. after he had disappeared from the scene, his work was taken up by those of his followers who advocated physical force; and in 1848 an actual rebellion broke out, headed by smith o'brien. it ended in a ridiculous fiasco. the immediate cause of its failure, as a.m. sullivan has pointed out, was that the leaders, in imitation of the movement of half a century before, endeavoured to eliminate the religious difficulty and to bring about a rising in which orange and green should be united; but their fight for religious tolerance exposed them to the charge of infidelity; the roman catholic priests (who now possessed immense political influence) denounced them; and their antagonism was fatal to the movement. but one of the most far-seeing of the party--j.f. lalor--perceived that mere repeal would never be strong enough to be a popular cry--it must be hitched on to some more powerful motive, which could drag it along. as he clearly explained in his manifesto, his objects were the abolition of british government and the formation of a national one. he considered that neither agitation nor the attempt at military insurrection were likely to attain those objects, but that the wisest means for that end were the refusal of obedience to usurped authority; taking quiet possession of all the rights and powers of government and proceeding to exercise them; and defending the exercise of such powers if attacked. he saw that the motive power which would carry itself forward and drag repeal with it, was in the land. he held that the soil of the country belonged as of right to the entire people of that country, not to any one class but to the nation--one condition being essential, that the tenant should bear true and undivided allegiance to the nation whose land he held, and owe no allegiance whatever to any other prince, power or people, or any obligation of obedience or respect to their will, their orders, or their laws. the reconquest of the liberties of ireland, he argued, would, even if possible by itself, be incomplete and worthless, without the reconquest of the land; whereas the latter, if effected, would involve the former. he therefore recommended (1) that occupying tenants should at once refuse to pay all rent except the value of the overplus of harvest produce remaining in their hands after deducting a full provision for their own subsistence during the ensuing year; (2) that they should forcibly resist being made homeless under the english law of ejectment; (3) that they ought further on principle to refuse _all_ rent to the present usurping proprietors, until they should in national convention decide what rents they were to pay and to whom they should pay them; and (4) that the people, on grounds of policy and economy, should decide that those rents should be paid to themselves--the people--for public purposes for the benefit of the entire general people. in that way a mighty social revolution would be accomplished, and the foundation of a national revolution surely laid. but these views, though shared by j. mitchel and other leaders, were not at the time generally adopted; and the next agitations were more distinctly political than agrarian. the fenian movement of 1865--1867, the avowed object of which was the establishment of an independent republic, arose in america, where it was cleverly devised and ably financed. in ireland it met with little sympathy except in the towns; and the attempted outbreaks, both there and in canada, were dismal failures. two of their efforts in england, however, led to important results. gladstone made the remarkable statement that it was their attempt to blow up clerkenwell prison that enabled him to carry the act for the disestablishment of the irish church. many years afterwards, when this encouragement to incendiarism had done its work, he denied that he had ever said so; but there is no doubt that he did. here i must digress for a moment to refer to the position of the irish church. by the act of union it had been provided that the churches of england and ireland as then by law established should be united, and that the continuation and preservation of the united church should be deemed and taken to be an essential and fundamental part of the union; and at the time of the agitation for catholic emancipation the roman catholic bishops of ireland solemnly declared that their church would never attempt to destroy the protestant establishment. this is interesting as showing how futile are the attempts of one generation to bind posterity by legislation; and how foolish it is to expect that men will regard themselves as bound by promises made by their ancestors. (the same remark may be made with reference to the promises now being made by nationalists as to the home rule bill.) the general provisions of the disestablishment act were simple. existing clergy were secured in their incomes for life; the disestablished church was allowed to claim all churches then in actual use, and to purchase rectory houses and glebes at a valuation; and a sum of â£500,000 was given to the church in lieu of all private endowments. everything else--even endowments given by private persons a few years before the act was passed--was swept away. the members of the church showed a liberality which their opponents never anticipated. they bought the glebes, continued to pay their clergy by voluntary assessments, and collected a large sum of money towards a future endowment. nationalist writers now state that the act left the irish church with an income adequate to its needs and merely applied the surplus revenues to other purposes; and hint that the capital sum now possessed by the church really came from the state, and that therefore the future home rule government can deal with it as they please. the alarm felt by irish churchmen at the prospect can be understood. the other fenian attempt in england which has historical importance was of a different kind. two fenian prisoners were being conveyed in a prison van at manchester. their friends tried to rescue them by force; and in the attempt killed the officer in charge. for this crime, three of them--allen, larkin and o'brien--were tried, convicted and hanged in november 1867. these were the "manchester martyrs," in honour of whose unflinching fidelity to faith and country (to quote the words of archbishop croke) so many memorial crosses have been erected, and solemn demonstrations are held every year to this day. at the unveiling of the memorial cross at limerick the orator said: "allen, larkin and o'brien died as truly for the cause of irish nationality as did any of the heroes of irish history. the same cause nerved the arms of the brave men of '98, of '48, of '65 and '67. for the cause that had lived so long they would not take half measures--nothing else would satisfy them than the full measure of nationality for which they and their forefathers had fought." meanwhile another movement was going on, which seems to have been at first wholly distinct from the fenian conspiracy--the constitutional agitation for home rule or repeal, led by isaac butt. it commenced its parliamentary action in 1874; but was ere long broken up by the more violent spirits within its own ranks. as had so frequently happened in similar movements in ireland, france and elsewhere, the moderate men were thrust aside, and the extremists carried all before them. fenianism, though apparently crushed in ireland, continued to flourish in america. michael davitt, who had been a prominent member both of the irish revolutionary brotherhood and of the fenian society, had been convicted of treason felony, and sentenced to penal servitude. on his release in 1877, he was received as a hero, and amongst those who took part in the welcome to him were c.s. parnell, j.g. biggar, j. carey, d. curley and j. brady. he went to america and there matured the plan of his operations on the lines laid down by lalor, which he proceeded to carry out in ireland in 1879 by means of a society which was at first called the "land league" but which has since been known by various other names. amongst his allies were j. devoy, o'donovan rossa, and patrick ford. devoy and rossa took an active part in establishing the skirmishing fund, which was subscribed for the purpose of levying war on england with dynamite. rossa afterwards publicly boasted that he had placed an infernal machine onboard h.m.s. "dottrell," and had sent it and all its crew to the bottom of the ocean. as a reward for his patriotic conduct he was some years later granted a pension by the county council of cork, payable out of the rates. ford was the ablest and most powerful of the number, for by means of his paper--the _irish world_--he collected vast sums for the parliamentary party. in this paper he strongly advocated the use of dynamite as a blessed agent which should be availed of by the irish people in their holy war; and elaborated a scheme for setting fire to london in fifty places on a windy night. after d. curley and j. brady had been hanged for the murder of lord frederick cavendish and mr. burke, he collected money for a testimonial to them as heroes, and prayed that god would send ireland more men with hearts like that of j. brady. mr. redmond has recently described him as "the grand old veteran, who through his newspaper has done more for the last thirty or forty years for ireland than almost any man alive"; mr. t.p. o'connor has congratulated him on the great work he is doing for ireland; and mr. devlin has eulogized him for "the brilliancy in the exposition of the principles inculcated in our programme." by 1880 the union between the dynamite party in america (which bore many names, such as the fenian society, the irish revolutionary brotherhood, the invincibles, the clan-na-gael, and the physical force party, but was essentially the same movement throughout), the constitutional agitators for home rule in parliament, and the land leaguers in ireland, was complete. it was but natural that it should be so, for their objects were the same, though their methods differed according to circumstances. the american party (according to their own statements) desired the achievement of a national parliament so as to give them a footing on irish soil--to give them the agencies and instrumentalities for a government _de facto_ at the very commencement of the irish struggle--to give them the plant of an armed revolution. hence they gladly contributed large sums for the parliamentary fund. parnell, the leader of the parliamentary party, stated that a true revolutionary movement should partake of a constitutional and an illegal character; it should be both an open and a secret organization, using the constitution for its own purpose and also taking advantage of the secret combination; and (as the judges at the parnell commission reported) the land league was established with the intention of bringing about the independence of ireland as a separate nation. in the preceding autumn the agitation against the payment of rent had begun; and persons of ordinary intelligence could see that a fresh outbreak of anarchy was imminent. but gladstone, when coming into power in march 1880, assumed that air of easy optimism which his successors in more recent times have imitated; and publicly stated that there was in ireland an absence of crime and outrage and a general sense of comfort and satisfaction such as had been unknown in the previous history of the country. his chief secretary, forster, however, had not been long in ireland before he realized that this was the dream of a madman; and that the government must either act or abdicate in favour of anarchy; but the cabinet refused to support him. before the end of the year the government had practically abdicated, and the rule of the land league was the only form of government in force in a large part of the country. the name of the unfortunate captain boycott will be for ever associated with the means the league employed to enforce their orders. what those means were, was explained by gladstone himself:- "what is meant by boycotting? in the first place it is combined intimidation. in the second place, it is combined intimidation made use of for the purpose of destroying the private liberties of choice by fear of ruin and starvation. in the third place, that which stands in the rear of boycotting and by which alone boycotting can in the long run be made thoroughly effective is the murder which is not to be denounced." and a few years later--1886--the official report of the cowper commission stated it more fully:- "the people are more afraid of boycotting, which depends for its success on the probability of outrage, than they are of the judgments of the courts of justice. the unwritten law in some districts is supreme. we deem it right to call attention to the terrible ordeal that a boycotted person has to undergo, which was by several witnesses graphically described during the progress of our enquiry. the existence of a boycotted person becomes a burden to him, as none in town or village are allowed, under a similar penalty to themselves, to supply him or his family with the necessaries of life. he is not allowed to dispose of the produce of his farm. instances have been brought before us in which his attendance at divine service was prohibited, in which his cattle have been, some killed, some barbarously mutilated; in which all his servants and labourers were ordered and obliged to leave him; in which the most ordinary necessaries of life and even medical comforts, had to be procured from long distances; in which no one would attend the funeral, or dig a grave for, a member of a boycotted person's family; and in which his children have been forced to discontinue attendance at the national school of the district." this was the ordinary form of government as conducted by the nationalists; and any attempt to interfere with it and to enforce the milder laws of england, is now denounced as "coercion." in 1881 gladstone carried another and a more far-reaching land act. to put it shortly, it may be said that all agricultural land (except that held by leaseholders, who were brought in under the act of 1887) was handed over to the occupiers for ever (with free power of sale), subject only to the payment of rent--the rent not being that which the tenants had agreed to pay, but that which a land court decided to be a "fair rent." this was to last for fifteen years, at the end of which time the tenant might again claim to have a fair rent fixed, and so _ad infinitum_. the land court in most cases cut down the rent by about 20 or 25 per cent.; and at the end of fifteen years did the same again. as tithes (which had been secularized but not abolished), mortgages and family charges remained unchanged, the result was that a large proportion of landlords were absolutely ruined; in very many cases those who appear as owners now have no beneficial interest in their estates. in examining the act calmly, one must observe in the first place that it was a wholesale confiscation of property. not of course one that involved the cruelty of confiscations of previous ages, but a confiscation all the same. for if a. bought a farm in the incumbered estates court, with a parliamentary title, and let it to b. for twenty years at a rent of â£100; and the act gave b. the right of occupying it for ever subject to the payment of â£50 a year, and selling it for any price he liked, that can only mean the transfer of property from a. to b. secondly, the act encouraged bad farming; for a tenant knew that if his land got into a slovenly state--with drains stopped up, fences broken down, and weeds growing everywhere--the result would be that the rent would be reduced by the commissioners at the end of the fifteen years; as the commissioners did not go into the question of whose the fault was, but merely took estimates as to what should be the rent of the land in its actual condition. that farms were in many instances intentionally allowed to go to decay with this object, has been proved; and this pressed hard on the labouring class, as less employment was given. thirdly, although the remission of debt may bring prosperity for a time, it may be doubted whether it will permanently benefit the country; for it will be noticed that the attempt to fix prices arbitrarily applied only to the letting and hiring and not to other transactions. to give a typical instance of what has occurred in many cases: a tenant held land at a rent of â£1. 15s. 0d. per acre; he took the landlord into court, swore that the land could not bear such a rent, and had it reduced to â£1. 5s. 0d.; thereupon he sold it for â£20 an acre; and so the present occupier had to pay â£1. 5s. 0d. to the nominal landlord, and the interest on the purchase-money (about â£1 per acre) to a mortgagee; in fact, he has to pay a larger sum annually than any previous tenant did; and this payment is "rent" in the economic sense though it is paid not to a resident landlord but to a distant mortgagee. in other words, rent was increased, and absenteeism became general. fourthly, it sowed the seeds for future trouble; for it was the temporary union of two antagonistic principles. on the one hand it was said that "the man who tills the land should own it," and therefore rent was an unjust tax (in fact it was seriously argued that men of english and scotch descent who had hired farms in the nineteenth century had a moral right to keep them for ever rent free because tribal tenure had prevailed amongst the celts who occupied the country many hundreds of years before); on the other it was said that the land belonged to the people of ireland as a whole and not to any individuals. if that is so, what right has one man to a large farm when there are hundreds of others in a neighbouring town who have no land at all? the passing of the land acts of 1881 and 1887 made it inevitable that sooner or later a fresh agitation would be commenced by "landless men." and fifthly, when an excitable, uneducated people realize that lawlessness and outrages will be rewarded by an act remitting debts and breaking contracts, they are not likely in future to limit their operations to land, but will apply the same maxims to other contracts. the demoralizing of character is a fact to be taken into consideration. however, the act was passed; and if gladstone really imagined that it would satisfy the nationalist party he must have been grievously disappointed. during 1881, 4,439 agrarian outrages were recorded. the government declared the land league to be illegal, and lodged some of the leaders in gaol. thereupon ford, carrying out the plan laid down by lalor in 1848, issued his famous "no rent" proclamation. it was not generally acted upon; but his party continued active, and in may 1882 lord frederick cavendish and mr. burke (the chief and under secretary) were murdered in the phoenix park. this led to the passing of the crimes prevention act, by which the detectives were enabled to secure evidence against the conspirators, many of whom (as is usual in irish history) turned queen's evidence. the act was worked with firmness; and outrages, which had numbered 2,507 during the first half of 1882, fell to 836 in the latter half, to 834 in 1883, and to 774 in 1884. in the autumn of 1885, gladstone, expecting to return to power at the ensuing election, besought the electors to give him a majority independent of the irish vote. in this he failed; and thereupon took place the "great surrender." he suddenly discovered that everything he had said and done up to that time had been wrong; that boycotting, under the name of "exclusive dealing," was perfectly justifiable; that the refusal to pay rent was just the same as a strike of workmen (ignoring the obvious facts that when workmen strike they cease both to give their labour and to receive pay, whereas the gist of the "no rent" movement was that tenants, whilst ceasing to pay, should retain possession of the farms they have hired; and that a strike arises from a dispute between employers and employed--usually about rates of pay or length of hours; whereas ford's edict that no rent was to be paid was issued not in consequence of anything that individual landlords had done, but because gladstone had put the leaders of the land league in gaol); that the men whom he had previously denounced as "marching through rapine to the dismemberment of the empire" were heroes who deserved to be placed in charge of the government of the country; and introduced his first home rule bill. some of his followers went with him; others refused. his life-long ally, john bright, said: "i cannot trust the peace and interests of ireland, north and south, to the irish parliamentary party, to whom the government now propose to make a general surrender. my six years' experience of them, of their language in the house of commons and their deeds in ireland, makes it impossible for me to consent to hand over to them the property and the rights of five millions of the queen's subjects, our fellow-countrymen, in ireland. at least two millions of them are as loyal as the population of your town, and i will be no party to a measure which will thrust them from the generosity and justice of the united and imperial parliament." the bill was rejected; at the general election which ensued the people of england declared against the measure; gladstone resigned, and lord salisbury became prime minister. chapter xi. the unionist government of 1886. the unionists, on returning to power in 1886, fully realized the difficulty of the problem with which they were faced. the nationalists held a great convention at chicago, at which they resolved to make use of the land league not merely for the purpose of exterminating landlords but as a means for promoting universal disorder and so bringing about a paralysis of the law. as j. redmond stated at the convention: "i assert that the government of ireland by england is an impossibility, and i believe it to be our duty to make it so." and, as he afterwards explained in ireland, he considered that if the tories were able to carry on the government with the ordinary law, the cause of home rule might be set back for a generation; but if the nationalists could succeed in making such government impossible, and the tories were obliged to have recourse to coercion, the people of great britain would turn them out of office, and gladstone would return to power and carry home rule. (this avowed determination on the part of the nationalists to reduce the country to anarchy should be borne in mind when people now express their horror at the ulstermen being guilty of such conduct as breaking the law.) with this object, the nationalists in 1887 organized the "plan of campaign," which was in fact an elaboration of the "no rent" manifesto of 1881, and a scheme for carrying out, step by step, the programme laid down by lalor in 1848. one of lalor's adherents had been a young priest named croke. by 1887 he had become roman catholic archbishop of cashel. he had considered the "no rent" manifesto inopportune; but now formally sanctioned the "plan of campaign," and in a violent letter urged that it should be extended to a general refusal to pay taxes. the plan was also approved by the roman catholic archbishop of dublin and the leaders of the nationalist movement in ireland and america, such as j. dillon and ford; but parnell seemed doubtful, and in england the _daily news_ denounced it. however, the unionist government had decided on their policy, which they were determined to carry through. the main items of their programme were (1) to enforce the law; (2) to facilitate land purchase; (3) to develop the industries of the country; and (4) to extend local government. it is well to examine these in detail, so as to arrive at a just estimate of the two rival policies. (i) the crimes prevention act passed by gladstone in 1882 had lapsed, having been limited to a period of three years. mr. balfour (who had become chief secretary) was of opinion that the continual passing of temporary measures was a mistake (as some one has said, it was like a man burning his umbrella every fine day and then complaining of the expense of buying so many new ones), as was shown by the fact that the irish parliament had passed fifty-four of such acts in the seventeen years of its independent existence. he therefore, in spite of vehement opposition from the combined forces of the english radicals and the irish nationalists, carried the crimes act of 1887, which was a permanent measure, to be put in force in disturbed districts by proclamation when necessary. this was the famous "coercion act" which has been the subject of so much violent denunciation. but in considering the matter, one must ask, what government has there ever been in the world that did not employ force in the carrying out of the law? it is true that in the early days of new zealand mr. busby was sent out as a commissioner with no means of enforcing his orders; but the only result was that he was laughed at by the natives as "a man-of-war without guns"; and no one can say that the scheme was a success. in fact, how can a law be a law unless it is enforced? the act does not make anything a crime that was not a crime before; it merely provides a shorter form of procedure when a district is so completely terrorized by an illegal association that injured persons dare not make complaints, witnesses dare not give evidence, and juries dare not convict. this, as we have seen, had been the case in parts of ireland at the beginning of the rebellion of 1798; and the nationalists, who claimed to be the modern representatives of the rebels of that time, had succeeded in bringing about the same state of things. in some of its most stringent provisions the act is a copy of the police act permanently in force in london; yet ordinary residents in the metropolis do not seem to groan much under its tyranny, nor do the radicals propose to repeal it. and certainly the act has worked satisfactorily from the point of view of those who desire to see the country in a state of peace and prosperity, though disastrously in the opinion of those who aim at making government impossible. between july, 1887, when the act came into force, and the end of the year, 628 persons were prosecuted, of whom 378 were convicted and 37 held to bail. in 1888 there were 1,475 prosecutions, 907 convictions, and 175 persons required to find bail. by 1891 (the last full year of unionist government) crime had sunk so rapidly that in that year there were only 243 persons prosecuted, of whom 105 were convicted, and 81 held to bail. in 1901 (when the unionists were again in power) there were 29 prosecutions and 22 convictions. in 1902 there was a revival of crime; the act was again brought into operation, with much the same result as before--there were 157 prosecutions, 104 convictions, and 17 persons were held to bail. in 1903 there were 3 prosecutions and 3 convictions. (2) _land purchase_. the unionist government considered that the dual ownership set up by the act of 1881 would be a constant source of trouble, and that its working could not be for the benefit of the country. they believed that the best solution of the land question would be a system of purchase whereby the occupiers would become owners. this of course was entirely opposed to the wishes of the nationalists; for if the land question was settled, the motive power which was to carry separation with it, would be gone. some efforts in the direction of land purchase had been made in 1870 (at the instance of mr. bright) and in 1881; but nothing was done on a large scale until 1885, when the "ashbourne act" was passed; and various further steps were taken by the unionist government, culminating in the great "wyndham act" of 1903. by the earlier acts, 73,858 tenants became owners; by the wyndham act, 253,625. as the total number of agricultural tenants of ireland amounted to slightly under 600,000, it will be seen that more than half of them have now purchased their holdings. to explain the general principles of the act, it is sufficient to say that when the landlord and tenants of an estate agree to a sale, the government advance the money, and the tenant purchasers undertake to repay it by annual instalments extending over a period of 68 years. as these annual payments must be less than the existing rent as fixed by the land court under the act of 1881, the purchasing tenant has no ground for complaint; and though the income of the landlord is reduced by the sale, he is freed from further anxiety; and besides, the government give a bonus to the vendor from imperial funds. it will be seen at once that the scheme would have been impossible under home rule; for the english government had by the end of march 1911, agreed to advance the enormous sum of nearly â£118,000,000; an amount which no irish government could have raised except at such an exorbitant rate of interest that it would have been out of the question. on the other hand, england has become the creditor of the new irish landowners for this vast amount; and in the event of separation a serious difficulty may arise as to its repayment. it may interest readers in the colonies to learn that the government thoughtfully passed a registration of titles act in 1891; so that the irish purchasers under the various land acts have the benefits which were first introduced in australia by sir robert torrens. the act of 1903 had the cordial support of a small minority of nationalists; but to the majority it was gall and wormwood. hence mr. birrell, when he became chief secretary, threw every obstacle he could into the way of its working; and in 1909 he passed a new measure, under which land purchase has practically ceased. (3)_the development of the industries of the country_. that has of course taken various forms, of which only a few can be mentioned here. by the light railways (for which the country has to thank mr. balfour himself) remote and hitherto inaccessible districts have been brought into touch with the rest of the world; and by an expenditure of â£2,106,000 the railway mileage of ireland has been increased from 2,643 miles in 1890 to 3,391 in 1906. then it is hardly too much to say that the labourers' cottages act, and the grants made under it, have transformed the face of the country. by this act, district councils are enabled, in localities where accommodation for labourers is insufficient, to take land compulsorily and erect cottages, the money advanced by the government for the purpose being gradually repaid by the ratepayers. the wretched hovels which were the disgrace of ireland from the dawn of history until a period within living memory, have almost disappeared; and comfortable, sanitary and pleasing dwellings have taken their place. even this excellent act, however, is now used by the nationalists to further their own objects. one instance may suffice. in 1907 a farmer fell under the ban of the league and was ordered to be boycotted. the district council found that one occupant of a "labourer's cottage" disregarded the order and continued to work for the boycotted farmer. they promptly evicted him. what would be said in england if a tory landlord evicted a cottager for working for a radical farmer? but even more important than these measures has been the establishment of the department of agriculture. the success of this has been due to the ability, energy and unselfishness of sir horace plunkett. the main object of the department was to instruct the farming classes in the most effective methods of agriculture and the industries connected with it. this by itself would have been a great work; but sir horace has also founded the irish agricultural organization society, to encourage co-operative organization amongst farmers, based on the principle of mutual help; and the success of this, worked in conjunction with the department, has been marvellous. more than nine hundred local societies have been established, for the promotion of industries such as dairying and poultry farming; co-operative credit banks have been formed, based on what is known in germany as the raffeisen system. the turnover of these societies in 1908 amounted to more than â£2,250,000. agricultural organization societies, in imitation of the irish one, have been formed in england and scotland; and so far did its fame reach that the americans sent over an agent to enquire into its working. of course it is unfair to attribute the prosperity or the decline of a country to any one measure; and more than that, it is only by taking into consideration a number of circumstances and a long term of years that we can decide whether prosperity is real or merely transitory. but that ireland increased in prosperity under the influence of the unionist government, cannot be denied; indeed mr. redmond, when shepherding the eighty club (an english radical society) through ireland in 1911, did not deny the prosperity of the country, and could only suggest that the same reforms would have been introduced and better carried out under an irish parliament--regardless of the facts that no nationalist government could have found the money for them; and that nationalists are orators and politicians, not men of business. the combined value of exports and imports rose from 104,000,000 in 1904 to 125,000,000 in 1909; and the gross receipts on railways from â£4,140,000 to â£11,335,000. the deposits in savings banks rose from â£3,128,000 in 1888 to â£10,627,000 in 1908. the tonnage of shipping in irish ports was 11,560,000 in 1900; in 1910 it was 13,475,000. sir horace had done his utmost to prevent the curse of political strife from entering into his agricultural projects. he had been careful to appoint nationalists to some of the most important offices in his department, and to show no more favour to one part of the country than another. but all in vain; the national league, when their friends returned to power, at once resolved to undo his labours, some of them openly saying that the increased attention devoted to trade and agriculture was turning men's thoughts away from the more important work of political agitation. mr. t.w. russell, a man totally ignorant of agricultural affairs, whose only claim to the office was that he was a convert to nationalism, was appointed in place of sir horace. he promptly declined to continue to the agricultural organization society the support which it had previously received from the department; and, with the aid of the united irish league, succeeded in preventing the society from receiving a grant from the board of agriculture similar to those given to the english and scotch societies; threw discredit on the co-operative credit banks, and denounced the co-operative farming societies as injurious to local shopkeepers. and thus he made it clear that it is impossible in ireland to conduct even such a business as the development of agriculture without stirring up political bitterness. another effort of mr. balfour's--the establishment of the congested districts board--has had a strange and instructive history. it was established in 1891. mr. balfour decided to entrust to a small body of irishmen, selected irrespective of party considerations, the task of making an experiment as to what could be done to relieve the poorest parts of ireland; and with this object, the board, though endowed with only small funds, were given the widest powers over the area within which they were to operate. they were empowered to take such steps as they thought proper for (1) aiding migration or emigration from the congested districts, and settling the migrant or emigrant in his new home; and (2) aiding and developing agriculture, forestry, and breeding of live stock and poultry, weaving, spinning, fishing (including the construction of piers and harbours, and supplying fishing boats and gear and industries subservient to and connected with fishing), and any other suitable industries. both the powers and the revenues of the board were increased from time to time, until by 1909 its annual expenditure amounted to nearly â£250,000. it became clear almost at the beginning of its labours that amongst the many difficulties which the board would have to face there were two pre-eminent ones; if it was desired to enlarge uneconomic holdings by removing a part of the population to other districts, the people to be removed might not wish to go; and the landless men in the district to which they were to be removed might say that they had a better right to the land than strangers from a distance, and the result might be a free fight. as the only chance of success for the labours of the board was the elimination of party politics, mr. j. morley, on becoming chief secretary in the gladstonian government of 1892, appointed as commissioners bishop o'donnell of raphoe (the patron of the ancient order of hibernians, and a trustee of the parliamentary fund of the united irish league); and the rev. d. o'hara, a leading clerical nationalist of a violent type. it is needless to say that under their influence the action of the board has been conducted on strictly nationalist lines. one instance may suffice. in 1900, the board, having come into the possession of the dillon estate, wished to sell it to the tenants; and when doing so, considering the sporting rights to be a valuable asset, decided to reserve them. a considerable number of the tenants expressed their readiness to purchase their holdings subject to the reservation. the board received an offer of â£11,000 for the mansion, demesne and sporting rights over the estate. the reservation of sporting rights when, taking the whole estate, they were of pecuniary value, had been the common practice of the board in other sales; but an agitation was at once got up (not by the tenants) against the reservation in this case, on the ground that it was not right for the board to place any burden on the fee simple of the holdings; the offer of â£11,000 was refused, and soon afterwards the board sold the mansion and the best part of the demesne to a community of belgian nuns for â£2,100. the sporting rights, which became the property of the purchasing tenants, ceased to be of any appreciable pecuniary value, though in a few cases the tenants succeeded in selling their share of them for small sums to local agitators. when a witness before the royal commission of 1906 ventured to point out that the taxpayers thus lost â£8,900 by the transaction, he was severely rebuked by the clerical members of the commission for suggesting that the presence of the belgian nuns was not a great benefit to the neighbourhood. this royal commission was appointed ostensibly for the purpose of enquiring into and reporting upon the operations of the board since its foundation. after going through a mass of evidence, the chairman (lord dudley) said that the board had tried for twenty years to develop new industries and had failed; and another member (lord macdonnell) said that it had only touched the fringe of the question; and, considering that in spite of all its efforts at promoting local industries, emigration continued to be greater from the district subject to its control than from any other part of ireland, it is hard to see what other view was possible. but the large majority of the commission were ardent nationalists--in fact, one of them a short time before his appointment had publicly advocated an absolute, rigorous, complete and exhaustive system of boycotting; and the witness who spoke for the united irish league told the commission that it was the strong view of the league that the board should be preserved. it was only natural therefore that the commission should report that in their opinion the powers and scope of its operations should be extended and its income largely increased. this was accordingly done by the birrell act of 1909. one of the most important functions of the board was the purchase of land, for which they possessed compulsory powers. the witness who had appeared before the commission as representing the united irish league was mr. fitzgibbon, chairman of the roscommon county council, and now a member of parliament. he had previously been sent to prison for inciting to the plan of campaign, and for criminal conspiracy. he had also taken a leading part in the cattle-driving agitation (to which i shall refer later) and had announced that his policy was "to enable the board to get land at fag-end prices." he was therefore appointed by mr. birrell to be a member of the board, as being a suitable person to decide what compensation should be paid for land taken compulsorily. he publicly stated that his object was to carry out the great work of michael davitt. and he certainly has been active in doing so; and now the agitators, when they want to have an estate transferred to the board, commence by preventing its being let or used, and so compelling the owner to leave it derelict and unprofitable; then, when by every description of villainy and boycotting it has been rendered almost worthless, the congested districts board (who have carefully lain by until then) step in with a preposterous offer which the unfortunate owner has no choice but to accept. this may appear strong language to use with reference to a government department presided over by roman catholic bishops and priests; but the words are not mine; they are taken from the judgment of mr. justice ross, in the case of the browne estate. at any rate, whatever else the congested districts board may have achieved, they have done one good thing; they have shown to unionists in ireland what the principles of justice are by which the nationalist government will be conducted. (4) the fourth division of the unionist policy was the extension of local government. by the act of 1898 county and district councils were formed, like those which had been existing in england for a few years previously; and the powers of the old grand juries (who it was admitted had done their work well, but were now objected to on principle as not being elected bodies) were abolished. the importance of the measure can hardly be overestimated; for not only did it re-organize local government on what would elsewhere be a democratic but is in ireland a clerical basis; but also it may be described as home rule on a small scale. by examining into the practical working of the scheme we may form an idea as to what home rule is likely to be; and both parties refer to it as a ground for their opinion. it is curious now to note that it was gerald balfour, the unionist chief secretary, who, when introducing the measure, appealed to the irish gentry not to stand aloof from the new order of things, but to seek from the suffrages of their fellow-citizens that position which no others were so well qualified to fill as themselves--in much the same way that english radical orators now accuse the ulstermen of want of patriotism when they declare that they will never take part in a nationalist government. the nationalists were of course loud in their protestations that in the noble work of local government all narrow political and sectarian bitterness would be put aside, and all irishmen irrespective of creed, class or party would be welcome to take part--just as they are now when they promise the same about the national parliament. thus j. redmond said: "no man's politics or religion will be allowed to be a bar to him if he desires to serve his country on one of the new bodies. men of different creeds, who have had an almost impassable gulf between them all their lives, will be brought together for the first time in the working of this scheme of local government.... on every one of the juries in ireland there have been county gentlemen who have shown the greatest aptitude for business, the greatest industry, and the greatest ability; and i say it would be a monstrous thing if, by working the election of these county councils on narrow sectarian or political lines, men of that class were excluded from the service of their country." and another nationalist member added: "we are anxious for the co-operation of those who have leisure, wealth and knowledge." irish unionists who refused to believe these assurances were denounced by nationalists as bigots and humbugs. the value of the assurances of 1912 may be gauged by the manner in which those of 1898 have been fulfilled. at the election of 1899 a few protestants and unionists were returned. but the general feeling of the newly-formed councils may be gathered from the following resolution which was passed by the mayo county council in that year: "that we, the members of the mayo county council, congratulate the gallant boers on their brilliant defeats of the troops of the pirate saxon. that we hope that a just providence will strengthen the arms of these farmer fighters in their brave struggle for their independence. and we trust that as babylon fell, and as rome fell, so also may fall the race and nation whose creed is the creed of greed, and whose god is the god of mammon." and by 1902, when the next triennial elections were coming on, the mask was thrown off. the _freeman's journal_ (the principal nationalist organ) said:- "in every county or district council where a landlord, however amiable, or personally estimable, offers himself for election, the answer of the majority must be the same: 'no admittance here.'" and j. redmond stated the case still more plainly: "we have in our hands a weapon recently won, the full force of which is not yet, i believe, thoroughly understood by the english government or by ourselves. i mean the weapon of freely-elected county councils and district councils who to-day form a network of national organizations all over ireland, and who to-morrow, i doubt not, if the other organizations were struck, would be willing to come forward and take their place, and, in their council chambers, carry on the national work." pledges in the following form were presented for signature to all candidates by the united irish league (except of course in north-east ulster):- "i ---hereby pledge myself, if elected to represent the --- division on the county council, to promote the interests of the united irish league, and to resign my position whenever called upon to do so by the ---divisional executive." so completely has the policy been carried out that by 1911, to quote the words of mr. fitzgibbon, m.p. (to whom i have previously referred):- "there was not a landlord in the country who could get his agent returned as district councillor or county councillor, or even his eldest son or himself. the organization had emancipated the people; it had given them the power which their enemies had wielded; it had cleared the road for ireland's freedom." at present unionists and nationalists are pretty evenly divided in the county councils of ulster; in the other three provinces amongst 703 county councillors there are only fifteen unionists. in other words, the act has enabled the nationalist party to carry out the plan laid down by lalor of taking quiet and peaceable possession of all the rights and powers of government, as a stepping-stone towards independence. of course it may be said with much truth that if the large majority of the people are nationalists they are perfectly justified in choosing nationalists as their representatives. but that is not the point. the real point is that in spite of the protestations of the nationalists at the time of the passing of the act, politics in their bitterest form have been brought in, and the unionist minority have been deprived of all share in the local government of the country. to illustrate this still further, i may add that a general council of county councils was formed in 1900, for the purpose of promoting a fair and equitable administration of the act. in order that the ulster councils might unite with the others, it was agreed that politics should be excluded. but after the election of 1902, that agreement was abandoned; and, rather than take part in what had become a mere political gathering, the ulster representatives withdrew. left to themselves, the nationalist general council in 1906 passed the following resolution:- "that the irish people are a free people, with a natural right to govern themselves; that no parliament is competent to make such laws for ireland except an irish parliament, sitting in dublin; and that the claim by other bodies of men to make laws for us to govern ireland is illegal, unconstitutional, and at variance with the rights of the people." if such a body as the general council of county councils pass a resolution like this, is there much probability that the nationalist parliament will refrain from doing the same, should the imperial parliament attempt to exercise the power given to it by the present bill, and to legislate for ireland? but again it may be said that though the councils have thus become political bodies, they have conducted their business so admirably that their conduct is a powerful argument to show that a nationalist parliament will be equally practical and liberal. this is the view put forward by nationalist orators and their humble follower mr. birrell, who in november 1911, informed his friends at bristol that the irish had shown a great capacity for local government and that from what people who had seen a great deal of the south and west of ireland told him there was no fear of persecution or oppression by the catholic majority of their protestant fellow-subjects. in support of this, various facts are adduced, which it is well to examine in detail, remembering the poet's words that "a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies." one of the greatest powers possessed by the county councils is the exercise of patronage. it would probably be generally admitted in any country but ireland that there, if anywhere, religion and politics should be excluded, and men selected only for their qualifications. the nationalists, wishing to demonstrate the fairness of the councils which hold their views, contrast the bigotry shown by the unionist corporation of belfast with the liberality of similar bodies in other parts of the country. and certainly the figures they adduce, when addressing audiences in england or writing for english readers, are very striking. thus mr. birrell said at skipton in november 1911 that he had been told that in the great unionist city of belfast there was only one roman catholic in the employment of the corporation, and he was a scavenger. (it will be observed that here, as in many of his speeches, he carefully used the expression "he had been told"--so that what he said may be literally true, even though when he heard the statement he knew that it was false.) and stephen gwynn, m.p., in his "case for home rule," says: "in belfast, catholics are a third of the population; but the corporation pays â£51,405 in a year in salaries, of which only â£640 goes to catholics." and about the same time as mr. birrell's oration, mr. redmond, speaking at swindon, said that in galway, cork, westmeath and king's county (where roman catholics form the large majority of the population) protestants held 23 per cent. of the salaried appointments in the gift of the councils. but when we descend from the airy height of nationalist rhetoric to the prosaic region of fact, we find that the rates of the city of belfast amount to about â£342,000; of this sum, roman catholic ratepayers pay less than â£18,000. there are nine hundred roman catholics in the employment of the corporation, and they receive in salaries about â£48,000 per annum. and as to the figures quoted by mr. redmond, we find that he omitted to state that not one of the 23 per cent. had been appointed by a county council; they were all survivals of the system in force before 1899, whose positions were secured by statute; and in not one of the counties he mentioned has a unionist been appointed to any salaried office since that date. to take the county of cork as a specimen; there are ninety-four salaried offices in the gift of the county council; of these nine are held by protestants--but they were all appointed before 1899. of the thirty-three salaried offices in the gift of the city corporation, two are held by protestants--but these also were appointed before 1898; and yet the protestants pay nearly half the rates. and in ireland there is not the slightest attempt at concealment in the matter; thus in one case a district council adopted by formal resolution the request of the local priests not to support any candidate who did not produce a testimonial from the parish priest; as a councillor remarked, it was the simplest way of stating that no protestant need apply. but it is in the appointment of medical officers ("dispensary doctors" as they are technically called in ireland) that the policy of the nationalists has been most marked. many years ago, the late cardinal cullen ruled that it was a mortal sin to vote for a heretic for such an office; now, however, the bishops have gone further. there are three medical schools in dublin--trinity college, the college of surgeons, and the catholic university school; and three in the provinces--at belfast, cork and galway. the medical school of trinity college has a world-wide reputation. the students are required to complete their arts course before specializing in medicine (thus ensuring that they shall be men of general culture and not merely of professional training); the professors and lecturers are amongst the ablest men of the day; the students have the advantage of the large city hospitals for their clinical studies; and the standard required for a degree is high. and not only is trinity college open to all students without distinction of creed, but the college authorities have frequently offered a site within their grounds for a roman catholic chapel and the salary of a chaplain who would take spiritual care of his flock. nevertheless the roman catholic bishops have ordered that no candidate who has been trained at any college except the catholic university school shall be eligible for the post of dispensary doctor; and when an election takes place (as for instance that at kiltimagh in 1905) the question of professional qualification is not taken into consideration--having been trained at a "godless college" is a fatal bar to any candidate, however able. in the kiltimagh case, the resolution passed shortly after the election by the local branch of the united irish league is instructive reading:- "that we, the members of the kiltimagh branch of the united irish league, take advantage of this our first meeting since the important election of medical officer for the kiltimagh dispensary district, to express our appreciation of all the guardians for the several divisions in this parish for the faithful honesty with which they represented us on that occasion. we feel proud to know that not one of our representatives voted for a queen's college man against a catholic university man. they voted for a man who is the stamp of man we want--a sound catholic, a sound nationalist, a gaelic leaguer, and a highly qualified medical man. we believe their action will meet with the approval of the bishops and priests of ireland." to one who lives in ireland it is sad enough to see year by year the most able and promising of the medical students being driven out of the country on account of their religion, and forced to look for openings elsewhere; but to a thoughtful observer it is even worse than that; it is the beginning of the new penal laws. and when we turn to other matters, where the marvellous efficiency of the county councils exists, is hard for an unprejudiced enquirer to find. the old grand juries handed over the roads and bridges in excellent order; they are certainly not better now, and in many cases worse. in fact, one english theoretical radical who paid a brief visit to ireland, inhaled so much hibernian logic during his hurried tour that he solemnly argued that the badness of the roads proved that the councils had been governing too economically; and therefore what was needed was a central body--that is, an irish parliament--to stir up the local administration! nationalist writers claim that the rates are going down; but that merely means that they are not so high now as they were soon after the act came into force, not that they are lower than before 1898. it was expected that the rates would be reduced by the operation of the old age pensions act; but that has not proved to be the case. and the increase in local indebtedness is alarming. to sum up, therefore, i trust that i have, even in this brief sketch, made it clear that the policy of the unionist government, taken as a whole, has been of immense benefit to the social and material prosperity of ireland; and that the points in which it has failed have been those where their reforms have fallen under the power of the nationalists, who have either thwarted them, or made use of them to further their own ideas. i shall next proceed to examine the alternative policy, which is being carried out by the present government. chapter xii. the gladstonian government of 1892. the political societies. during the gladstone-rosebery government--from 1892 to 1895--matters in ireland were quiet. the nationalists were at first on their best behaviour, in consequence of the promised introduction of the home rule bill; and after its rejection by the upper house, the time was too short for anything serious to happen. but the period was marked by the commencement of one great change in irish administration. it must be admitted by impartial observers that the old landlord party, with all their faults, made as a rule excellent magistrates. a large proportion of them were retired military officers, who had gained some experience in duties of the sort in their regiments; others were men of superior education, who studied with care the laws they were to administer. living in the locality, they knew the habits and feelings of the people; and yet they were sufficiently separated from them to be able to act as impartial judges; and no charges of bribery were ever made against them. and, the work being congenial, they gladly devoted their spare time to it. gladstone's chief secretary (the present lord morley) determined to alter all this; he accordingly appointed to the bench a large number of men drawn from a lower social stratum, less educated and intelligent than those previously chosen, but more likely to administer "justice according to irish ideas." then the operation of the local government act, by which chairmen of councils (all of course nationalists) became _ex officio_ magistrates, completed a social revolution by entirely altering the character of the bench. in some localities the magistrates previously appointed realizing that, being now in a minority, they could be of no further use on the bench, withdrew; in others, though the old magistrates continued to sit, they found themselves persistently outvoted on every point; so what good they have done by remaining, it is hard to see. amongst the men appointed under the new system, there have been several instances of justices who have continued to act without the slightest shame or scruple although they have been convicted of such offences as drunkenness, selling drink on unlicensed premises, or corrupt practices at elections. but worse than that: the new order of justices do not regard their duties as magisterial, but political; they give but little attention to ordinary cases, but attend in full strength to prevent the conviction of any person for an outrage organized by the united irish league; and do not hesitate to promise beforehand that they will do so. if by any chance a sufficient number are not present to carry their purpose, the names of the absentees are published in the black list of the league--and the result of that is so well known that they are not likely to offend again. hence comes the contemptible exhibition--now not infrequent--of men being charged before the bench, and no evidence being offered for the defence; yet the stipendiary magistrate being obliged to say that though he considers the case proved, the majority of the bench have decided to refuse informations. even a roman catholic bishop has confessed that now magistrates too often have no respect for their obligations to dispense the law justly and without favour; and that the bench is sometimes so "packed" that the culprits, though guilty, are certain to be acquitted. * * * * * before discussing the policy of the present government since it came into power in 1906, it is well to explain what the principal societies--secret or other--are which now conduct the government of ireland. in one sense indeed the names are immaterial; for, as in 1798, in whatever various ways the societies have commenced, they are all working towards the same end, and being controlled by the same forces. the land league, which was founded in 1879 as a league for ruining landlords as a stepping-stone towards independence, having been suppressed by gladstone in 1881, was reformed under the name of the irish national league. this was in its turn suppressed in 1887, and in 1898 appeared once more under the name of the united irish league with j. redmond as president and j. devlin as secretary. in 1901 mr. redmond explained the objects of the league as follows:- "the united irish league is not merely an agrarian movement. it is first, last, and all the time a national movement; and those of us who are endeavouring to rouse the farmers of ireland, as we endeavoured twenty years ago in the days of the land league, to rouse them, are doing so, not merely to obtain the removal of their particular grievances, but because we believe by rousing them we will be strengthening the national movement and helping us to obtain our end, which is, after all, national independence of ireland." and to make the exact meaning of the phrase "national independence of ireland" quite clear, he soon afterwards stated that their object was the same as that aimed at by emmett and wolfe tone--in other words, to place ireland in the scale of nations with a constitution resembling that of the united states. by march 1908 (that is, about two years after the present government came into power), to quote the words of mr. justice wright, "the only law feared and obeyed was the law not of the land but of the united irish league"; and before the end of that year mr. redmond was able to report to his friends in america:- "we have in ireland an organization which is practically a government of the country. there is in o'connell street, dublin, a great office managed by the real chief secretary for ireland, j. devlin, the member for belfast." the organization of the league is admirable. the country is covered with a network of branches, to which people in the district are obliged to contribute under penalty of being boycotted; these branches are united under provincial executives, whilst the directory in dublin controls the whole. the union between the league and the roman catholic church is as complete as the union between that church and some societies started on a non-sectarian basis became during the rebellion of 1798; as we have seen, a bishop is one of the trustees, and other bishops are amongst the subscribers; the sunday meetings of the various branches, at which boycotting and other measures of the kind are arranged, are usually presided over by the parish priests. on the other hand, few laymen, whatever their religion may be, who have any stake in the country, can be got to join the league; in the words of a.j. kettle, m.p.:- "on its roll of membership there are no landlords or ex-landlords, few merchants, fewer irish manufacturers. there are few of the men who are managing the business of ireland in city or town, connected with the league. the bankers who regulate our finances, the railway or transit men who control our trade, internal and external, even the leading cattle men who handle most of our animal produce, are not to be found in its ranks." in further evidence of this it may be noted that in spite of all the efforts of the league at collecting money, the subscriptions to the irish parliamentary fund do not amount to a halfpenny per head of the population; as j. dillon has remarked: "the national cause in ireland could not live for six months if it were deprived of the support of the irish across the atlantic." closely allied with the league is the ancient order of hibernians, a secret political and exclusively roman catholic association, of which j. devlin, m.p. (the secretary of the league), is president. it is also called the board of erin, to distinguish it from the american branch. the american branch, i may remark, is also known as the molly maguires, as it was under that name that it conducted the series of murders and outrages at the pennsylvanian mines thirty years ago. hence the irish branch is sometimes nicknamed the "molly maguires." the order is very religious, in the sense that part of its programme is to deprive heretics of every means of earning their livelihood; as a nationalist who did not sympathize with the operations of the order expressed it: "if protestants are to be robbed of their business, if they are to be deprived of public contracts, and shut out of every office and emolument,--what is that but extermination?" the political principles of the order can be gathered from the address presented by them to captain condon on the occasion of his visit to dublin in 1909. captain condon, i may explain, had been a prominent fenian and member of the irish republican brotherhood, and had taken part in the riot at manchester in 1867 which resulted in the murder of sergeant brett; he now resides in america. in 1909 he visited ireland on the invitation of j. redmond; and the address presented to him by the ancient order of hibernians contained the following words:- "in you, o'meagher condon, we recognize one of those connecting links with the past which all nations cherish, and you are ready to-day with voice and pen to give your unflagging support to ireland's leaders with as much enthusiasm as you grasped the sword to lead ireland in the dark but historic '67. we are sure it will interest you to know that the ranks of the hibernians to-day are composed of the men and children of those who swore allegiance to the irish republic with you." the order has lately acquired additional strength by becoming an "approved society" under the insurance act of 1911. in ireland it is no more possible for life insurance than for anything else to exist without being dragged into the vortex of religious and political quarrels. the "clan-na-gael"--that is, the dynamite club--still flourishes in america; but for obvious reasons it does not make any public appearance in ireland; and the exact part which it takes in the movement at the present time, it is impossible to say. "sinn fein" (which means "ourselves") is another separatist association, aiming at the establishment of ireland as a sovereign state, and teaching that the election of irishmen to serve in the british parliament is treason to the irish state. as its name implies, it desires to make use of the revival of the irish language as a means towards the end for which it is working. it was founded in 1905. why this society and the united irish league, whose objects seem identical, should be ready to fly at one another's throats, is one of the things that those who are outside the nationalist circle cannot understand. but the clerical leaders, who do their utmost to further the operations of the league, look askance at sinn fein; its ultimate success therefore is very doubtful. then, working in conjunction with these societies is the "gaelic league," founded for the "de-anglicizing" of ireland, as helping towards separation. as j. sweetman (who, besides being a prominent member of the gaelic league, is also vice-president of sinn fein and vice-chairman of the central council of irish county councils and may therefore be regarded as speaking with authority) has expressed it:- "out of the gaelic league's de-anglicizing propaganda have already grown a series of movements not only strongly political but each and all making for a separate independent irish nation, freed from every link of the british connection." were it not for its political object, the folly of this "revival of the irish language" would be past belief. the language of shakespeare and milton, of gibbon and macaulay, ought surely to be good enough for ordinary people; and it must be obvious to every reasoning being that at the present moment of the world's history, english is one of the most useful languages in existence. it is spoken by 40,000,000 of people in europe and twice that number in america, not to mention australasia and south africa. it is the language of commerce, of science, and of a vast amount of literature. europeans of various nationalities learn it, for the sake of its convenience; although, as we all know, one of the difficulties of modern life is that boys and girls have too much to study; educationalists everywhere complain that the curriculum is overloaded. its position in ireland can be seen exactly by the census returns; for the papers contain a "language column," each person being required to state whether he speaks english or irish or both. according to the returns of 1891, the total population was in round numbers 4,725,000; of whom 4,037,000 spoke english only, 643,000 both languages, and 44,000 irish only. and that trifling minority existed only in certain localities, and was confined to the less educated classes. the only counties in which a majority of the population spoke irish (including those who spoke both languages) were mayo and galway. yet now it is solemnly said that ireland, being an independent nation, must have a language of its own; even in counties where no language but english has been spoken for centuries, and where probably none of the ancestors of the present population ever spoke any other language, irish is being taught in the roman catholic primary schools, and the unhappy children who might be studying arithmetic or elementary geography, are wasting their time over a totally useless language. i say "totally useless" deliberately; for the arguments usually brought forward in favour of the study, apart from the political one--that irish is of use in the study of philology, and that the mss. of centuries ago contain fine specimens of poetry--are too absurd to be worth discussing. the real object of the nationalists in "encouraging the revival of the irish language" is clearly set out in the following words of t. macseamus in a recent number of the _irish review_:- "most important of all, the irish language is one of the things that distinguish us from england. it is a mark of that separateness which it is the business of every nationalist to maintain and emphasise on every possible occasion. it is one of the signs--perhaps the chief sign--of nationality.... the irish language is a weapon in our fight against england, and we cannot afford to throw away even the smallest weapon that may serve us in that struggle." and the policy of the league as regards the primary schools is made quite clear by the resolution passed unanimously at their annual meeting in 1912:- "that we re-affirm the demand of the last ard fheis in regard to the position of irish in the primary schools, viz., that irish be the sole medium of instruction in the irish-speaking districts; that it be the medium as far as possible in all other schools, and that it be a compulsory subject in every school throughout the country where parents are not opposed to it; furthermore, that a knowledge of irish be required from all teachers entering for training as teachers, and that no certificate be issued to those who fail to qualify in irish at the final examination, and that none but inspectors having a knowledge of irish be employed to inspect schools where irish is taught." it will be seen therefore that if the league carry their point (as no doubt they will under a home rule government) no graduate of the belfast university who wishes to become a teacher in a belfast school will be allowed to do so unless he passes an examination in a language which not one of his pupils will ever wish to learn; and this, not for the purpose of ensuring general culture, but to further a political object with which he has no sympathy. the league leave no stone unturned in their efforts to substitute the irish for the english language. for instance, it is usually considered in other countries that the names of the streets of a town are put up in order to help people who want to find their way, and not for political reasons. but in dublin, where not one per cent. of the people can read irish, the names have recently all been painted up in that language, in the hope of de-anglicizing the rising generation. an incident occurred recently which will show how the movement is being taken up. there is in dublin an excellent regulation that children may not become "street traders" without a licence. a bright little boy came to apply for one. the magistrate, being a kindly man, enquired of the lad what his circumstances were. the boy explained that part of his earnings went towards the support of his widowed mother; and that he was trying to keep up his education by attending a night school. "and what are you learning there?" said the magistrate. "irish," replied the boy. even the magistrate could not resist telling him that he thought his time would be better spent at arithmetic. yet from the boy's point of view, there is something to be said. irish may be of use to him in obtaining a government appointment, however small; for local bodies (such as the dublin boards of guardians) now refuse to appoint clerks who cannot send out notices of meetings in irish, though no member of the board to whom they are sent can read them; and the league fully expect that the home rule government will do the same with regard to every appointment in their gift. if the railways are taken over by the government (as they probably will be) it can be seen what an immense impetus can be given to the movement. then secondary schools have been established for the same object. the _irish educational review_ recently contained the following account of one of them:- "at ring, in the county waterford, there is already in existence an irish secondary school where classics, modern languages and all the usual secondary school subjects are taught and where irish and english fill their rightful places, the former being the ordinary language of the school, the latter a foreign language on no higher level than french or german." the act of 1909, which founded the "national" university (to which i shall refer again), gave power to county councils to levy a rate for scholarships. immediately the gaelic league saw their opportunity. they endeavoured to persuade the councils to refuse to do so unless irish were made compulsory at the university. the councils generally (except of course in ulster) agreed to the plan; but some of them (such as the kildare council) were faced by a difficulty. not a single child in the county spoke irish; and so if that language were made compulsory, no one could compete for the scholarships. so they compromised matters, by deciding that they would levy a rate if irish were made compulsory after 1915, by which time some of the young people in the county would have been able to learn it; and the university agreed to do so. this rating power, i may remark, looks extremely liberal as it appears in the act; for the scholarships are to be tenable at any university. the irish unionist members, knowing quite well how it would be worked, opposed the clause; and as usual were denounced as bigots and fanatics. it is needless to add that as soon as the act came into force, county councils and corporations at once passed resolutions that scholarships derived from the rates should not be tenable at trinity college, dublin, or at belfast, but only at the national university--thus practically saying that no protestants need compete. beyond forcing the children to acquire a smattering of irish, it cannot be said that so far the efforts of the league as to the language have been very successful; for the census returns show that the proportion of the population who could speak irish in 1891 was 14'5; in 1901, 14'4; and in 1911, 13'3; and the numbers who spoke irish only fell from 20,953 in 1901 to 16,870 in 1911. but the efforts of the league are not confined to the language. english games, such as cricket, are forbidden; if football is played, it must be the gaelic variety with rules totally different from those observed by the hated saxon. even the patients in asylums are forbidden to play cricket or lawn tennis. and some of the more enthusiastic members of the league have actually "donned the saffron," in imitation of the ersefied normans of 400 years ago. however, it is so hideously ugly, and so suggestive of the obnoxious orange, that that phase of the movement is not likely to extend. even the "boy scout" movement has been made use of for the same object. as soon as some corps had been established in ireland, the nationalists started a rival organization with an irish name, in which all the boys solemnly undertake to work for the independence of ireland, and never to join england's armed forces. the boys take a prominent part in the annual ceremonies in honour of wolfe tone, the manchester martyrs, and other nationalist heroes. the whole thing would be laughable if it were not so very sad. even such matters as sports and education, where all creeds and parties might be expected to work together amicably, must be used as instruments to bring about separation; and the result already is not so much to widen the gulf between ireland and england as the gulf between the two parties in ireland; for the protestant minority in the south, who know that most of their children will have to leave the country, are not likely to let them fritter away their youth in the study of a language which can be of no possible benefit to them in any part of the world to which they may go; and the idea that the ulstermen will ever adopt a celtic tongue is too ridiculous to be considered. but perhaps the most painful thought of all is that the nationalists should be ready even to sacrifice the prospects in life of the rising generation of the country in order to satisfy their blind hatred of england. chapter xiii. ireland under the present government. i come now to the policy which has been pursued by the present government since 1906. it must be remembered that the radical party returned to power pledged to home rule as a principle, but with a sufficient majority to enable them to retain office without depending on the irish vote. hence there was no necessity for them to introduce a home rule bill; but of course they set aside the policy of the unionist government, and resolved to govern ireland according to their own ideas. what those ideas were, and what the result has been, i shall now proceed to show; but in doing so i shall as far as possible confine myself to quotations and statistics which can be verified, so that i may not be accused of giving an unfair report. the chief secretary for the first year was mr. bryce, who was afterwards appointed british ambassador at washington. the government at once repealed the act which forbade the carrying of arms without a licence; withdrew all proclamations under the crimes act of 1887; and resolved not to stop any political meetings. accordingly the nationalists commenced holding a series of demonstrations all over the country. a few specimens taken from the speeches made at them will suffice to show their general tenour. "let them all be ready, and when england got into trouble with european powers, they would pounce upon her with the ferocity of a tiger."--_t. walsh, district councillor._ "they must stand together as one man, and make it impossible for england to govern ireland."--_p. white, m.p._ "if there had been 100,000 fenians in ireland at the time of the boer war there might now have been a republic in ireland, and british supremacy would have been tumbled in the dust."--_j. daly, formerly mayor of limerick._ and mr. bryce, when leaving ireland at the end of the year, stated that he had not found any harm in any of the speeches delivered at the meetings. at this time the agitation began to assume a new form. one of the most important of irish industries is the cattle trade with england, the annual value of which exceeds â£14,000,000. in several parts of ireland, notably in meath and the central counties, the soil and climate are specially suited for cattle raising, and the land is generally held in large grazing farms. it was decided by the nationalists in the autumn of 1906 that this industry must be destroyed. bodies of men assembled night after night to break down the fences and gates of the farms and drive the cattle many miles away, in order that the farmers might be ruined and forced to leave the country; and then the derelict farms would be divided amongst the "landless men." l. ginnell, m.p., explained the programme fully in a speech he made in october 1906:- "the ranches must be broken up, not only in westmeath but throughout all ireland ... he advised them to stamp out the ranch demon themselves, and not leave an alien parliament to do the duty ... he advised them to leave the ranches unfenced, unused and unusable ... so that no man or demon would dare to stand another hour between the people and the land that should be theirs." the agitation, commencing in meath, was gradually extended, county by county, over a large part of ireland where the nationalists are supreme. other measures were resorted to, in order to carry out their object. arson, the burning of hayricks, firing into dwelling-houses, spiking meadows, the mutilation of horses and cows, the destruction of turf, the damaging of machinery, and various other forms of lawless violence began to increase and multiply. at the spring assizes in 1907, the chief justice, when addressing the grand jury at ennis, in commenting on the increasing need for placing law-abiding people under special police protection, said:- "in a shire in england, if it was found necessary, either by special protection or protection by patrol, to protect from risk of outrage thirty persons, what would be thought?" and mr. justice kenny at leitrim, after commenting upon the increased number of specially reported cases, as shown by the official statistics, and alluding to several cases of gross intimidation, said:- "in these latter cases i regret to say no one has been made amenable; and when there is such a state of things, it justifies the observation made by the learned judge who presided at last connaught winter assizes, that when the chain of terrorism was complete, no witness would give evidence and no jury would convict." thereupon mr. birrell, who at the beginning of the year had succeeded mr. bryce as chief secretary, having no doubt studied these and similar reports, said in a speech at halifax in the following month:- "you may take my word for this, that ireland is at this moment in a more peaceful condition than for the last six hundred years." soon afterwards, mr. justice ross, who, as judge of the land judge's court, chancery division, was in charge of many estates in ireland, said: "he had known from other receivers about this widespread and audacious conspiracy at present rampant in the west of ireland ... this was actually a conspiracy which on ordinary moral grounds amounted to highway robbery, to seize on these grass lands, to drive away the stock of the people who had been in the habit of taking it; and then, when the owner had been starved out, the estates commissioners were expected to buy up the property and to distribute it amongst the very people who had been urging on the business, and who had been engaged in these outrages." when an ulster member drew attention to this in the house of commons, mr. birrell replied:- "there is no evidence before the government that a widespread conspiracy is rampant in the west of ireland." and in reply to another question he said that:- "the reports he received from the police and other persons revealed the condition of ireland generally as to peace and order as being very satisfactory." during the month of october 1907, twenty-nine claims for compensation from the rates in respect of malicious injuries had been proved and granted in twelve counties, the amount levied from the ratepayers being about â£900. the malicious injuries comprised destruction of and firing into dwelling houses, mutilation of horses and cattle, burning cattle to death, spiking meadows and damaging mowing machines, damages to fences and walls, burning heather and pasturage, damage to gates in connection with cattle driving, and injury to cattle by driving. and in november an attempt was made to assassinate mr. white blake and his mother when driving home from church in the county galway. a few days after this occurred mr. redmond said at a meeting in north wales:- "whilst there is no crime or outrage there is widespread unrest and impatience, and there are, over a certain section of the country, taking place technical breaches of the strict letter of the law in the shape of what is called cattle driving. now let me say first of all that in no instance has any single beast been injured in the smallest degree in any of these cattle-drives; in no instance has any malicious injury been done to property, life or limb, or beast." all this time the government adhered to their determination not to put the crimes act in force, but merely to place accused persons on trial before juries at the assizes. the results were as follows: at the summer assizes in 1907, 167 persons were returned for trial; of these, 57 were actually tried, of whom three were convicted, 31 acquitted, and in 23 cases the juries disagreed. the trials of the remaining 110 were postponed. at the michaelmas sittings, 94 persons were put on trial, of whom 5 were convicted and 2 acquitted; in 72 cases the juries disagreed, and in the remaining 15 the crown abandoned proceedings. at the winter assizes 86 persons were tried for unlawful assembly, riot and conspiracy in connection with cattle-driving. none were convicted; 11 were acquitted; in 12 cases the prisoners were discharged on legal points; and in 63 the juries disagreed. i fully admit that there is much to be said for the juries who refused to convict. when a government is doing its utmost to suppress anarchy and to enforce law and order, it is no doubt the duty of every loyal subject to render assistance even at the risk of his own life and property. but when a government is conniving at anarchy, and deliberately refusing to put in force the act which would put a stop to it, i say it is too much to expect of any man that he should face the prospect of being ruined and probably murdered, and his family reduced to beggary, in order to enable the government to keep up the farce of pretending that they are trying to do their duty. during the first half of 1908, there were 418 reported cases of cattle-driving; and arson, outrages with firearms, meadow-spiking, and similar offences increased in proportion. the judges urged in vain that the law should be put in force. but the policy of the government remained unchanged; the _daily news_ (the government organ) when cattle-driving was at its height said that thanks to the excellent government of mr. birrell cattle-driving now had practically become extinct even in those few parts of the country in which it had existed; and in july mr. birrell, addressing a political meeting at port sunlight, said that:- "they were led to believe that the state of ireland was of an appalling character, that crime predominated, and that lawlessness almost universally prevailed. all he could say was that a more cheerful land was nowhere to be found." in 1909 matters became somewhat quieter, chiefly because mr. birrell promised to introduce a land bill by which the cattle-drivers hoped to get all they wanted. hence their leaders advised them to "give birrell a chance," but mr. redmond warned the government that if they did not carry out their pledge, they would speedily find ireland ungovernable. in february 1909, lord crewe, speaking for the government in the house of lords, made the remarkable statement:- "as regards intimidation, i have always shared the view that well-organized intimidation cannot be checked by law. i know no method of checking it." if this is not an admission that the government had failed in their duty, it is hard to say what is. the result of their line of action will be seen by the following table, which has been taken from various returns which the ulster members, by repeated questions in parliament at last succeeded in forcing mr. birrell to make public:-agrarian outrages 1906 234 " " 1907 372 " " 1908 576 cattle-drives 1905 nil " " 1907-8 513 " " 1908-9 622 " " 1908 219 cattle maiming, mutilating, etc. 1907 142 persons boycotted 1907 196 " " 1908 270 " " 1909 335 cost of extra police 1908 â£47,000 1911. agrarian outrages 581 malicious injuries to property, intimidating by threatening letters, etc. 285 firing into dwelling houses 58 rioting, robbery of arms, etc. 31 killing and maiming cattle 83 it may be asked, why did not the ulster members call the attention of parliament to this state of things? the answer is, they did so again and again; mr. birrell gave stereotyped replies, much after this form, with hardly a variation:- i have seen in the newspapers a report that a few shots were fired into a farmhouse in galway. no one appears to have been seriously injured. the police are making enquiries. no arrests have been made. (he might as well have added that he knew perfectly well that no arrests ever would be made.) then he would go to a political meeting and say that the peaceful condition of ireland was shown by the small number of criminal cases returned for trial at the assizes; and would bitterly denounce the "carrion crows" (as he designated the ulster members) for trying to blacken the reputation of their country. one instance may be given more in detail, as typical of the condition to which ireland had been brought. lord ashtown (a unionist peer residing in county galway) began issuing month by month a series of pamphlets entitled "grievances from ireland." they contained little besides extracts from nationalist papers giving reports of the meetings of the united irish league, the outrages that took place, and the comments of nationalist papers on them. his object was to let the people in england see from the accounts given by the nationalists themselves, what was going on in ireland. this, however, was very objectionable to them; and one of their members asked mr. birrell in the house of commons whether the pamphlets could not be suppressed. mr. birrell made the curious reply that he would be very glad if lord ashtown were stopped, but that he did not see how to do it. what he expected would be the results of that remark, i do not know; but no one living in ireland was much surprised when a few weeks afterwards a bomb outrage occurred at the residence of lord ashtown in the county waterford. it was a clumsy failure. a jar containing gunpowder was placed against the wall of the house where he was staying and set on fire. the explosion wrecked part of the building, but lord ashtown escaped unhurt. he gave notice of his intention to apply at the next assizes for compensation for malicious injury. the usual custom in such cases is for a copy of the police report showing the injury complained of, to be sent to the person seeking compensation; but on this occasion the police refused to show lord ashtown their report, stating that they had received orders from the government not to do so. but shortly before the case came on, a report, not made by the police authority in charge of the district, but by another brought in specially for the purpose, appeared in the nationalist papers. this report contained the remarkable suggestion that lord ashtown had done it himself! when under cross-examination at the trial, the inspector of the royal irish constabulary who made the report was obliged to confess that he did not believe that he had, but had only inserted the suggestion in obedience to instruction received from the government. lord ashtown proved his case and was awarded compensation. but the matter did not end there. he had employed a surveyor, mr. scully, to draw plans and take photographs showing the amount of the damage. mr. scully was surveyor to the waterford corporation. it was proposed at the next meeting of the corporation that he should be dismissed from his office for having given evidence for lord ashtown. the motion was carried unanimously, eight councillors being present; and at the following meeting it was ratified by eight votes to two. a question was asked about the matter in the house of commons; and mr. birrell, with the figures before him, replied that mr. scully had never been dismissed. two other instances of this period must be briefly referred to. it has already been shown how the irish parliament endowed maynooth as a college for roman catholic students both lay and theological; and how trinity college, dublin, opened its doors to all students, without distinction of creed. but the roman catholic church turned maynooth into a seminary for theological students only; and the bishops forbade young laymen to go to trinity. in 1845 sir robert peel attempted to supply the want by founding the queen's university, with colleges at belfast, cork and galway, where mixed education should be given in secular subjects, and separate instruction in those appertaining to religion; but that again was denounced as a "satanic scheme for the ruin of faith in the rising generation"; and the crusade against the university was so successful that in 1879 it was destroyed and another--the royal university--put in its place. this in its turn was abolished in 1909; the college at belfast was raised to the status of a university, and a new university ominously called the "national university" was founded into which the existing colleges at cork and galway were absorbed, with a new and richly endowed college in dublin at the head. it may seem strange that the radical government who are pledged to destroy all religious education in england should found and endow a denominational university in ireland. but the matter could be arranged by a little judicious management and prevarication; it was represented in parliament that the new university was to be strictly unsectarian; during the debate, sir p. magnus, the member for the london university, said that he had no reason to believe that there was any intention on the part of the chief secretary to set up denominational universities in ireland; he accepted his word that they were to be entirely undenominational. then, when the act was passed, the roman catholic archbishop of dublin was appointed chancellor of the national university, with a number of jesuits as professors, and cardinal logue stated as follows:- "no matter what obstacles the nonconformists may have inserted in the constitution of the university to keep it from being catholic, we will make it catholic in spite of them." personally, i do not object to denominational universities. i regret that young men who are going to live in the same country should not be able to study law and medicine together; but if that is their feeling and the feeling of their parents, i admit that having separate universities may be the best solution of the difficulty. but if so, let it be openly avowed that the university is denominational; to "make it catholic" and at the same time to say that it is no injustice to protestants that county scholarships paid for by the ratepayers should be tenable there and nowhere else, seems to me absurd. the other incident to which reference must be made was the great convention held in dublin in 1909. the nationalists, believing that a home rule bill would soon be introduced, devised the scheme of assembling a monster convention, which would be evidence to the world of how admirably fitted the irish people were to govern their own country. it was attended by 2,000 delegates from all parts of the country, who were to form a happy family, as of course no disturbing unionist element would be present to mar the harmony and the clerical element would be strong. mr. redmond, who presided, said in his opening address:- "ireland's capacity for self-government will be judged at home and abroad by the conduct of this assembly. ireland's good name is at stake, and therefore every man who takes part in this assembly should weigh his words and recognise his responsibility." the meeting ended in a free fight. at the end of 1909 mr. asquith did a very clever thing. a general election was pending, and he wished to avoid the mistake which gladstone had made in 1885. he therefore, at a great meeting at the albert hall unfolded an elaborate programme of the long list of measures which the government would introduce and carry, and in the course of his remarks said that home rule was the only solution of the irish problem, and that in the new house of commons the hands of a liberal government and of a liberal majority would in this matter be entirely free. he and his followers carefully abstained from referring to the subject in their election addresses; and mr. asquith was thus free, if he should obtain a majority independent of the irish vote, to say that he had never promised to make home rule part of his programme; but if he found he could not retain office without that vote, he might buy it by promising to introduce the bill and refer to his words at the albert hall as justification for doing so. the latter happened; hence the "coalition ministry." the irish party consented to please the radicals by voting for the budget, and the nonconformists by voting for welsh disestablishment, on condition that they should in return vote for home rule. as mr. hobhouse (a cabinet minister) expressed it in 1911:- "next year we must pay our debt to the nationalist members, who were good enough to vote for a budget which they detested and knew would be an injury to their country." but the people of england still had to be hood-winked. it was hardly likely that they would consent to their representatives voting for the separation of ireland from great britain; so the nationalists and their radical allies went about england declaring that they had no wish for such a thing; that all they desired was a subordinate parliament leaving the imperial parliament supreme. thus mr. redmond suggested at one meeting that ireland should be conceded the right of managing her own purely local affairs for herself in a subordinate parliament, subject to the supremacy of the imperial parliament; and at another meeting said: "we are not asking for a repeal of the union. we are not asking for the restoration of a co-ordinate parliament such as ireland had before the union. we are only asking that there should be given to ireland a subordinate parliament. we therefore admit the supremacy of the imperial parliament. that means that after this subordinate parliament is created in ireland, if the parliament is foolish enough, rash enough, as it never will be, but if it were foolish enough and criminal enough to use the powers given to it for injustice or oppression of any class or creed, the imperial parliament would have the power to stretch forth the arm of its authority and to say 'you shall not do that.'" of course it may be argued that they had changed their minds; that in former times they worked for separation, but now realised that a subordinate parliament was all that ireland required. but unfortunately for this theory, they have themselves repudiated it; when mr. redmond was accused of speaking with two voices, one in america and one in great britain, he passionately replied:- "i indignantly deny that accusation. i have never in my life said one word on a platform in america one whit stronger than i had said in my place on the floor of the house of commons. i have never in america or anywhere else, advocated the separation of ireland from great britain." how far this is true, the quotations from his speeches which have already been given, will have shown. but the government have kept up the farce; mr. winston churchill said during the debate on the bill of 1912:- "the home rule movement has never been a separatist movement. in the whole course of its career it has been a moderating, modifying movement, designed to secure the recognition of irish claims within the circuit of the british empire." but not even the immediate prospect of home rule can be said to have made those parts of ireland where the league is supreme a happy place of residence to any but advanced nationalists. the following report of a case in the magistrate's court at ennis in november 1912 will speak for the condition of the county clare:- patrick arkins was charged with knocking down walls on the farm of mrs. fitzpatrick in order to compel her to give up the farm. inspector davis gave evidence that from january 1910 to that date there were 104 serious outrages in his district. in 42 firearms were used, 27 were malicious injuries, 32 were threatening notices, 1 case of bomb explosion outside a house, 1 robbery of arms, and 1 attempted robbery. a sum of â£268 had been awarded as compensation for malicious injury and there were claims for â£75 pending for malicious injuries committed during the week ended 11th inst. there were two persons under constant police protection, and 16 receiving protection by patrol. head constable mulligan said that mrs. fitzpatrick was under police protection. since february 11th, 1912, there had been 12 outrages in the district, mrs. fitzpatrick was under almost constant police protection. acting sergeant beegan deposed that there had been 12 outrages on the fitzpatrick family during the last four years; these included driving cattle off the lands, threatening notices, firing shots at the house, knocking down walls, spiking meadows; the new roof of a hay barn was perforated with bullets, and at kiltonaghty chapel there were notices threatening death to anyone who would work for mrs. fitzpatrick. timothy fitzpatrick gave similar evidence as to the outrages, and said that his father had taken the farm twenty-one years ago, and had paid the son of the former tenant â£40 for his goodwill. (i may add that arkins was committed for trial, convicted at the assizes and sentenced to seven years penal servitude; and was released by mr. birrell a few weeks afterwards.) in another clare case, in february of the present year, the resident magistrate said as follows:- "it is a mistake to say that these outrages are arising out of disputes between landlord and tenant; nine out of ten arise out of petty disputes about land. what is the use of having new land laws? a case occurred not long ago in this county of a man who had bought some land twenty years ago, and paid down hard cash to the outgoing tenant. the man died, and left a widow and children on the land for fourteen years. but in 1908 a man who had some ulterior object got the man who had sold the farm to send in a claim under the evicted tenant's act, which was rejected. that was what the advisers of the man wanted--they only wanted a pretext for moonlighting and other disgraceful outrages, and the woman was kept in a hell for four years. a man was caught at last and convicted, and one would think that this was a subject for rejoicing for all right-minded men in the county. but what was the result? a perfect tornado of letters was printed, and resolutions and speeches appeared in the public press, condemning this conviction of a moonlighter in clare as an outrage against justice." the roman catholic bishop of killaloe, in a sermon preached in december 1912, referring to county clare said:- "that county had had an evil record in the matter of crime, and they were so accustomed to outrages of almost weekly occurrence around them that it was not easy to shock them. there was an inoffensive family sitting round the fireside with a couple of neighbours. they had given no offence, they had wronged no man, they had crossed no man's path. but that inhuman beast went to the door and lifted the latch, and there, at a few yards distance, fired into that innocent group of men, women and children, as if they were a flock of crows, killing the mother outright and almost blowing the forehead off a young girl. there was no denying the fact that that brutal murder was the natural outcome of the disgraceful system of intimidation and outrage that had been rampant for a long time in certain districts of that unhappy county and of the immunity from punishment enjoyed by the wicked and cowardly moonlighter. in addition to their other acts of savagery, they had shot out the eyes of two men within the last couple of years. a decent, honest man was shot on the road to ennis. the people passed the wounded man by and refused to take him into their car through fear. not one of these well-known miscreants was brought to justice. the murderers of poor garvey, the cow-houghers, the hay-burners, were said to be known. in any other country, for instance in the united states, such ruffianism would be hunted down or lynched; but there, in the places he referred to, they had a curtain of security drawn round them by the cowardice or perverted moral sense on the part of the community amongst whom they lived.... it was only last thursday night, before the county had recovered from the shock of mrs. o'mara's murder, that right over the mountain an unfortunate postman was shot on the public road between crusheen and baliluran for no other reason apparently than that another fellow wanted his job of one and six-pence a day! it has come to this, that if you differ with one of them for a shilling, or refuse to give him his way in everything the first thing that comes into his head is to moonlight you.... they have not elevation or social instinct to settle their petty disputes by process of law provided for the purpose by a civilized society, nor have they christianity enough to bear a little wrong or disappointment for christ's sake. no, nor the manliness even to meet an opponent face to face and see it out with him like a man; but with the cunning of a mean and vicious dog, he steals behind him in the dark and shoots him in the back, or murders the helpless woman of his family, or shoots out the eyes of the poor man's horse, or cuts the throat of his bullock and spikes his beast upon a gate." nor has the present year brought much improvement. in may 1913, mr. r. maunsell was fired at and wounded close to the town of ennis. his crime was that he managed a farm for a mr. bannatyne, whose family had been in possession of it for about sixty years, but who had recently been denounced by the united irish league and ordered to surrender it. as he has refused to do so, he is now compelled to live under police protection. the abolition of landlordism and the acquisition of firearms can hardly be said to have brought peace and tranquillity to the county of clare. and as to galway, we may gather the state of affairs from the report of a case tried at the winter assizes of 1912. three men were charged with having done grievous bodily harm to a man named conolly. conolly swore that he knew a man named broderick who had become unpopular but he (conolly) kept to him and this brought displeasure on him from the accused and others. on the night of the 11th september he went to bed; he was subsequently awakened and found 44 grains of shot in his left knee and four in his right. he then lay flat on the floor. other shots were fired through the window but did not strike him. the judge said the district was a disgrace to ireland. day after day, night after night, heaps of outrages were committed there, and not one offender was made amenable to justice. the jury disagreed, and the accused were again put on their trial. the judge in charging the jury on the second trial said that then, and for some time, the district was swarming with police, and though outrages were frequent, it was impossible for them to bring anyone to justice. no one was sure he might not be fired at during the night; and people were afraid to give evidence. the jury again disagreed. during the autumn of 1912 an effort was made to hold a series of meetings throughout the south and west of ireland to protest against home rule. the conduct of the nationalists with regard to them supplies a striking commentary on mr. redmond's statement at banbury not long before, that all through his political life he had preached conciliation towards those who differed from him on the question of home rule. the meetings were in some cases stopped by force; at limerick the windows of the protestant church and of some houses occupied by protestants were smashed; at tralee the principal speaker was a large farmer named crosbie; all his hay and sheds were burned down, and he was awarded â£600 compensation by the county court judge. but an incident had occurred in the north which, though in a sense comparatively slight, has, in consequence of the circumstances connected with it, done more to inflame the men of ulster than persons not living in ireland can realise. in june of last year a party of sunday school children from a suburb of belfast went for a picnic to castledawson (co. derry) under the charge of a presbyterian minister and a few teachers and ladies. on their way back to the railway station, they were met and assailed by a procession of men belonging to the order of hibernians armed with pikes who attacked the children with the pikes and with stones, seized a union jack which a small boy was carrying, and knocked down and kicked some of the girls and teachers. worse might have happened had not some protestant young men, seeing what was going on, come to the rescue. the minister was struck with stones whilst he was endeavouring to get some of the children to a place of safety. no nationalist has ever expressed the slightest regret at the occurrence. several of the aggressors were tried at the winter assizes and sentenced to three months' imprisonment. before the end of the term they were released by order of the government. mr. birrell, in justifying his action, said that the judge had remarked that there was no evidence before him of actual injury. this, like many of his statements, was literally true; but he omitted to mention that he had prevented the evidence from being given; the injured women and children were quite ready to give their testimony, but were not called by the counsel for the crown. it is unnecessary to say that this foretaste of home rule government has made the presbyterians of ulster more determined than ever to resist it to the bitter end. i shall next proceed to consider the bill which the government have introduced as a panacea for the woes of ireland. chapter xiv. criticism of the bill now before the country. that the maintenance of the union is possible, and that complete separation is possible, are two indisputable facts. but the question is, was wolfe tone right when he said that these were the only two possibilities; or is there a third one, and if so, what? residents in the dominions will naturally be inclined to reply "yes; place ireland in the position of a colony possessing responsible government, such as new zealand." it is a taking idea; but a little reflection will show the falseness of the analogy. the relations between the mother country and the self-governing colonies (now often called "dominions") have grown up of themselves; and, like most political conditions which have so come about, are theoretically illogical but practically convenient. the practical convenience arises partly from the friendly spirit which animates both parties, but still more from the nature of the case. the distance which separates the mother country from the dominions causes the anomalies to be scarcely perceptible. in theory the sovereign, acting on the advice of british ministers, can disallow any colonial statute, and the british parliament is supreme--it can pass laws that will bind the colonies, even laws imposing taxes. but we all know that if the home government were persistently to veto laws passed by the large majority of the people in new zealand, or the british parliament were to attempt to legislate for the colonies, relations would at once become strained, and separation would be inevitable. the only important matters on which the home government attempts to bind the colonies are those relating to foreign countries (which are necessarily of an imperial nature) and those as to which the colonies themselves wish to have an act passed, such as the act establishing australian federation. in other words, the "supremacy of parliament," which is a stern reality in england, has very little meaning as regards new zealand. even if the people of new zealand were to manage the affairs of their country in a manner contrary to english ideas--for instance if they were to establish state lotteries and public gambling tables--england would be but slightly affected, and certainly would never think of taking steps to prevent them. and those matters in which the home government is obliged to act are just those in which new zealand has no desire to interfere; for instance, new zealand would never want to appoint consuls of her own (which was the immediate cause of the separation between norway and sweden); in the very few cases in which new zealand desires to make use of political or commercial agents abroad, she is content to employ the british representatives, for whom she is not called upon to pay. if new zealand attempted to take part in a european war in which england was not concerned--the idea is almost too absurd to suggest--the only thing that england could do would be to break off the connection and repudiate new zealand altogether. and if new zealand desired to separate from the mother country, many people would think it a most grievous mistake, but england certainly would not seek to prevent her doing so by force; and though england would in some ways be the worse for it, the government of england and of the rest of the empire would go on much the same as before. in certain points, it is true, thoughtful men have generally come to the conclusion that the present state of affairs cannot go on unchanged; the time is coming when the great dominions must provide for their own defence by sea as well as by land; and whether this is to be done by separate navies working together or by joint contributions to a common navy, it will probably result in the formation of some imperial council in which all parts will have a voice. that however, is a matter for future discussion and arrangement. but when we turn to ireland, everything is different. the two islands are separated by less than fifty miles. ireland has for more than a century been adequately represented in the imperial parliament; the journey from galway to london is shorter than that from auckland or dunedin to wellington. so long as europe remains as it is, great britain and ireland must have a common system of defence--which means one army, one navy, and one plan of fortifications. again, irishmen, traders and others, will constantly have to make use of government agents in other countries. now unless great britain is to arrange and pay for the whole of this, we are met at once by the insoluble problem of irish representation in the british parliament. if ireland is not represented there, we are faced with the old difficulty of taxation without representation; if ireland is represented there for all purposes, ireland can interfere in the local affairs of england, but england cannot in those of ireland; if we have what has been called the "in-and-out" scheme as proposed by gladstone in 1893--that is, for the irish members to vote on all questions of an imperial nature, but to retire when matters affecting england only are under discussion--then, even if the line could be drawn (which is doubtful) we might have the absurdity of an english ministry which possessed the confidence of the majority of englishmen and whose management of england met their approval, being turned out of office by the irish vote, and england being governed according to a policy which the majority of englishmen detested. of course it may be said that there ought to be a number of small parliaments in the british isles, like those in the provinces of canada or the states of australia, with one great parliament supreme over them--in other words, federation. that might be a good thing, although it would in its turn start many difficulties which it is unnecessary now to discuss, for it is not home rule nor does home rule lead to it. federal systems arise by the union of separate states, each state giving up a part of its power to a joint body which can levy taxes and can overrule the local authorities. in fact, when federation comes about, the states cease to be nations. (i must here remark in passing that constant confusion has been caused by the various senses in which the word "nation" is used. thus it is often quite correctly employed in a sentimental sense--we speak of scottish national character, or of the national bible society of scotland, though scotland has no separate parliament or flag and would on a map of europe be painted the same colour as the rest of great britain. quite distinct from that is the political sense, in which the irish nationalists use the word when speaking of being "a nation once again," or of "the national independence of ireland.") it might be possible for the united kingdom to be broken up into a federation (though it is strange that there is no precedent in history for such a course); but that would not be "satisfying the national aspirations of ireland." in fact, as mr. childers, one of the ablest of english advocates of home rule, has stated: "the term federal, as applied to irish home rule at the present time, is meaningless." but when we come to examine the existing bill, which will become law in 1914 unless something unforeseen occurs, we find that it is neither the colonial plan nor federation but an elaborate system which really seems as if it had been devised with the object of satisfying nobody and producing friction at every point. england (by which of course i mean great britain; i merely use the shorter term for convenience) is not only to pay the total cost of the army, navy and diplomatic services, including the defences of ireland, but is also to grant an annual subsidy to ireland commencing with â£500,000 but subsequently reduced to â£200,000. whether the english taxpayer will relish this when he comes to realise it, may be doubted. certainly no precedent can be cited for a federal system under which all the common expenditure is borne by one of the parties. and further, the present government state freely that they hope to carry out their policy by introducing a bill for home rule for scotland and possibly also for wales. will the scotch and welsh consent to contribute towards the government of ireland; or will they demand that they shall be treated like ireland, and leave the people of england to pay all imperial services and to subsidize ireland, scotland and wales? then again, ireland is to send forty-two representatives to what is still sarcastically to be called the "parliament of the united kingdom," but will no doubt popularly be known as the english parliament. they are to vote about the taxation of people in great britain, and to interfere in local affairs of that country, whilst the people of great britain are not to tax ireland or interfere in any way with its affairs. this is indeed representation without taxation. of course it is inevitable that the irish members will continue to do what they are doing at present--that is, offer their votes to whatever party will promise further concessions to irish nationalism; and they will probably find no more difficulty in getting an english party to consent to such an immoral bargain than they do now. the provisions as to legislation for ireland are still more extraordinary. the irish parliament is to have complete power of legislating as to irish affairs, with the exception of certain matters enumerated in the act; thus it may repeal any acts of the imperial parliament passed before 1914. on the other hand, the english parliament (in which ireland will have only forty-two representatives) will also be able to pass laws binding ireland (and in this way to re-enact the laws which the irish parliament has just repealed), and these new laws the irish parliament may not repeal or overrule. now this power of the english parliament will either be a reality or a farce; if it is a reality, the irish nationalists will be no more inclined to submit to laws made by "an alien parliament" in which they have only forty-two representatives than they are at present to submit to those made by one in which they have 103; if it is a farce, the "supremacy of the imperial parliament" is a misleading expression. the lord lieutenant is to act as to some matters on the advice of the irish ministry, as to others on the advice of the english. anyone who has studied the history of constitutional government in the colonies in the early days, when the governor was still supposed to act as to certain affairs independently of ministerial advice, will see the confusion to which this must lead. suppose the lord lieutenant acts on the advice of the english ministers in a way of which the irish parliament do not approve, and the irish ministry resign in consequence, what can result but a deadlock? but most extraordinary of all are the provisions as to finance. the government appointed a committee of experts to consider this question. the committee made their report; but the government rejected their advice and substituted another plan which is so elaborate that it is only possible to touch on some of its more important features here. i have already said that the english parliament will have no power to tax ireland. that statement, however, must be taken subject to two reservations. the bill provides that if ever the happy day arrives when for three consecutive years the revenue of ireland has exceeded the cost of government, the english parliament (with the addition of twenty-three extra members summoned from ireland for the purpose) may make new provisions securing from ireland a contribution towards imperial expenditure. as this is the only reference to the subject in the bill, the general opinion was that until those improbable circumstances should occur, the english parliament would have no power to tax ireland; but when the debates were drawing to a close, the government astonished the house by stating that according to their construction of the bill, should any new emergency arise at any time after the bill becomes law (for instance, a great naval emergency requiring an addition to the income tax) it would be not merely the right but also the duty of the imperial chancellor of the exchequer to see that the charge should be borne by the whole united kingdom--in other words, the parliament in which ireland possesses only forty-two representatives may and ought to tax ireland for imperial purposes. the friction which will arise should any attempt of the sort be made, especially as the power is not stated in the bill, is evident. in plain words, it will be impossible to levy the tax. but apart from these rights, which one may safely say will never be exercised, the financial arrangements will from their very complexity be a constant source of trouble. all taxes levied in ireland are to be paid into the english exchequer (or as it is called in the bill "the exchequer of the united kingdom"). some of the objects for which these taxes have been levied are to be managed by the irish government--these are called "irish services"; others are to be managed by the english government--these are called "reserved services." the english exchequer will then hand over to the irish exchequer:- (a) a sum representing the net cost to the exchequer of the united kingdom of "irish services" at the time of the passing of the act; (b) the sum of â£500,000 a year, reducible to â£200,000, above referred to; and (c) a sum equal to the proceeds of any new taxes levied by the irish parliament. then the balance which the english exchequer will retain, after handing over these three sums, will go to the "reserved services." but as, in consequence of the establishment of the old age pensions and some other similar liabilities, the aggregate cost of governing ireland at this moment exceeds the revenue derived from ireland by about â£1,500,000, the english taxpayer will have to make up this sum, as well as to give to ireland an annual present of â£500,000; and even if the irish government succeeds in managing its affairs more economically than the government at present does, that will give no relief to the british taxpayer, for it will be observed that the first of the three sums which the exchequer of the united kingdom is to hand over is not a sum representing the cost of the "irish services" at any future date but the cost at the time of the passing of the act. it is possible of course that the irish revenue derived from existing taxes may increase, and so the burden on the english taxpayer may be lightened; but as it is more probable that it will decrease, and consequently the burden become heavier, the english taxpayer cannot derive much consolation from that. it will be seen from the foregoing remarks that a number of extremely intricate and difficult financial questions must arise; for instance, what sum really represents the net cost of "irish services" at the time of the passing of the act; what sum equals the net proceeds of new taxes imposed by the irish parliament; and at what moment it can be said that the revenue of ireland has for three consecutive years exceeded the cost of government. all such matters are to be decided by a board of five, of whom one is to be nominated by the king (presumably on the advice of the english ministers), two by the english government, and two by the irish. from the decisions of this board on matters of fact there is to be no appeal. it is needless to point out that every detail in which the three english members overrule the two irish will be fought out again in the english parliament by the forty irish members. this again will show how vain is the hope that future english parliaments will be relieved from endless discussions as to irish affairs. professor dicey has well named the able work in which he has analysed the bill and shown its impossibilities "a fool's paradise." the provisions concerning those matters as to which the irish parliament is to have no power to legislate are as strange as the other clauses of the bill. for six years the constabulary are to be a "reserved service"; but as they will be under the orders of the irish government, the object of this is hard to see--unless indeed it is to create an impression that the ulstermen if they refuse to obey them are rebelling not against the irish but the imperial government. the post office savings banks are "reserved" for a longer period; as to the postal services to places beyond ireland, the irish parliament will have no power to legislate; but the post office, so far as it relates to ireland alone, will be handed over at once to the irish parliament--although even in the case of federal unions such as australia the post office is usually considered to be eminently a matter for the federal authority. and the question whether an irish act is unconstitutional and therefore void will be decided by the privy council, which will be regarded as an essentially english body; hence if it attempts to veto an irish act, its action will be at once denounced as a revival of poyning's act and the declaratory act of george i. the bill excludes the relations with foreign states from the powers of the irish parliament, but says nothing to prevent the irish government from appointing a political agent to the vatican. that is probably one of the first things that it will do; and as the lord lieutenant could never form a government which would consent to any other course, he will be obliged to consent. this agent, not being responsible to the british foreign office, may cause constant friction between england and italy. but quite apart from the unworkable provisions of the bill, everything connected with its introduction and passing through parliament has tended to increase the hatred which the opposition feel towards it, and the determination of the ulstermen to resist it if necessary even by force. those who lived in australia whilst federation was under discussion will recollect how carefully the scheme was brought before the people, discussed in various colonial parliaments, considered over again line by line by the delegates in an inter-colonial conference, examined afresh in the colonial office in london and in the imperial parliament and finally laid before each colony for its acceptance. yet here is a matter which vitally affects the government not of ireland only but of the whole united kingdom, and thus indirectly of the empire at large; it was (as i have shown) not fairly brought before the people at a general election; it has been introduced by what is admittedly merely a coalition government as a matter of bargain between the various sections, at a time when the british constitution is in a state of dislocation, as the power of the house of lords has been destroyed and the new upper chamber not yet set up; and it has been passed without adequate discussion. this i say deliberately; it is no use to point out how many hours have been spent in committee, for the way in which the discussion has been conducted has deprived it of any real value. the custom has been for the government to state beforehand the time at which each batch of clauses is to be passed, and what amendments may be discussed (the rest being passed over in silence); when the discussion is supposed to begin, their supporters ostentatiously walk out, and the opposition argue to empty benches; then when the moment for closing the discussion arrives, the minister in charge gets up and says that the government cannot accept any of the amendments proposed; the bell rings, the government supporters troop back, and pass all the clauses unamended. as an instance of this contemptible way of conducting the debate, it is sufficient to point to the fact already mentioned, that so vital a matter as the power of the english parliament to tax ireland was not even hinted at until nearly the end of the debates. and now the bill is to become law without any further appeal to the people. are english unionists to be blamed if they declare that an act so passed will possess no moral obligation, and that they are determined, should the terrible necessity arise, to aid the ulstermen in resisting it to the uttermost? chapter xv. the danger to the empire of any form of home rule. the questions answered. in the last chapter i explained how hopelessly unworkable is the particular scheme of home rule which is contained in the present bill. i now proceed to show why home rule in any form must lead to disaster--primarily to ireland, ultimately to the empire. politicians who, like ostriches, possess the happy faculty of shutting their eyes to unpleasant facts, may say that there is only one nation in ireland; but everyone who knows the country is quite aware that there are two, which may be held together as part of the united kingdom, but which can no more be forced into one nation than belgium and holland could be forced to combine as the kingdom of the netherlands. and whatever cross-currents there may be, the great line of cleavage is religion. of course i am aware of the violent efforts that have been made ever since the commencement of the nationalist agitation to prove that this is not so. thus parnell, addressing an english audience, explained that religion had nothing to do with the movement, and as evidence stated that he was the leader of it though not merely a protestant but a member of the protestant synod and a parochial nominator for his own parish. of course everyone in ireland knew perfectly well that he was only a protestant in the sense that garibaldi was a roman catholic--he had been baptised as such in infancy; and that he was not a member of the synod or a parochial nominator, and never had been one; but the statement was good enough to deceive his nonconformist hearers. that protestant home rulers exist is not denied. but the numbers are so small that it is evident that they are the rare exceptions that prove the rule. the very anxiety with which, when a protestant home ruler can be discovered he is put forward, and the fact of his being a protestant home ruler referred to again and again, shows what a rare bird he is. to mention one instance amongst many; a protestant home ruler has recently been speaking on platforms in england explaining that he came in a representative capacity in order to testify to the people of england that the irish protestants were now in favour of home rule. he did not mention the fact that in the district where he resided there were about 1,000 protestants and he was the only home ruler amongst them--in fact, nearly all the rest had signed a petition against the bill. and when we come to examine who these protestant home rulers are, about whom so much has been said, we find first that there is in this as in every other movement, a very small number of faddists, who like to go against their own party; secondly a few who though they still call themselves protestants have to all intents and purposes abandoned their religion, and therefore cannot fairly be reckoned; thirdly, a few who hold appointments from which they would be dismissed if they did not conform; fourthly, some who say openly that home rule is coming and that whatever their private opinions may be it is the wisest policy to worship the rising sun (bearing in mind that mr. dillon has promised that when the nationalists attain their end they will remember who were their friends and who their enemies, and deal out rewards and punishments accordingly); and fifthly, those who have accepted what future historians will describe as bribes. for the present government have showered down peerages, knighthoods of various orders, lieutenancies of counties, deputy-lieutenancies and commissions of the peace--not to speak of salaried offices both in ireland and elsewhere--on protestants who would consent to turn nationalists, in a manner which makes it absurd to talk any more about bribery at the time of the union. and yet with all this the protestant home rulers are such an extremely small body that they may be disregarded. and indeed it is hard to see how an earnest, consistent and logically-minded protestant can be a nationalist; for loyalty to the king is a part of his creed; and, in the words of a nationalist organ, the _midland tribune_, "if a man be a nationalist he must _ipso facto_ be a disloyalist, for irish nationalism and loyalty to the throne of england could not be synonymous." on the other hand, a large proportion of the educated roman catholics, the men who have a real stake in the country, are unionists. some of them, however earnest they may be in their religion, dread the domination of a political priesthood; others dread still more the union of the church with anarchism. as has already been shown, they refuse to join the united irish league; some in the north have actually subscribed the ulster covenant; many others have signed petitions against home rule throughout the country; and a still larger number have stated that they would gladly do so if they did not fear the consequences. it is probably therefore correct to say that the number of unionists in ireland decidedly exceeds the number of protestants; in other words, less than three-fourths of the population are nationalists, and more than one-fourth (perhaps about one-third) are unionists. and more than that; if we are to test the reality of a movement, we must look not merely at numbers but at other matters. violent language may be used; but the fact remains as i have previously stated that even if the nationalists are taken as being only two-thirds of the population, their annual subscriptions to the cause do not amount to anything like a penny per head and that the agitation could not last for six months if it were not kept alive by contributions from america and the colonies. but though the nationalist movement has not brought about a union between the orange and the green, it has caused two other unions to be formed which will have an important influence on the future history of the country. in the first place it has revived, or cemented, the union which, as we have seen, existed at former periods of irish history, but which has existed in no other country in the world--the union between the black and the red. that a union between two forces so essentially antagonistic as ultramontanism and jacobinism will be permanent, one can hardly suppose; whether the clericals, if they succeed in crushing the heretics, will afterwards be able to turn and crush the anarchists with whom they have been in alliance, and then reign supreme; or whether, as happened in france at the end of the eighteenth century and in portugal recently, the anarchists who have grown up within the bosom of the church will prove to be a more deadly foe to the clericals than the heretics ever were--it is impossible to say; but neither prospect seems very cheerful. in the second place, the nationalist movement has drawn all the protestant bodies together as nothing else could. episcopalians, presbyterians and methodists have all joined hands in the defence of their common liberties. the nationalists have left no stone unturned in their efforts to prove that the northern protestants are disloyal. they have succeeded in finding one speech that was made by an excited orator (not a leader) forty-four years ago, to the effect that the disestablishment of the church might result in the queen's crown being kicked into the boyne. as this is the only instance they can rake up, it has been quoted in the house of commons and elsewhere again and again; and mr. birrell (whose knowledge of ireland seems to be entirely derived from nationalist speeches) has recently elaborated it by saying that when the church was going to be disestablished "they used to declare" that the queen's crown would be kicked into the boyne, and yet their threats came to nothing and therefore the result of home rule will be the same. the fact was that the church establishment was the last relic of protestant ascendancy; and as i have already shown, that meant anglican ascendancy in which presbyterianism did not participate; hence, when the agitation for disestablishment arose, though some few presbyterians greatly disliked it, their opposition as a whole was lukewarm. but when in 1886 home rule became a question of practical politics, they rose up against it as one man; in 1893, when the second home rule bill was introduced and actually passed the house of commons, they commenced organising their volunteer army to resist it, if necessary, by force of arms; and they are just as keen to-day as they were twenty years ago. they are certainly not disloyal; the republican spirit which permeated their ancestors in the eighteenth century has long since died out completely. sir walter scott said that if he had lived at the time of the union between scotland and england, he would have fought against it; but, living a century later and seeing the benefit that it had been to his country, his feelings were all on the other side. that is what the presbyterians of ulster say to-day. they point to the way in which ulster has, under the union, been able to develop itself; with no richer soil, no better climate, and no greater natural advantages than other parts of ireland, the energy, ability, and true patriotism of the people have enabled them to establish and encourage commerce and manufactures which have brought wealth and prosperity to ulster whilst the other provinces have been stationary or retrograde. there cannot be a better instance of the different spirit which animates the two communities than the history of the linen industry. michael davitt bitterly described it as "not an irish, but an orange industry." and from his point of view, he was quite right; for it is practically confined to ulster. in that province it has during the nineteenth century developed so steadily that the annual export now exceeds â£15,000,000 in value and more than 70,000 hands are employed in the mills. not long ago, a royal commission was appointed to enquire whether it was not possible to grow flax in the south and west, and if so why it was not done. the commission made careful enquiries, and reported that in both munster and connaught efforts had been made to establish the industry (notably by the late lord bandon, one of the much-abused landlord class, who had let land for the purpose at a nominal charge, obtained seed and brought experts from the north to instruct the people); that it had been proved that both soil and climate were quite as well adapted for it as in ulster; but that after a few years the buyers refused any longer to purchase the flax as it was so carelessly and badly prepared that it was valueless; and so the industry had died out. in both south and west the people expressed their readiness to revive it if a large grant were made to them by the government, but not otherwise. then again we may take the growth of the cities. it seems hard now to realise that one reason why the people of dublin opposed the union was because they feared lest, when their city ceased to be the capital, cork might grow into a great industrial centre and surpass it. cork has remained stationary ever since; belfast, then an insignificant country town, has become a city of 400,000 inhabitants, and the customs from it alone are more than double those from all the rest of ireland put together. and what is true of belfast is true also on a smaller scale of all the other towns north of the boyne. this remarkable contrast between the progress of the north-east and the stagnation of the rest of the country is no new thing. it has been observed ever since the union. so long ago as 1832 the report of the commission on the linen manufacture of ireland contained the following words:- "political and religious animosities and dissensions, and increasing agitation first for one object and then for another have so destroyed confidence and shaken the bonds of society--undermined men's principles and estranged neighbour from neighbour, friend from friend, and class from class--that, in lieu of observing any common effort to ameliorate the condition of the people, we find every proposition for this object, emanate from which party it may, received with distrust by the other; maligned, perverted and destroyed, to gratify the political purposes of a faction.... the comparative prosperity enjoyed by that portion of ireland where tranquillity ordinarily prevails, such as the counties down, antrim, and derry, testify the capabilities of ireland to work out her own regeneration, when freed of the disturbing causes which have so long impeded her progress in civilization and improvement. we find there a population hardy, healthy and employed; capital fast flowing into the district; new sources of employment daily developing themselves; a people well disposed alike to the government and institutions of their country; and not distrustful and jealous of their superiors. contrast the social condition of these people with such pictures as we have presented to us from other districts." this energetic, self-reliant and prosperous community now see before their eyes what the practical working of government by the league is. they see it generally in the condition of the country, and especially in the dublin convention of 1909, the narrow-minded administration of the local government act wherever the power of the league prevails, and the insecurity for life and property in the west; they know also that a home rule government must mean increased taxation (as the nationalists themselves confess) which will probably--in fact, one may almost say must certainly, as no other source is available--be thrown on the ulster manufactures; is it not therefore a matter of life and death to them to resist it to the uttermost? but as i have said, the great line of cleavage is religion. here i know that i shall be accused of "orange bigotry." but i am not afraid of the charge; first because i do not happen to be an orangeman; and secondly because i regard bigotry as the outcome of ignorance and prejudice, and consider therefore that a calm examination of the evidence is the very antithesis of bigotry. in order to make this examination i desire in the first place to avoid the mistake that grattan made in judging the probabilities of the future from the opinions of personal friends whom i like and respect, but who, as i know (and regret to think), possess no influence whatever. i consider that there are other data--such as works of authority, the action of the public bodies, statements by men in prominent positions, and articles in leading journals--from which it is safer to form an estimate. the ulstermen are content that the country should be governed, as far as religion is concerned, on modern principles--that is to say, in much the same way that england, australia and new zealand are governed to-day. the nationalists, whatever they may say in england or the colonies, have never in ireland from the commencement of the movement attempted to deny that their object is to see ireland governed on principles which are totally different and which the ulstermen detest. as long ago as 1886, the _freeman's journal_, the leading nationalist organ, said:- "we contend that the good government of ireland by england is impossible ... the one people has not only accepted but retained with inviolable constancy the christian faith; the other has not only rejected it, but has been for three centuries the leader of the great apostasy, and is at this day the principal obstacle to the conversion of the world." and as recently as december 1912, professor nolan of maynooth, addressing the roman catholic students at the belfast university, said:- "humanly speaking, we are on the eve of home rule. we shall have a free hand in the future. let us use it well. this is a catholic country, and if we do not govern it on catholic lines, according to catholic ideals, and to safe-guard catholic interests, it will be all the worse for the country and all the worse for us. we have now a momentous opportunity of changing the whole course of irish history." then another of their papers, the _rosary_, has said: "we have played the game of tolerance until the game is played out"; and has prophesied that under home rule the church will become an irresistible engine before whom all opposition must go down. and whatever the educated laity may desire, no one who knows ireland can doubt that it is the clerical faction that will be all-powerful. the leading ecclesiastics are trained at the gregorian university at rome; and one of the professors at that institution, in a work published in 1901 with the special approval of pope leo xiii, enunciated the doctrine that it is the duty of a christian state to put to death heretics who have been condemned by the ecclesiastical court. of course no one supposes that such a thing will ever take place in ireland; but what the ulstermen object to is putting themselves under the rule of men who have been trained in such principles and believe them to be approved by an infallible authority. in 1904 some foreign merchants at barcelona wished to build a church for themselves. republican feeling is so strong in the municipality that permission was obtained without difficulty. but the bishop at once protested and appealed to the king. the king wrote back a sympathetic letter expressing his deep regret that he was unable to prevent this fresh attack on the catholic faith. we are constantly being told that the tolerance and liberality shown by the majority in quebec is sufficient of itself to prove how foolish are the apprehensions felt by the minority in ireland. well, i will quote from a journal which cannot be accused of protestant bias, the _irish independent_, one of the leading organs of the nationalist-clerical party in ireland:- "(from our own correspondent.) "montreal, thursday. "in connection with the celebration of the anniversary of wolfe's victory and death, which takes place in september, prominent members of the anglican church have inaugurated a movement for the erection of a wolfe memorial chapel on the plains of abraham. the organisers of the movement hope ultimately to secure the transfer of the general's remains to the chapel for interment on the scene of his victory. "the population being largely french-canadian catholics, the catholic church organ of quebec strongly protests against the erection of an anglican chapel in the heart of a catholic district." now if this conduct on the part of the roman catholic authorities is quite right at barcelona and quebec, why is it "orange bigotry" to suggest that the same people may act in the same way at cork or galway? again, in 1910, a remarkable volume was published, written by mrs. hugh fraser, the sister of the novelist, marion crawford, entitled "a diplomat's wife in many lands." the authoress was a very able woman, who had travelled much and mixed in cultured society wherever she had been; her book was highly reviewed by various english magazines. she tells the story of a child of jewish parents living at rome in the days of pope pius ix, who was secretly baptized in infancy by a nurse, and at the age of seven was forcibly taken from his parents and placed in a convent school. she explains that not only was this quite right, but that such a course is inevitable in every country in which the church has power; and that the feelings of the heretic mother whose child is taken from her are a fair subject of ridicule on the part of good catholics. can irish protestants be accused of bigotry when they contend that these writers mean what they say? english nonconformists argue that they ought to wait until the time comes and then either fight or leave the country; but the irish protestants reply that it is more sensible to take steps beforehand to ward off the danger. and whether they are right or wrong, the fact remains that those are their ideas, and that is their determination; and this is the situation which must be faced if home rule is forced upon the people of ulster. by a striking coincidence, two meetings have recently been held on the same day--the 16th of may 1913--which form an apt illustration of the position adopted by the two parties. the first was a great demonstration of unionists at belfast, organised in order to make a further protest against the bill and to perfect the organisation for opposing it by force, if the necessity arises; the second was a large meeting of the united irish league at mullingar. the chairman, mr. ginnell, m.p. (who has gained prominence and popularity by his skill in arranging cattle-drives), said that the chief cause of the pressure last session was to get the home rule bill through its first stage. it was still called a home rule bill, though differing widely from what most of them always understood by home rule. deeply though he regretted the bill's defects and limitations, still he thought almost any parliament in ireland was worth accepting--first, because it was in some sense a recognition of the right to govern themselves; and secondly, because even a crippled parliament would give them fresh leverage for complete freedom. no one could be silly enough to suppose that an intelligent ireland, having any sort of a parliament of its own, would be prevented by any promise given now by place-hunters, from using that parliament for true national purposes. that no army which the ulstermen can form will be able to stand against british troops supported by cavalry and artillery is evident; but it seems almost past belief that england should be ready to plunge the country into civil war; or that british troops should march out--with bands playing "bloody england, we hate you still," or some other inspiring nationalist air--to shoot down ulstermen who will come to meet them waving the union jack and shouting "god save the king." and if they do--what then? lord wolseley, when commander-in-chief in ireland in 1893, pointed out the probable effect on the british army in a letter to the duke of cambridge:- "if ever our troops are brought into collision with the loyalists of ulster, and blood is shed, it will shake the whole foundations upon which our army rests to such an extent that i feel that our army will never be the same again. many officers will resign to join ulster, and there will be such a host of retired officers in the ulster ranks that men who would stand by the government no matter what it did, will be worse than half-hearted in all they do. no army could stand such a strain upon it." and then england, having crushed her natural allies in ulster, will hand over the government of ireland to a party whose avowed object is to break up the empire and form a separate republic. dangers and difficulties arose even when the independent legislature of ireland was in the hands of men who were loyal and patriotic in the noblest sense of the term, and when there were in every district a certain number of educated gentlemen of position who (as we have seen) were always ready to risk their lives and fortunes for the defence of the realm; what will happen when the loyal minority have been shot down, driven out of the country, or forced into bitter hostility to the government who have betrayed and deserted them? as lecky wrote years ago:- "it is scarcely possible to over-estimate the danger that would arise if the vast moral legislative, and even administrative powers which every separate legislature must necessarily possess, were exercised in any near and vital part of the british empire, by men who were disloyal to its interests. to place the government of a country by a voluntary and deliberate act in the hands of dishonest and disloyal men, is perhaps the greatest crime that a public man can commit: a crime which, in proportion to the strength and soundness of national morality, must consign those who are guilty of it to undying infamy." if english people are so blind that they cannot perceive this, foreigners, whose vision is clearer, have warned them. bismarck said that england, by granting home rule to ireland, would dig its own grave; and admiral mahan has recently written:- "it is impossible for a military man or a statesman to look at the map and not perceive that the ambition of the irish separatists, if realised, would be even more threatening to the national life of great britain than the secession of the south was to the american union. "the legislative supremacy of the british parliament against the assertion of which the american colonists revolted and which to-day would be found intolerable in canada and australia cannot be yielded in the case of an island, where independent action might very well be attended with fatal consequences to its partner. the instrument for such action, in the shape of an independent parliament, could not be safely trusted even to avowed friends." so then, having reviewed the evidence as calmly and dispassionately as i can, i answer the two questions which i propounded at the outset of the enquiry--that the real objects of the nationalists are the total separation of ireland from england and the establishment of an independent republic; and that the men of ulster in resisting them to the uttermost are not merely justified on the ground of self-preservation, but are in reality fighting for the cause of the empire. note. the following report of the annual pilgrimage in memory of wolfe tone, which took place on the 22nd of june last, and the article in the _leinster leader_ (a prominent nationalist journal) will show how closely the nationalists of to-day follow in the footsteps of wolfe tone. the memory of wolfe tone. annual pilgrimage to bodenstown. (_from our reporter_.) on sunday last the annual pilgrimage to the grave of theobald wolfe tone took place to bodenstown churchyard. this year the numbers who attended exceeded those of last year, about a thousand coming from dublin and another contingent from tullamore, clare, and athlone. the procession formed outside sallins station was a most imposing one, being made up of st. james' brass band and the lorcan o'toole pipers' band and the athlone pipers' band, the national boy scouts, the daughters of erin, and members of the wolfe tone memorial clubs. at the graveside demonstration, mr. thos. j. clarke presided and said it was a gratifying thing that numbers of their fellow-countrymen were to-day swinging back to the old fighting line and taking pride in the old fenian principles. he introduced mr. p.h. pearse, b.a. mr. pearse then came forward and delivered an eloquent and impressive oration, first speaking in irish. speaking in english, he said they had come to the holiest place in ireland, holier to them than that sacred spot where patrick sleeps in down. patrick brought them life, but wolfe tone died for them. though many had testified in death to the truth of ireland's claim to nationhood, wolfe tone was the greatest of all that had made that testimony; he was the greatest of ireland's dead. they stood in the holiest place in ireland, for what spot of the nation's soil could be holier than the spot in which the greatest of her dead lay buried. he found it difficult to speak in that place, and he knew they all partook of his emotion. there were no strangers there for they were all in a sense own brothers to tone (hear, hear). they shared his faith, his hope still unrealised and his great love. they had come there that day not merely to salute this noble dust and to pay their homage to the noble spirit of tone, but to renew their adhesion to the faith of tone and to express their full acceptance of the gospel of which tone had given such a clear definition. that gospel had been taught before him by english-speaking men, uttered half-articulately by shan o'neill, expressed in some passionate metaphor by geoffrey keating, and hinted at by swift in some bitter jibe, but it was stated definitely and emphatically by wolfe tone and it did not need to be ever again stated anew for any new generation. tone was great in mind, but he was still greater in spirit. he had the clear vision of the prophet; he saw things as they were and saw things as they would be. they owed more to this dead man than they should be ever able to repay him by making pilgrimages to his grave or building the stateliest monuments in the streets of his city. they owed it to him that there was such a thing as irish nationalism; to his memory and the memory of '98 they owed it that there was any manhood left in ireland (hear, hear). the soul of wolfe tone was like a burning flame, a flame so pure, so ardent, so generous, that to come into communion with it was as a new optimism and regeneration. let them try in some way to get into contact with the spirit of tone and possess themselves of its ardour. if they could do that it would be a good thing for them and their country, because they would carry away with them a new life from that place of death and there would be a new resurrection of patriotic grace in their souls (hear, hear). let them think of tone; think of his boyhood and young manhood in dublin and in kildare; think of his adventurous spirit and plans, think of his glorious failure at the bar, and his healthy contempt for what he called a foolish wig and gown, think how the call of ireland came to him; think how he obeyed that call; think how he put virility into the catholic movement; think how this heretic toiled to make freemen of catholic helots (applause). think how he grew to love the real and historic irish nation, and then there came to him that clear conception that there must be in ireland not three nations but one; that protestant and dissenter must close in amity with catholic, and catholic, protestant and dissenter must unite to achieve freedom for all (applause). let them consider the sacrifices tone had made; he had to leave so much. never was there a man who was so richly endowed as he was, he had so much love in his warm heart. he (speaker) would rather have known tone than any other man of whom he ever read or heard. he never read of any one man who had more in him of the heroic stuff than tone had; how gaily and gallantly he had set about the doing of a mighty thing. he (speaker) had always loved the very name of thomas russell because tone so loved him. to be tone's friend! what a privilege! for tone had for his friends an immense love, an immense charity. he had such love for his wife and children! but such was the destiny of the heroes of their nation; they had to stifle in their hearts all that love and that sweet music and to follow only the faint voice that called them to the battlefield or to the harder death at the foot of the gibbet. tone heard that voice and obeyed it and from his grave to-day he was calling on them and they were there to answer his voice; and they pledged themselves to carry out his programme to abolish the connection with england, the never-failing source of political evils and to establish the independence of their country, to abolish the memory of past dissensions, and to replace for the denominations of protestant, catholic and dissenter, the common name of irishman (applause). in that programme was to be found the whole philosophy of irish nationality; that programme included the philosophy of the gaelic league and of later prophets, and it was to that programme they pledged their adhesion; they pledged it now at the graveside of tone; they pledged themselves to follow in the steps of tone, never to rest by day or night until this be accomplished, until ireland be free (applause); fighting on, not in despondency, but in great joy as tone fought; prizing it above all privileges, and hoping for the victory in their own day. and if it should be granted to them in this generation to complete the work that tone's generation left unaccomplished! but if that was not their destiny, they should fight on still, hoping still, self-sacrificing still, knowing as they must know that causes like this did not lose for ever, and that men like tone did not die in vain (applause). the address having concluded, wreaths were placed on the grave by the national boy scouts and the inghanite na h-eireann. during the afternoon an aeridheacht was held in an adjoining field at which music, songs and recitations were contributed, and a thoroughly enjoyable irish-ireland evening was spent. at the grave of wolfe tone. the lifework of theobald wolfe tone, for the subversion of english government in ireland, and the supreme sacrifice he made in the mighty effort to erect in its stead an independent ireland free from all foreign denomination and control, was fittingly commemorated on sunday last, when the annual pilgrimage took place to bodenstown churchyard, where all that is mortal of the great patriot lie buried. the pilgrimage this year was worthy of the cause and the man, and afforded some object lessons in what might be accomplished by a cultivation of those principles of discipline and devotion to duty, in the pursuit of a glorious ideal, which tone taught and adhered to throughout his adventurous and brilliant career. the well-ordered procession, the ready obedience to the commands of the marshals, the intense earnestness of the multitude, and the display made by the youths--the national boy scouts--their military bearing, and the bands and banners which interspersed the procession as it marched from sallins to bodenstown was a spectacle which pleased the eye and stirred the emotions. everything in connection with the pilgrimage was carried out with a close attention to detail, and military-like precision which must have been very acceptable to the great patriot in whose honour it was organised, were he but permitted to gaze from the great unknown upon this practical demonstration of the perpetuation of the spirit which animated him and his time, in the struggle against english misrule, and the love and veneration in which he is still held, after the lapse of the century and more that has passed since he made the final sacrifice of his life in the cause of freedom. tone done to death did not die in vain. the truth of this was evident in the character of the pilgrimage on sunday last, when all that is best and purest in patriotism in the land assembled at his graveside, to renew fealty to the aims and ideals for which he suffered and died, and to hear the gospel of irish nationality preached and expounded as he knew and inculcated it in his day. a fusion of forces, and the cultivation of a spirit and bond of brotherhood and friendship amongst irishmen in the common cause, were his methods to attain the great ideal of a separate and distinct nationality, for then, as to-day, the chief obstacle to freedom and nationhood was not so much english domination in itself, as want of cohesion, faction, and the disruption caused by alien traditions and teachings. this was the prevailing spirit of sunday's commemoration, and as the great mass of people filed past in orderly array and knelt, prayed, and laid wreaths on the lonely grave, the solemnity and impressiveness of the occasion was intensified. in the suppressed murmurs, and silent gaze on the tomb of the mighty dead, one could recognise the eagerness and the hope for another tone to arise to complete the work which he promoted, and vindicate the purity of the motives which moved men like the leaders of '98 to do and dare for all, and to "substitute the common name of irishman for catholic, protestant, and dissenter." the promoters, too, were fortunate in their choice of orator for the occasion. mr. p.h. pearse did full justice to the occasion, and in language, beautiful and impressive, pictured the man and his movements and the lessons to be drawn by us to-day from the lifework of leaders in thought and action like tone. close and consistent adhesion to principles of patriotism and a readiness of self-sacrifice in the pursuit of those principles, were his distinguishing characteristics all through life, and if we in our time would emulate the example of tone and his times, we must also be ready when the call came to meet any demand made upon us for the promotion of our national welfare. the orator of the day rightly, in our opinion, described that hallowed spot in bodenstown as one of the holiest places in ireland to-day, from the nationalist standpoint, holding as it does the ashes of the man who, without friends, money or influence to help him, and by sheer force of character, intensity of purpose and earnestness, prevailed upon the greatest emperor-general the world has ever seen napoleon bonaparte, to make a descent on ireland, in order to aid our starved, tortured, and persecuted people to shake off the shackles that kept them in slavery, and elevate ireland once more to the dignity of full, free, and untrammelled nationhood. we are all familiar with the events following this great effort of tone's, and the dark chapters that closed a glorious career. all that is mortal of tone is in the keeping of kildare, and it is a trust that we feel sure is not alone felt to be a high honour, but which cannot fail to keep the cultivation of a high standard of nationality before the people in whose midst repose the remains of one of ireland's greatest sons. ireland, from the centre to the sea, was represented in sunday's great gathering to commemorate the achievements of wolfe tone, and the occasion was honoured first by the large and representative character of the throng, secondly by the decorum observed all through the day's proceedings, and thirdly, by the regularity and precision which attended the entire arrangements. there was just one other feature which must have been very gratifying to those identified with the organisation of the pilgrimage, namely: the large proportion of ladies and young people, coming long distances, who made up the gathering. and they were by no means the least enthusiastic of the throng. this enthusiasm amongst our young people is one of the most encouraging and promising signs of the times, serving as it does to demonstrate the undying spirit of irish nationality, and the perpetuation of those principles to which tone devoted his time, talents, and eventually made the supreme sacrifice of his life in having inculcated amongst his people. it is a glorious legacy, and one that has ever been cherished with veneration for the men who left it. he died a martyr to the cause he espoused, but his memory and the cause live. the living blaze he and his co-workers, in the cause of irish freedom, kindled has never been completely stamped out, and it still smoulders, and has occasionally burst into flame only to be temporarily extinguished in the blood and tears of our bravest and best who never forgot the teachings of tone. and now, when the sky is bright once more, and every circumstance portends the dawn of a new era, full of hope and promise for the ultimate realisation of those ideals for which thousands of our race have sacrificed their lives, the spark of nationality which, even since tone's death, has repeatedly leaped into flame, still glows fitfully to remind us that come what may it remains undying and unquenchable, a beacon to light us on the path to freedom should disappointment and dashed hopes again darken the outlook. index abjuration, oath of, 51. absentees, 65, 138, 139. acton, lord, 37. adrian, pope, 13. agrarian outrages, 152, 196-202, 210-215. agriculture, department of, 161, 163. alexander, pope, 14. alfred the great, 9. american war of independence, 63, 72, 73, 83. anglican church in ireland, 27, 28, 60, 143, 144, 236. anne, queen, 63. arkins, p., 210, 211. arklow, battle of, 109. armagh, bishop of, 7. ashbourne act, 159. ashtown, lord, 203, 204. asquith, rt. hon. h.h., 129, 207. athenry founded by normans, 17. balfour, rt. hon. arthur j., 156, 160, 164. balfour, rt. hon. gerald, 168. baltimore, lord, 38. bandon, lord, 238. bannatyne, mr., 214. barcelona, church at, 243, 244. belfast, growth of, 239; meeting at, 245; persons employed by corporation of, 174, 175; university, 176, 193, 205. berkeley, bishop, 120. biggar, j.g., 145. birrell, rt. hon. augustine, chief secretary, 160, 167, 173, 174, 197, 198, 200-205, 211, 216, 236. bismarck, prince, 248. blake, w., 198. "board of erin," 184. boers, nationalist sympathy with, 170. borromeo, san carlo, 54. bossuet, 54. bounties granted by irish parliament, 80. boy scouts, 193. boycotting, 86, 148, 149, 153. boyne, battle of the, 48. brady, j., 145, 146. brian boroo, 8, 9, 19. bright, john, 154, 159. brook, 57. browne estate, 168. bruce, edward, invasion by, 19, 26, 91. bruce, king robert, 17, 19, 26. bryce, rt. hon. james, chief secretary, 194, 195, 197. bulls, papal, 13-15. burke, mr., under secretary, murder of, 146, 153. busby, mr., 157. butt, isaac, advocates home rule, 145. carey, james, 145. carlow, rebellion in, 109. "carrion crows," 202. castlebar, capture of by the french, 112. castledawson outrage, 216, 217. castlereagh, lord, 126, 128. catholic university medical school, 176. cattle driving, 167, 195-202. cavan, raid by septs of, 7. cavendish, murder of lord f., 146, 153. celts, 5-14, 20, 23, 24, 31. charlemont, lord, 93. charles i, 40-42. charles ii, 44. chicago convention, 155. childers, erskine, 222. church, celtic. see celts of ireland. see anglican church. churchill, rt. hon. winston, 209. clan-na-gael, 147, 185. clare, state of, in 1912, 210-214. clare, lord, 81, 84, 85, 111. clerkenwell explosion, 143. clontarf, battle of, 9. "coalition ministry," 208. "coigne and livery," 11. college of surgeons, dublin, 176. condon, o'meagher, 96, 184, 185. confiscations, 30, 42, 43, 57, 150. congested districts board, 164-168. connaught, celtic raids into, 7; lands in, given to rebels, 42; rebellion in, 112. conolly, mr., 215. convention in dublin in 1909, 206, 207, 240. cooke, mr., under secretary, 111. co-operative credit banks, 162, 163. co-operative farming societies, 161-163. cork, medical school at, 176; persons employed by county council of, 175. corn laws, repeal of the, 136. cornwallis, lord, 123, 129. county councils, 168-178, 191, 193. covenant, ulster. see ulster covenant. cowper commission, 149. crewe, lord, 201. crimes act of 1887, 157, 158, 194. crimes prevention act, 153, 157. croke, archbishop, 144, 156. cromwell and cromwellians, 38, 42, 44, 57, 66, 67, 106. crosbie, mr., 216. curley, d., 145, 146. _daily news_, 200. daly, j., 195. danes, 8, 9, 13. davies, sir, j., 5. davitt, michael, 145, 167, 238. declaratory act of george i, 74, 229. defenders, 87. department of agriculture, 161, 163. derry, siege of, 47. desmond rebellion, 34. devlin, j., 96, 146, 182. devoy, j., 94, 146. dicey, professor a.v., 228. dillon, john, 97, 156, 184, 234. dillon estate, 165. disestablishment of the irish church, 143, 144, 236. dispensary doctors, appointment of, 176, 177. district councils, 161, 168, 178. down, celtic raid into, 7. dublin, founded by danes, 8, 9; bishopric of, 8, 9; henry ii at, 16; simnel crowned at, 22; rebellion in neighbourhood of, 104, 109; convention at, in 1909, 206, 207, 240. dudley, lord, 166. "dynamite party," 147. edward iii, 20. edward vi, 29, 31. eighty club, 162. elizabeth, queen, 4, 27, 28, 33, 48, 91. emancipation, roman catholic, 134. emigration, 139, 140. emmett, r., 95, 132, 182. endowment of r.c. church proposed, 134. ersefied normans, 18, 20. esmonde, dr., 105. exchequers, amalgamation of, 135. "fair rents," 150. famine. see potato famine. fenianism, 142, 144, 145, 147. feudal system, 14, 26. firbolgs, 5. fitzgerald rebellion, 25, 27, 31. fitzgibbon, j., 167, 171. fitzpatrick, case of mrs., 210, 211. fiudir, 11. flax. see linen. "flight of the earls," 36. ford, patrick, 146, 152, 154, 155. forster, rt. hon. w.e., chief secretary, 148. foster, speaker, 126. france, persecution in, 30, 37, 38, 45-48; war with, 72, 73; religious thought in, 76; revolution in, 87, 101, 236; invasions by, 91, 92, 111, 112. franklin, benjamin, 73. fraser, mrs. hugh, 244. _freeman's journal_, 170, 241. _frontier sentinel_, 2. gaelic league, 186-193. galway, founded by normans, 17; medical school at, 176; persons employed by county council of, 175; state of, in 1912, 215. games, english, forbidden, 193. gaughran, bishop, 4. gavelkind, 11, 12. general council of county councils, 172, 173, 186. george iii, 68. germany, persecution in, 37, 38; nationalist hopes of aid from, 93, 98, 99. ginnell, l., 196, 245. gladstone, rt. hon. w.e., 6, 95, 143, 148, 150, 152-155, 179. grand juries, 178. grattan, 74-77, 93, 100, 120, 126. "grievances from ireland," 203. gwynn, stephen, 174. habeus corpus, suppression of, 69. henry ii, 14, 15, 20, 36. henry vii, 22. henry viii, 24, 26, 28, 29. hibernians, ancient order of, 184, 216. hobhouse, rt. hon. c.e., 208. hobson, b., 98. holland, intended invasion from, 101, 102. home rule, 145, 155. home rule bill, of 1886, 154; of 1893, 179, 221; of 1912, 208, 218-231, 245. huguenots, 30, 45, 47, 55. hyde, dr. douglas, 97. incumbered estates act, 138, 150. independence of ireland real object of nationalists, 173,181, 182, 185, 186, 241, 242, 246-248. and see republic. ingram, dr. dunbar on the union, 118-129. insurance act, 1911, 185. "invincibles," the, 147. irish agricultural organization society, 161, 162. irish brigade in france, 92. _irish freedom_, 94. _irish independent_, 243. irish language, 186-193. _irish review_, 188. irish revolutionary brotherhood, 145, 147. "irish services," 227. jacobinism, 87, 89, 101, 236. james i, 38, 40. james ii, 43, 44, 47, 49-51. jews, persecution of the, 58. kabyles, 55. kenny, mr. justice, 197. kettle, a.j., 183. kettle, t.m., 97. kickham, 95. kildare, church burnt at, 7; rebellion in, 105. kilkenny, founded by normans, 17; statutes of, 20; rebellion in, 109. killala, french landing at, 111. killaloe, r.c. bishop of, 212-214. kiltimagh case, 177. king, title of, taken by henry viii, 27. kings, celtic, of ireland, 10. king's county, plantation of, 29, 30; persons employed by county council of, 175. labourer's cottages act, 160, 161. lalor, j.f., 141, 142, 153, 172. land acts from 1870 to 1887, 140, 150-152, 159. land court, 150, 197. land league, 147, 148, 152, 181, 182. land purchase acts, 158, 159. land tenure, tribal, 6; primogeniture, 11, 12; gavelkind, 11, 12; in the 18th century, 65, 66. laws of england, attempted introduction of, 18; made binding in ireland, 22. lecky, dr. w.e.h., 41, 44, 110, 117, 130, 247. _leinster leader_, 95, 249. leitrim, raid by septs of, 7. leo xiii, pope, 242. light railways act, 160. limerick, founded by danes, 8; scotch invasion of, 19; church windows broken at, 216. linen industry, 62, 63, 238, 239. local government act, 1898, 168-178, 180, 240. loise, persecution in the, 28. louis xiv, 43, 45-48, 53. louis xvi, 101, 102. macalpine, kennett, 9. mcbride, major, 98, 99. macdonnell, lord, 166. mckenna, thomas, 79, 126. mcnicholas, rev. j.t., 85. macseamus, t., 188. magdeburg, sacking of, 42. magistrates, appointment of, 179, 180. magnus, sir p., 205. mahan, admiral, 248. "manchester martyrs," 96-98, 144, 145, 192. maori customary claims, 39. marriage, law of r.c. church as to, 85. maryborough, 30. maryland, 38. mayo county council, 170. maunsell, r., 214. maynooth, foundation of, 88, 204. metropolitan police act, 157. "middlemen," 65. _midland tribune_, 234. mitchell, j., 95, 97, 142. "molly maguires," 184. morley, rt. hon. john, chief secretary, 165, 179. mountcashel, lord, 53. munster, raid by men of, 7. murphy, father michael, 109. mutiny act, 74. nantes, revocation of edict of, 30, 38, 45-48. napoleon, 91. "nation," meaning of word, 222. national university, 191, 192, 205, 206. nationalists, real objects of, 3, 93-99, 248. and see independence; republic. netherlands, persecution in the, 4, 33, 34. new zealand, 39, 157, 218-220, 241. nolan, professor, 242. "no rent" proclamation, 153, 156. normans, character of, 17; adoption of celtic customs by, 18; rebellions by, 23-25, 33, 34, 36. oakboys, 69. o'brien, smith, 96, 140. o'brien, william, 95. o'connell, daniel, misstatements by, as to the union, 116; leads agitation for emancipation, 134; and for repeal, 140. o'connor, t.p., 146. o'donnell, bishop, 165. o'hara, rev. d., 165. o'mahony, mr., 41. o'mara, mrs., 213. o'neill, shan, 33, 34, 39. orange society, foundation of, 90, 91. outrages, agrarian. see agrarian outrages. pale, the english, 20-22, 24, 25, 31. parliament, irish, 21-24, 35, 63-65, 69-71; becomes independent, 74, 77-79; disqualification of votes for, abolished, 84; religious test for, not abolished, 84, 87; proposed reform of, 87, 88; criticized, 130, 131. see also regency question. parnell, c.s., 95, 96, 145, 156, 232. parnell commission, 147. paul iii, pope, 26. peel, sir robert, 122, 205. "peep of day boys," 87, 90. penal laws, the, 49-58, 63, 70, 72, 79, 82, 83. persecution, 4, 23, 32, 37, 38, 40, 43, 45-48, 52-54, 242. philip and mary, 29, 39. philip ii of spain, 28, 32, 33, 91. philipstown, 30. "physical force party," the, 147. pitt, william, commercial treaty proposed by, 78; views of, on the union, 122. pius v, pope, 37. "plan of campaign," the, 155. "plantations," 30, 31, 33, 38. plowden, f., 126. plunket, lord, 132. plunkett, rt. hon. sir horace, 161. portugal, persecution in, 37, 48, 53. potato famine, 136, 137, 139. poyning's act, 22, 74, 229. pretender, the, 50, 51. primogeniture, 11, 12. prosperous, attack on the, 105. "protestant ascendancy," 59, 101. protestant home rulers, 233, 234. puritans, 40, 42. queen's county, plantation of, 29, 30. queen's university, 205. quakers, emigration aided by, 139. raffeisen system, 162. rebellion of 1641, 40-42. rebellions of 1715 and 1745, 52. rebellion of 1798, rise of, in ulster, 86, 102; becomes religious, 103, 105; in leinster, 104, 105; in wexford, 105-108, 110; in kilkenny, carlow and wicklow, 109; in connaught, 112; amnesty after, 109; effects of, 114. rebellion of 1805, 132. redmond, john, 95, 146, 162, 169, 171, 174, 175, 199, 201, 207-209, 215. redmond, william, 107, 108. reformation, 26-28. regency question, 80-82. registration of titles act, 1891, 160. rent, agitation against, 148, 153, 154. repeal association, statement by, as to rebellion, 108. "reserved services," 227. republic, rebels of 1798 sought to establish, 93; object of nationalists, 94-99, 147, 248. and see independence. richard ii, 20. richey, professor, 12, 13, 21, 24. _rosary, the_, 242. rosen, conrade de, 47. ross, mr. justice, 168, 197. rossa, o'donovan, 146. royal university, 205. russell, rt. hon. t.w., 163. saffron dress, 19, 192. st. vincent, cape, 102. savoy, persecution in, 37, 45, 48, 54. salisbury, lord, 154. scholarships, 191, 192. scotland, norman kingdom of, 17; invasion of ireland from, 19, 33; union of, with england, 63, 119, 120. scott, sir walter, 237. scullabogue barn, massacre at, 110. scully, mr., 204. settlement, act of, 43-45. separation. see independence; republic. sevignã©, madame de, 46, 47. simnel, lambert, 22, 82. sinn fein, 185, 186. slave trade, 58. smith, adam, 120. societies, secret, 68, 69, 181. spain, 27, 28, 30, 32, 34, 37, 40, 48, 53, 55, 72, 76, 101. spenser, edmund, 35. "steelboys," 69. sullivan, a.m., 136, 137, 140. swayne, captain, 105. sweetman, j., 186. tithes, 68, 69, 134, 135. tone, wolfe, 89, 91-97, 101, 102, 111, 112, 121, 182, 193, 218, 249-258. trade, restrictions on irish, 63, 64; abolition of, 74, tribal tenure of land, 6. trinity college, dublin, 70, 176. tyrconnell, flight of earl of, 36. tyrone, raid by men of, 7. tyrone, flight of earl of, 36. tyrrell, father, 5. ulster covenant, 1, 235. ulster, scotch invasion of, 19, 33; plantation of, 39; rebellion of 1641 in, 41; volunteer movement in, 72, 102, 237; rebellion of 1798 in, 86, 102. union, suggested in time of queen anne, 63; necessity of, seen by pitt, 78; became probable in 1797, 100; rebellion made inevitable, 115; mis-statements as to, 116; feelings of people as to, 117, 118; previous efforts towards, 119; really caused by parliament becoming independent, 120-123; proposed, 123; discussed, 124; approved by r.c. church, 125; carried, 126; charges of bribery concerning, 127-129; cannot now be reversed, 130; prosperity of ireland after, 133. united irish league, 163, 166, 167, 171, 180-183, 203, 235, 245. united irish society, 87, 88, 91. universities. see trinity college, dublin; queen's university; royal university; belfast university; national university. university college, cork, 205; galway, 205. victoria, queen, 39. vinegar hill, massacre at, 105-107. volunteer movement, 72, 102, 237. waitangi, treaty of, 39. waldenses, persecution of, 43, 53. walsh, t., 195. waterford, founded by danes, 8; henry ii lands at, 16. waterford corporation and mr. scully, 204. westmeath, persons employed by county council of, 175. wexford, raid by men of, 7; landing of spaniards at, 34; rebellion in, 105-107, 110; monuments of rebels in, 108. white, p., 195. whiteboys, 69. william iii, 47. wolfe, memorial to general, 243, 244. wolseley, letter from lord, 246. wright, mr. justice, 182. wyndham act, 159. _sherratt and hughes, printers, london and manchester._ the red hand of ulster by g. a. birmingham author of "spanish gold," "the major's niece," "priscilla's spies," etc. hodder & stoughton new york george h. doran company copyright, 1912, by george h. doran company uniform edition _of the_ works _of_ g. a. birmingham _each, net $1.20_ lalage's lovers spanish gold the search party the simpkins plot the major's niece priscilla's spies the red hand of ulster george h. doran company new york prefatory note in a book of this kind some of the characters are necessarily placed in the positions occupied by living men; but no character is in any way copied from life, and no character must be taken as representing any real person. nor must the opinions of lord kilmore of errigal, the imaginary narrator of the tale, be regarded as those of the author. g. a. b. introductory note by lord kilmore of errigal the events recorded in this chapter and the next did not fall under my own observation. i derived my knowledge of them from various sources, chiefly from conversations with bob power, who had, as will appear, first-hand knowledge. in the third chapter i begin my own personal narrative of the events which led up to the final struggle of ulster against home rule and of the struggle itself. accidents of one kind or another, the accidents of the situation of kilmore castle, the accident of bob power's connection with my daughter marion, the accidents of my social position and personal tastes, have placed me in a position to give a very full account of what actually happened. the first two chapters of this book will therefore be written in the impersonal manner of the ordinary history; i myself occupying the position of unseen spectator. the rest of the book is largely founded upon the diary which i actually kept. the red hand of ulster chapter i it was in 1908 that joseph peterson conroy burst upon london in the full magnificence of his astounding wealth. english society was, and had been for many years, accustomed to the irruption of millionaires, american or south african. our aristocracy has learnt to pay these potentates the respect which is their due. well-born men and women trot along park lane in obedience to the hooting calls of motor horns. no one considers himself degraded by grovelling before a plutocrat. it has been for some time difficult to startle london by a display of mere wealth. men respect more than ever fortunes which are reckoned in millions, though they have become too common to amaze. but joseph peterson conroy, when he came, excited a great deal of interest. in the first place his income was enormous, larger, it was said, than the income of any other living man. in the next place he spent it very splendidly. there were no entertainments given in london during the years 1909, 1910, and 1911, equal in extravagance to those which conroy gave. he outdid the "freak dinners" of new york. he invented freak dinners of his own. his horses--animals which he bought at enormous prices--won the great races. his yachts flew the white ensign of the royal yacht squadron. his gifts to fashionable charities were princely. english society fell at his feet and worshipped him. the most exclusive clubs were honoured by his desire of membership. women whose fathers and husbands bore famous names were proud to boast of his friendship. it cannot be said that conroy abused either his position or his opportunities. he had won his great wealth honestly--that is to say without robbing any one except other robbers, and only robbing them in ways permitted by american law. he used what he had won honourably enough. he neither bought the favours of the women who thronged his entertainments; nor degraded, more than was necessary, the men who sought benefits from him. for a time, for nearly four years, he thoroughly enjoyed himself, exulting with boyish delight in his own splendour. then he began to get restless. the things he did, the people he knew, ceased to interest him. it was early in 1911 that the crisis came; and before the season of that year was over conroy had disappeared from london. his name still appeared occasionally in the columns which the newspapers devote to fashionable intelligence. but the house in park lane--the scene of many magnificent entertainments--was sold. the dinner parties, balls and card parties ceased; and conroy entered upon what must have been the most exciting period of his life. bob power--no one ever called him robert--belonged to an old and respected irish family, being a younger son of general power of kilfenora. he was educated at harrow and afterwards at trinity college. he was called to the irish bar and might have achieved in time the comfortable mediocrity of a county court judgeship if he had not become conroy's private secretary. the post was secured for him by an uncle who had known conroy in new york in the days before he became a millionaire, while it was still possible for an ordinary man to do him a favour. bob accepted the post because everybody said he would be a fool to refuse it. he did not much like writing letters. the making out of schemes for the arrangements of conroy's guests at the more formal dinner parties worried him. the general supervision of the upper servants was no delight to him. but he did all these things fairly well, and his unfailing good spirits carried him safely through periods of very tiresome duty. he became, in spite of the twenty-five years' difference of age between him and his patron, the intimate friend of joseph peterson conroy. it was to bob that conroy confided the fact that he was tired of the life of a leader of english society. the two men were sitting together in the smoking room at one o'clock in the morning after one of conroy's most magnificent entertainments. "i'm damned well sick of all this," said conroy suddenly. "so am i," said bob. bob power was a man of adventurous disposition. he had a reputation in connacht as a singularly bold rider to hounds. the story of his singlehanded cruise round ireland in a ten tonner will be told among yachtsmen until his son does something more extravagantly idiotic. the london season always bored him. the atmosphere of conroy's house in park lane stifled him. "is there any one thing left in this rotten old world," said conroy, "that's worth doing?" in bob's opinion there were several things very well worth doing. he suggested one of them at once. "let's get out the _finola_," he said, "and go for a cruise. we've never done the south sea islands." the _finola_ was the largest of conroy's yachts, a handsome vessel of something over a thousand tons. "cruising in the _finola_," said conroy, "is no earthly good to me. what i want is something that will put me into a nervous sweat, the same as i was when i was up against ikenstein and the railway bosses. my nerves were like damned fiddle strings for a fortnight when i didn't know whether i was going to come out a pauper or the owner of the biggest pile mortal man ever handled." bob knew nothing of ikenstein or the methods by which the pile had been wrested from him and his companions, but he did know the sensations which conroy described. he, himself, arrived at them by hanging on to a sea anchor in a gale of wind off the galway coast, or pushing a vicious horse at a nasty jump. nervous sweat, stretched nerves and complete uncertainty about the immediate future afford the same delight however you get at them. he sympathized with conroy. "you might fit out a ship or two and try exploring round the south pole," bob said. "they've got the thing itself of course, but there must be lots of places still undiscovered in the neighbourhood. i should think that hummocking along over the ice floes in a dog sledge must be pretty thrilling." conroy sighed. "i'm too fat," he said, "and i'm too darned soft. the kind of life i've led for the last four years isn't good training for camping out on icebergs and feeding on whale's blubber." bob smiled. conroy was a very fat man. a camping party on an iceberg would be likely to end in some whale eating his blubber. "i didn't mean you to go yourself," said bob. "oh! i see. i'm to fit out the expedition and you are to go in command. i don't quite see where the fun would come in for me. it wouldn't excite me any to hear of your shooting esquimaux and penguins. i shouldn't care enough whether you lived or were froze to get any excitement out of a show of that kind." "we'd call it 'the joseph p. conroy expedition,'" said bob; "and the newspapers--" "thanks. but i'm pretty well fed up with newspaper tosh. the press has boosted me ever since i landed in this country, and i'd just as soon they stopped now as started fresh." bob relinquished the idea of a polar expedition with a sigh. it was conroy himself who made the next suggestion. "if politics weren't such a rotten game--" bob did not feel attracted to political life; but he was loyal to his patron. "clithering," he said, "was talking to me to-night. you know the man i mean, sir samuel clithering. he's not in the cabinet, but he's what i'd call a pretty intimate hanger on; does odd jobs for the prime minister. he said the interest of political life was absorbing." "i shouldn't care for it," said conroy. "after all, what would it be worth to me? there's nothing for me to gain, and i don't see how i could lose anything. it would be like playing bridge for counters. they might make me a lord, of course. a title is about the only thing i haven't got, but then i don't want it." "i quite agree with you," said bob. "i merely mentioned politics because clithering said--" "besides," said conroy, "it wouldn't be my politics. england isn't my country." "it would be rather exciting," said bob, "to run a revolution somewhere. there are lots of small states, in the balkans, you know, which could be turned inside out and upside down by a man with the amount of money you have." "there's something in that notion," said conroy. "get a map, will you?" bob power did not want to go wandering round the house at half-past one o'clock in the morning looking for a map of the balkan states. it seemed to him that the idea--the financing of a revolution was of course a joke--might be worked out with reference to some country nearer at hand, the geographical conditions of which would be sufficiently well known without the aid of a map. "why not try ireland?" he said. then a very curious thing happened. conroy's appearance, not merely his expression but his actual features seemed to change. instead of the shrewd face of a successful american financier bob power saw the face of an irish peasant. he was perfectly familiar with the type. it was one which he had known all his life. he knew it at its best, expressive of lofty idealisms and fantastic dreams of things beyond this world's experience. he knew it at its worst too, when narrow cunning and unquenchable bitterness transform it. the change passed over conroy's face and then quickly passed away again. "by god!" said conroy, "it's a great notion. to buck against the british lion!" bob remembered the things which he had heard and half heeded about conroy's ancestry. in 1850 another conroy, a broken peasant, the victim of evil fate and gross injustice, had left ireland in an emigrant ship with a ragged wife and four half starved children clinging to him, with an unquenchable hatred of england in his heart. the hate, it appeared, had lived on in his son, had broken out again in a grandson, dominating the cynical cosmopolitanism of the financial magnate. bob was vaguely uneasy. he did not like the expression he had seen on conroy's face. he did not like the tone in which he spoke. but it was obviously absurd to suppose that any one could take seriously the idea of financing an irish revolution. then conroy began to talk about ireland. he knew, it appeared, a great deal about the history of the country up to a certain point. he had a traditional knowledge of the horrors of the famine period. he was intimately acquainted with the details of the fenian movement. either he or his father had been a member of the clan na gael. he understood the parnell struggle for home rule. but with the fall of parnell his knowledge stopped abruptly. of all that happened after that he knew nothing. he supposed that the later irish leaders had inherited the traditions of mitchel, o'leary, davitt and the others. bob laughed at him. "if you're thinking of buying guns for the nationalists," he said, "you may save your money. they wouldn't use them if they had arsenals full. they're quite the most loyal men there are nowadays. why wouldn't they? they've got most of what they want and clithering told me the home rule bill was going to knit their hearts to the empire. awful rot, of course, but his very words." "what do you mean?" said conroy. bob laughed again. he had all the contempt common in his class for those of his fellow-countrymen who professed to be nationalists. but he had rather more intelligence than most irish gentlemen. he quite realized the absurdity of supposing that the irish parliamentary party consisted of men who had in them the makings of rebels. "read their speeches," he said. "since this talk of home rule began they've been cracking up the glories of the british empire like--like the primrose league." "to-morrow morning," said conroy, "you'll fetch me along all the books and pamphlets you can lay hands on dealing with the present state of the irish question." "i want a small cart," said bob. "get a four-horse waggon, if you like," said conroy. chapter ii for nearly a week conroy remained shut up in his study. bob was kept busy. he spent a good deal of time in writing plausible explanations of conroy's failure to keep his social engagements. he ransacked the shelves of booksellers for works dealing with contemporary irish politics. he harried the managers of press-cutting companies for newspaper reports of speeches on home rule. these were things for which there was little or no demand, and the press-cutting people resented being asked for them. he even interviewed political leaders. these gentlemen received him coldly at first, suspecting from his appearance that he wanted to get a chance of earning £400 a year as a member of parliament, and hoped to persuade them to find him a constituency. when they discovered that he was the private secretary of a famous millionaire their manner changed and they explained the policies of their various parties in such ways as seemed likely to draw large cheques from conroy. bob reported what they said, summarized the letters of the disappointed hostesses, and piled conroy's table with books, pamphlets, and newspaper cuttings. the whole business bored and worried him. the idea that conroy actually contemplated organizing a rebellion in ireland never crossed his mind. he hoped that the political enthusiasm of his patron would die away as quickly as it had sprung up. it was therefore a surprise to him when, after a few weeks' hard reading, conroy announced his decision. "i'm going into this business," he said. "politics?" said bob. "politics be damned! what i'm out for is a revolution." "you can't do it," said bob. "i told you at the start that those fellows won't fight. they haven't it in them to stand up and be shot at." "i'm thinking of the other fellows," said conroy. "what other fellows?" he asked. "belfast," said conroy. bob whistled. "but," he said, "but--but--" the extraordinary nature of the idea made him stammer. "but they are loyalists." "as i figure it out," said conroy, "they mean to rebel. that's what they say, anyhow, and i believe they mean it. i don't care a cent whether they call themselves loyalists or not. it's up to them to twist the british lion's tail, and i'm with them." "do you think they really mean it?" said bob. "do you?" "well," said bob, after a slight hesitation, "i do. you see i happen to know one of them pretty well." bob showed political discernment. it was the fashion in england and throughout three-quarters of ireland to laugh at belfast. nobody believed that a community of merchants, manufacturers and artisans actually meant to take up arms, shoot off guns and hack at the bodies of their fellow-men with swords and spears. this thing, at the beginning of the twentieth century, seemed incredible. to politicians it was simply unthinkable. for politics are a game played in strict accordance with a set of rules. for several centuries nobody in these islands had broken the rules. it had come to be regarded as impossible that any one could break them. no one expects his opponent at the bridge table to draw a knife from his pocket and run amuck when the cards go against him. nobody expected that the north of ireland protestants would actually fight. to threaten fighting is, of course, well within the rules of the game, a piece of bluff which any one is entitled to try if he thinks he will gain anything by it. half the politicians in both countries, and half the inhabitants of england, were laughing at the belfast bluff. the rest of the politicians and the other half of the inhabitants of england were pretending to believe what belfast said so as to give an air of more terrific verisimilitude to the bluff. conroy, guided by the instinct for the true meaning of things which had led him to great wealth, believed that the talk was more than bluff. bob power, relying on what he knew of the character of one man, came to the same conclusion. "who is the man you know?" said conroy. "not babberly, is it?" "oh lord! no," said bob. "babberly is--well, babberly talks a lot." "that's so," said conroy. "but if it isn't babberly, who is it?" "mcneice," said bob, "gideon mcneice." "h'm. he's something in some university, isn't he?" conroy spoke contemptuously. he had a low opinion of the men who win honours in universities. they seemed to him to be unpractical creatures. he had, indeed, himself founded a university before he left america and handsomely endowed several professorial chairs. but he did so in the spirit which led dean swift to found a lunatic asylum. he wanted to provide a kind of hospital for a class of men who ought, for the sake of society, to be secluded, lest their theories should come inconveniently athwart the plans of those who are engaged in the real business of life. "mcneice," said bob, "is a fellow of trinity college, dublin. he was my tutor." then he told conroy the story of gideon mcneice's life as far as he knew it at that time. it was a remarkable story, but not yet, as it became afterwards, strikingly singular. gideon was the son of ebenezer mcneice, a riveter in one of the great shipbuilding yards in belfast. this ebenezer was an orangeman and, on the 12th of july, was accustomed to march long distances over dusty roads beating a big drum with untiring vigour. his protestantism was a religion of the most definite kind. he rarely went to church, but he hated popery with a profound earnestness. gideon was taught, as soon as he could speak, to say, "no pope, no priest, no surrender, hurrah!" that was the first stage in his education. the second was taken at a national school where he learned the multiplication table and the decimal system with unusual ease. the master of a second-rate intermediate school heard of the boy's ability. being anxious to earn the fees which a generous government gives to the masters of clever boys, this man offered to continue gideon's education without asking payment from ebenezer. the speculation turned out well. gideon did more than was expected of him. he won all the exhibitions, medals and prizes possible under the irish intermediate system. at last he won a mathematical sizarship in trinity college. belfast--perhaps because of the religious atmosphere of the city, perhaps because of the interest taken by its inhabitants in money-making--has not given to the world many eminent poets, philosophers or scholars. nor, curiously enough, has it ever produced an eminent theologian, or even a heretic of any reputation. but it has given birth to several mathematicians of quite respectable standing. gideon mcneice was one of them. after the sizarship he won a scholarship, and then, at an unusually early age, a fellowship. it is generally believed that the examination for fellowship in trinity college in dublin is so severe that no one who is successful in it is ever good for anything afterwards. having once passed that examination men are said to settle down into a condition of exhausted mediocrity. gideon mcneice proved to be an exception to the rule. having won his fellowship and thereby demonstrated to the world that he knew all that there is to know about the science of mathematics, he at once turned to theology. theology, since he lived in ireland, led him straight to politics. he became one of the fighting men of the irish unionist party. he also, chiefly because of his very bad manners, became very unpopular among the fellows and professors of the college. it must not be supposed that he had the smallest sympathy with the unfortunate irish aristocracy, who, having like the bourbons failed either to learn or to forget, still repeat the watch-words of long-past centuries and are greatly surprised that no one can be found to listen to them. gideon mcneice's unionism was of a much more vigorous and militant kind. he respected england and had no objection to singing "god save the king" very much out of tune, so long as england and her king were obviously and blatantly on the side of protestantism. he was quite prepared to substitute some other form of government for our present imperial system if either the king, his representative the lord lieutenant, or the parliament of westminster, showed the smallest inclination to consider the feelings of the roman catholic hierarchy. it was thus that bob power, who was by no means a fool, described mcneice's character. conroy was interested. "i should like," he said, "to see that man and talk to him. suppose you go over to dublin to-morrow and bring him here." "you won't like him," said bob. "he's--well, domineering is the only word i can think of." "for that matter," said conroy, "i am domineering too." this was true. conroy had good manners, unusually good manners for a millionaire, but underneath the manners lay a determination to get his own way in small matters as well as great. bob, who knew both men, expected that they would become deadly enemies in the course of twenty-four hours. he was mistaken. to say that they became friends would be misleading. they probably disliked each other. but they certainly became allies, planned together and worked together the amazing scheme which ended in the last--we are justified in assuming that it really was the last--rebellion of irishmen against the power of england. conroy supplied the money and a great deal of the brains which went to the carrying through of the plan. he had, as a financier with world-wide interests, a knowledge of european markets and manufactures which was very useful if not absolutely necessary. he had, as his inspiration, an extraordinarily vivid hatred of england. this was partly an inheritance from his irish ancestors, men who had been bullied for centuries and laid the blame of their sufferings on england. partly it was the result of the contempt he learned to feel for englishmen while he held his leading position in london society. with mcneice's violent protestantism he never can have had the smallest sympathy. his ancestors were probably, almost certainly, roman catholics. if he professed any form of christianity it must have been that of some sect unrepresented in england. no one ever heard of his attaching himself, even temporarily, to either church or chapel. mcneice also supplied brains and enthusiasm. his intelligence was narrower than conroy's, but more intensely concentrated. he knew the men with whom he intended to deal. by birth and early education he belonged to that north irish democracy which is probably less imaginative and less reasonable but more virile than any other in the world. he believed, as his fathers had believed before him and his relations believed along with him, that the belfast man has a natural right to govern the world, and only refrains from doing so because he has more important matters to attend to. he believed, and could give excellent reasons in support of his belief, that the other inhabitants of ireland were meant by providence to be gibeonites, hewers of wood and drawers of water for the people of antrim and down. he had quite as great a contempt for the unionist landlords, who occasionally spoke beside him on political platforms, as he had for the nationalist tenants who were wrestling their estates from them. bob power went to dublin, and with great difficulty persuaded mcneice to pay conroy a visit in london. for a fortnight the two men remained together, discussing, planning, devising. others, among them james crossan, manager of the kilmore co-operative stores, and grand master of the orangemen of the county, were summoned to the conference. then the first steps were taken. mcneice went back to ireland and began, with the aid of james crossan, his work of organization. conroy sold his house in london, realized by degrees a considerable part of his large fortune, placed sums of money to his credit in french and german banks and gave over the command of his yacht, the _finola_, to bob power. from this time on conroy disappeared from london society. stories were told in clubs and drawing-rooms about the sayings and doings of "his royal magnificence j. p. c.," but these gradually grew stale and no fresh ones were forthcoming. the newspapers still printed from time to time paragraphs which had plainly been sent to them by conroy himself, but no one at the time took very much interest in them. "mr. j. p. conroy"--so people read--"has gone for a cruise in mediterranean waters in his steam yacht, the _finola_." it did not seem to matter whether he had or not. "among his guests are--" then would follow a list of names; but always those of people more eminent than fashionable. the prime minister went for a short cruise with him. the chancellor of the exchequer went twice. several admirals, a judge or two, and three or four well-known generals were on board at different times. once he had two bishops, an anglican who was known as a profound theologian, and a roman catholic prelate from the west of ireland. the names of women rarely appeared on the list, but the countess of moyne was advertised as having accepted conroy's hospitality twice. she was well placed among the notable men. she was a young woman of singular beauty and great personal charm. she might have been if she had chosen a leader of the society which lives to amuse itself. her husband's great wealth and high social position would have secured her any place in that world which she chose to take. being a woman of brains as well as beauty she chose to work instead of play, and had become a force, real though not formally recognized, in political life. it is a curious instance of the careful way in which conroy worked out the details of his plans, that he should have used the _finola_ in this way. the cruises which he took with his eminent guests were always well advertised and always short. but the _finola_ was kept continually in commission. her voyages when there were no great people on board were longer, were never advertised, and were much more exciting. but no one suspected, or could have suspected, that a millionaire's yacht, and it the temporary home of the leading members of the governing classes, could have been engaged in a secret trade, highly dangerous to the peace and security of the nation. it is difficult even now to imagine that after landing the prime minister and couple of bishops at cowes the yacht should have started off to keep a midnight appointment with a disreputable tramp steamer in an unfrequented part of the north sea; that bob power, after making himself agreeable for a fortnight to lady moyne, should have sweated like a stevedore at the difficult job of transhipping a cargo in mid-ocean. chapter iii i now reach the time when i myself came for the first time in touch with conroy's plans and had my first meeting with gideon mcneice. i am an insignificant irish peer, far from wealthy, with a taste for literature, and, i think, a moderate amount of benevolent feeling towards those of my fellow-men who do not annoy me in any way. i sold the estate, which had long before ceased to be in any real sense my property, immediately after the passing of the land act of 1903. i have lived since then chiefly in kilmore castle, a delightfully situated residence built by my grandfather, which suits me very well indeed. i have occupied my time for years back in gathering materials for a history of all the irish rebellions there have ever been. my daughter marion used to help me in this work, by filing and classifying the various slips of paper on which i made notes. now that she has got married and cannot help me any more i have given up the idea of finishing my great work. i am satisfying my evil itch for writing by setting down an account of the short struggle between north-eastern ulster and the rest of the british empire. the 5th of june was the day on which i first met bob power, first came into contact with mcneice, and first set eyes on the notorious _finola_. it was the day fixed by my nephew godfrey d'aubigny for the first, for that year, of the series of garden-parties which i give annually. i detest these festivities, and i have every reason to believe that they must be quite as objectionable to my guests as they are to me. it is godfrey who insists on their being held. he holds that i am bound to do some entertaining in order to keep up my position in the county. i am not in the least interested in my position in the county; but godfrey is, and, of course, the matter is of some importance to him. he is heir to my title. i used to think and he used to think that he would ultimately enjoy my income too, securing it by marrying my daughter marion. i am glad to say he has not succeeded in doing this. marion has married a much better man. i was sitting in my study after breakfast, fiddling with my papers, but unable to settle down to work. the prospect of the party in the afternoon depressed and irritated me. godfrey entered the room suddenly through the window. the fact that he is my heir does not seem to me to entitle him to come upon me like a thief in the night. he ought to go to the door of the house, ring the bell, and ask if i am willing to see him. "good morning, excellency," he said, "glorious day, isn't it?" godfrey always addressed me as "excellency." i cannot imagine why he does so. i have never been and never hope to be a lord lieutenant or a colonial governor. the title is not one which belongs to the office of a deputy lieutenant of a county, the only post of honour which i hold. "i expect we'll have a pretty good crowd this afternoon," he said. "lady moyne is motoring over. but that's not what i came to say to you. the fact is that something rather important has just happened." "the people in the gate lodge have burst the new boiler i put in for them, i suppose?" this is the kind of thing godfrey considers important. "not that i know of," he said; "but i'll go down and inquire if you think--" "i don't think anything about the matter," i said. "if it isn't that, what is it that you've come to tell me?" "a big steam yacht has just anchored in the bay," he said, "the _finola_. she belongs to conroy, the millionaire." godfrey is intensely interested in millionaires. he always hopes that he may be able in some way to secure for himself some of their superfluous cash. "i think," he said, "you ought to go down and leave a card on him. it would only be civil." "very well," i said, "you can go and leave my card, if you like." this was evidently what godfrey expected me to say. he seemed grateful. "very well, excellency, i'll go at once. i'll invite him and his party to your menagerie this afternoon. i dare say it will amuse them to see the natives." godfrey always calls my parties menageries, and my guests natives. lady moyne and her husband, who sometimes comes with her, are not counted as natives. nor am i. nor is marion. nor is godfrey himself. this illustrates the working of godfrey's mind. as a matter of fact the moynes and my own family are about the only people of social importance in the locality who ought to be called natives. my other guests are all strangers, officials of one kind or another, stipendiary magistrates, police officers, bank managers, doctors, clergymen and others whom an unkind fate has temporarily stranded in our neighbourhood; who all look forward to an escape from their exile and a period of leisure retirement in the suburbs of dublin. godfrey left me, and i went on fidgetting with my papers until luncheon-time. marion and i were just finishing luncheon when godfrey came in again. "well," i said, "have you captured your millionaire?" "he wasn't on board," said godfrey. "there were two men there, power, who's conroy's secretary, and a horrid bounder called mcneice. they were drinking bottled stout in the cabin with crossan." "under those circumstances," i said, "you did not, i suppose, leave my cards." godfrey has a standing feud with crossan, who is not a gentleman and does not pretend to be. godfrey, judged by any rational standard, is even less of a gentleman; but as the future lord kilmore he belongs to the ranks of an aristocracy and therefore has a contempt for crossan. the two come into very frequent contact and quite as frequent conflict. crossan manages the co-operative store which i started, and godfrey regards him as one of my servants. crossan, who has a fine instinct for business, also manages the commercial side of our local mackerel fishing. godfrey thinks he would manage this better than crossan does. their latest feud was concerned with the service of carts which take the fish from our little harbour to the nearest railway station. crossan is politically a strong protestant and an orangeman of high attainment. godfrey has no particular religion, and in politics belongs to that old-fashioned school of conservatives who think that the lower orders ought to be respectful to their betters. crossan having been taught the church catechism in his youth, admits this respect as theoretical duty; but gets out of performing it in practice by denying that godfrey, or for the matter of that any one else, is his better. godfrey's constant complaints about crossan are the thorns which remind me that i must not regard my lot in life as altogether pleasant. i felt justified in assuming that godfrey had not left my cards on men who degraded themselves so far as to drink bottled stout in company with crossan. i was wrong. godfrey did leave my cards. i can only suppose that his respect for the private secretary of a millionaire was stronger than his dislike of crossan. he had even, it appeared, invited both power and mcneice to view my "menagerie." for this he felt it necessary to offer some excuse. "he is one of the powers of kilfenora," he said, "so i thought it would be no harm. by the way, marion, what are you going to wear? i should say that your blue _crêpe de chine_--" godfrey is something of an expert in the matter of woman's clothes. marion, i know, frequently consults him and values his opinion highly. unfortunately the subject bores me. i cut him short with a remark which was intended for a snub. "i hope you have a new suit yourself, godfrey. the occasion is an important one. if both lady moyne and conroy's private secretary are to be here, you ought to look your best." but it is almost impossible to snub godfrey. he answered me with a cheerful friendliness which showed that he appreciated my interest in his appearance. "i have a new grey suit," he said. "it arrived this morning, and it's a capital fit. that's the advantage of employing really good tailors. you can absolutely trust nicholson and blackett." i have often wondered whether nicholson and blackett could absolutely trust godfrey. i have several times paid his debts, and i do not intend to do so any more. if they were debts of an intelligible kind i should not mind paying them occasionally. but godfrey has no ostensible vices. i have never heard of his doing anything wild or disreputable. he does not gamble or borrow money in order to give jewels to pretty actresses. he owes bills to shop-keepers for ties and trousers. his next remark showed me that nicholson and blackett were becoming uneasy. "by the way, excellency," he said, "i'd be glad if you'd be civil to the pringles this afternoon. get her tea or something." mr. pringle is the manager of the branch of the bank in which godfrey keeps his account. i imagine that he and his wife owe their invitations to my garden parties to the fact that godfrey's account is always overdrawn. this demand that i should be especially civil to the pringles suggested to me that godfrey contemplated sending a cheque to nicholson and blackett. i have no particular objection to being civil to the pringles. i have to be civil to some one. i readily promised to get both tea and an ice for mrs. pringle; hoping that godfrey would go away. he did not. he began talking again about marion's blue dress. it was with the greatest difficulty that i got him out of the house half an hour later by saying that if he did not go home at once he would not have time to dress himself with the care which the new grey suit deserved. it annoys me very much to think godfrey is heir to my title. it used to annoy me still more to think that marion meant to marry him. she assures me now that she never intended to; but she used to take an interest in his talk about clothes and he certainly intended to marry her. chapter iv there are some churches in which it is considered desirable to keep the sexes apart. the men are placed on one side of the central aisle, the women on the other. at my garden-parties this separation takes place naturally without the intervention of any authority. the men gather in a group under a certain chestnut-tree and talk to each other gloomily in low tones. the women--there are always more women than men--seat themselves in three distinct rows round the sides of the tennis-court. the short row across the top of the tennis-court is reserved by an unwritten, but apparently very strict law for the ladies of the highest social position. the dean's wife, for instance, sits in that row. the seats at the other end of the court are occupied by people like the pringles, those who are just eligible for invitations to my parties, but have, so to speak, no social position to spare. they always remind me of st. paul's "righteous" who "scarcely are saved." the long side of the tennis-court opposite the chestnut-tree, which forms a kind of male seraglio, is given over to those of middling station, ladies who are, perhaps, in a position to shake hands with lady moyne, and who do not, perhaps, call on mrs. pringle. to this strictly observed etiquette there are two exceptions. my nephew godfrey does not stand under the chestnut-tree, but keeps close to the side of lady moyne. the other men make it quite clear that they do not want him. no man whom i have ever met can tolerate godfrey's company. he follows lady moyne about because he believes her to be a lady of political influence, and he hopes she will get him a well-paid post under the government. he is one exception. the other is lady moyne herself. she declines to sit in a row. she walks about, sometimes walks away from the rest of the party. my daughter marion's duty on these occasions is to drag young men from the shelter of the chestnut-tree and make them play tennis with young women called from one or other of the rows in which their mothers have planted them. marion finds this a difficult duty, requiring her utmost tact. my own duty, which i fulfil in the most conscientious manner, is to make as many complete journeys round the tennis-court as possible, saying something to every lady in all three rows, and giving a kind of general address of a friendly and encouraging kind to the men under the chestnut-tree. on this particular afternoon two unusual incidents broke the monotony of my party. lady moyne refused to be satisfied with the company of godfrey. she sat down beside the dean's wife and made herself extremely agreeable for nearly ten minutes. then she crossed the corner of the tennis-court, seriously interfering with the game in progress, and "cut out" the dean from the middle of the group of men under the chestnut-tree. "cut out" is strictly the right phrase to use. it is applied or used to be applied to the operation of capturing and carrying off ships at anchor under the protecting guns of friendly forts. it requires great dash and gallantry to "cut out" a ship. the whole audience gaped in astonishment at lady moyne's daring when she captured the dean. she walked off with him, when she got him, to the shrubbery at the far end of the lawn. they were a singularly ill-assorted pair. lady moyne is invariably exquisite, a small woman with dainty ways and great vivacity. the dean is an ecclesiastic as different as possible from the suave dignitaries who lead lives of scholarly leisure in cathedral closes. we picture the ideal dean, a slender man, slightly stooped, thin-lipped, with a suggestion of mild asceticism in his face. he steps slowly through the long window of his study. he paces the closely shaven lawn. the crows caw reverently in lofty trees. he holds a calf-bound volume of plato in his hand. from time to time he glances from the cramped greek text to the noble, weatherworn towers of his cathedral. his life is delicately scented with a fine mixture of classical culture and tallis' ferial responses. our dean--he is also rector of our parish--is a man of a wholly different kind. he is, for one thing, wholly unconnected with any cathedral and has probably never paced a lawn beneath the shadow of historic towers in all his life. this kind of detached, independent dean is not found, i believe, anywhere except in ireland. he is tall, cadaverous, rugged, and he can open his eyes so wide that the whites of them show all round the irises. besides being a dean and the rector of our parish, he is honorary grand chaplain to the black preceptory of the orange order. crossan, a stern judge of ecclesiastics, has the highest opinion of him. it was surmised by a lady in the second row to whom i happened to be talking at the time, that lady moyne wanted to consult with him about the best way of defeating the home rule bill. lady moyne is, of course, a strong unionist. the second unusual incident of the afternoon followed the arrival of bob power. he came late, and godfrey, driven from the side of lady moyne, fastened on to him at once. bob shook him off and joined marion. marion, who had her duties to do and could not allow bob to take possession of her, introduced him to a humble maiden who sat with her mother in the third row. bob, it appears, selected the damsel himself after looking all round the tennis-court. to the great scandal of every one present he led her away from the tennis-court, and found his way to the garden. there--i judged by the condition of her gloves when they returned--they picked strawberries. i have every reason to believe that miss pringle--the girl was the daughter of godfrey's banker--enjoyed this garden-party as she had never enjoyed one before. she was actually laughing, and was looking very pretty when bob brought her back to the refreshment tent for tea. i felt so pleased with bob for his audacity that i asked him to dine with us. he refused, saying that he would be busy on the yacht, but he promised to call on us next morning. the garden-party wore itself to an end as even the dreariest festivities always do. marion and i dined together in a condition of irritable exhaustion. after dinner we played patience for an hour in the library. then marion took a novel, and i settled down to read _the times_. the night was very close and we sat with both windows wide open. _the times_ had articles and letters on two subjects, the home rule bill, which was a menace to the empire and a danger to irish loyalists; and the german navy, which was also a menace to the empire and a danger to every one in the united kingdom whether loyal or not. after reading the leading articles i passed on to the letters addressed to the editor. these are always, in my opinion, the most interesting part of any newspaper. the editor and leader writers are no doubt abler men than most of their correspondents; but then they write because they must, and they write in a hurry. the correspondents on the other hand write because they have something in them--something foolish as a rule, but none the less interesting--which is struggling for expression in print. they also--being for the most part retired military officers--have abundant leisure and are able to take days, perhaps weeks, in the preparation of their compositions. in that particular number of _the times_, two retired colonels had written letters. one of them was disquieted by the growth of the german navy. he was uninteresting. the other--a colonel malcolmson, whom i meet occasionally at my club--had delivered himself of a plan of campaign, an actual fighting programme, which he recommended to the ulstermen, supposing that they meant to declare war against any one who wanted them to govern themselves. this letter interested me very much. malcolmson offered his lawn as a parade and drill ground for volunteers. he also said that he thoroughly understood modern guns, and was prepared to take command of any artillery which ulster might happen to possess. i lay back in my chair and tried to form a mental picture of malcolmson, who is stout and has a bristly white moustache, aiming an immense cannon at an income tax collector. the vision was a pleasant one to linger over, and i added to the scene before my mind the figure of an athletic policeman threatening to smash malcolmson's cannon with a baton. the nationalist leaders then appeared in the background waving union jack flags, and urging the policeman to fresh exertions in the cause of law and order. i even seemed to hear them denouncing malcolmson as one of those who march through rapine and bloodshed to the dismemberment of an empire. i was aroused from my agreeable reverie by marion. she was standing at the window looking out across the bay on the far shore of which stands the little town of kilmore, from which my ancestor, who was a union peer, took his title. "i wonder what they're doing in the village to-night," she said. "there are a lot of lights moving about in the harbour and on the quay." i shook myself free of the vision of malcolmson's artillery duel with the tax collector, and joined marion at the window. a half moon lit the scene before me dimly, making patches of silver light here and there on the calm waters of the bay. the _finola_, looking very large, lay at anchor, broadside on to us, opposite the pier. on her deck lights moved to and fro, yellow stars in the grey gloom. on the pier were more lights, lanterns evidently, some stationary, others flickering in rapid motion. the night was so still that i could hear distinctly the rattle of oars in rowlocks. boats were plying between the _finola_ and the shore. "can they be landing anything from the yacht?" said marion. "i don't think so," i said. "yachts do not carry cargoes, and if they did they wouldn't land them in the middle of the night." i looked at my watch. it was almost twelve o'clock. then another noise was added to the rattling of oars. a cart, unmistakably a cart, lumbered across the stones at the end of the pier. after a while this cart emerged from the black shadows of the houses and we could see it toiling up the hill which leads out of the town. a very slight southerly breeze was setting across the bay from the town to us. we could hear the driver shouting encouragement to his horse as he breasted the hill. the cart was evidently heavily loaded. "the boats haven't been out," said marion. "there cannot have been a catch of mackerel." when there is a catch of mackerel the fish are packed in boxes on the pier, and carts, laden like the one we watched, climb the hill. there is a regularly organized service of those carts under the control of crossan. "it can't be fish," i said, "unless the _finola_ has been making a catch and has come in here to land them." another cart bumped its way off the pier, and in a minute or two we saw it climbing the hill. then the lights on the _finola's_ deck went out one by one. the boats ceased plying between the yacht and the shore. "i don't see why they should land fish in the middle of the night," said marion. the activity of the people on the pier increased. more lights appeared there and moved very rapidly to and fro. "unless they're landing what they're ashamed of," said marion, "i don't see why they're doing it at night." mysteries always irritate me. i answered marion impatiently. "you can't be so foolish as to suppose that conroy is smuggling. it wouldn't be any temptation to a millionaire to cheat the revenue out of the duty on a few pounds of tobacco." several more carts followed each other in a slow procession up the hill. it seemed as if crossan's entire staff of men and horses was engaged in this midnight transport service. "mr. conroy might not know anything about it," said marion. "it may be done--" "i don't suppose bob power--" "there was another man on board," said marion, "and godfrey seemed to think that he was--well, not a very nice kind of man." "the fact that godfrey called him a cad," i said, "rather goes to show that he is a man with a great deal of good in him. besides, as it happens, i know all about him. his name is mcneice and he is a fellow of trinity college. it's ridiculous to suppose that he's landing a cargo of port wine for consumption in the common room. fellows of college don't do that kind of thing. besides, he's a good scholar. i had some correspondence with him when i was writing my article on st. patrick's birthplace. i mean to ask him to dinner to-morrow." that disposed of marion and her smuggling theory. she gave me a dutiful kiss and went to bed. i stood at the window and watched until the last cart had mounted the hill. the lights on the pier went out. a solitary boat rowed back to the _finola_. the town and bay were still again. i shut the window and went back to my chair. i had some thoughts of working up my vision of malcolmson and his artillery into a short article of a light kind, slightly humorous, with a vein of satire running through it. i sometimes contribute articles of this kind, under a pseudonym, to a london evening paper. unfortunately my mind refused to return to the subject. i was worried by the impossibility of finding any explanation of the curious proceedings of the _finola_. the more i thought about the matter the less i was able to understand it. marion's smuggling hypothesis i dismissed as inherently absurd. it is true that the government has withdrawn most of the coastguards from our shores. we used to have twelve of them at kilmore, and they were pleasant fellows, always ready to chat on topics of current interest with any passer-by. now, having lingered on for some years with only two, we have none at all. but, as i understand, coastguards are not the real obstacle to smugglers and never were. the safety of the revenue depends upon the perfection of the organization of its inland officers which makes it impossible to dispose of whisky which cannot show a respectable past history. i was driven back finally on my own theory--inherently very improbable--that the _finola_ had, in the course of her voyage, netted an immense catch of mackerel and had come into kilmore harbour to get rid of them. chapter v bob power called on me next morning. marion and i were busy at my history of irish rebellions when bob was shown into the library. the sun, i recollect, was shining so brightly outside that i had the blinds pulled down in order to soften the light. bob's entrance had much the same effect as pulling up the blinds again. he brought the sunshine with him, not in the trying form of heat and glare, but tempered with a sea breeze, and broken, so it seemed to me, into the sparkle of leaping waves. his work, the night before, whatever it was, had not affected his spirits. as a rule i dislike being interrupted when i am engaged in my literary work. i always absolutely hate it when godfrey is the interrupter. but i found myself quite pleased when bob power said that we ought not to sit indoors on so fine a day. marion ran off to get her hat and joined us on the lawn. bob power led us straight to the garden, and when we got there, made for the strawberry bed. he owned to a pleasant recollection of the feast he had enjoyed the day before. there is a good deal of the school-boy about bob power, and marion is quite young enough to enjoy gorging herself with ripe strawberries. i, alas! am nearly sixty years of age. a very small number of strawberries satisfies me, and i find that stooping to gather them from beneath their nets tires me after a short time. bob power and marion wandered far into the remoter parts of my strawberry bed. i stayed near the pathway. their voices reached me and their laughter; but i could not hear what they were saying to each other. i felt suddenly lonely. they were getting on very well without me. i went on by myself and inspected my melon frames. i left them after a while and took a look at my poultry yard. the rearing of poultry is one of the things which i do in order to benefit my country. quite ordinary chickens satisfy my personal needs, and the egg of the modest barndoor fowl is all i ask at breakfast-time. but an energetic young lady in a short tweed skirt and thick brown boots explained to me two years ago that ireland would be a much happier country if everybody in it kept fowls with long pedigrees. she must have been right about this, because the government paid her a small salary to go round the country saying it; and no government, not even ours, would pay people to say what is not true. her plan for introducing the superior hens into the homes of the people was that i should undertake the care of such birds as she sent me, and give their eggs, under certain conditions, to any one who asked for them. this i agreed to do, and my new fowl yard, arranged exactly as the young lady in thick boots wished, is my latest effort in patriotism. the hens which inhabited it were very fine-looking birds, and the cock who dominated them was a credit to any government. i watched them with real pleasure for some time. then it occurred to me as curious that a government which recognized the value of good blood in birds, bulls, boars, horses, and even bees--if bees have blood--should be not only indifferent but actually hostile to our human aristocracy. for years past animals of pedigree have been almost forced upon ireland. men of pedigree have as far as possible been discouraged from remaining in this country. this idea struck me as very suitable for one of my light newspaper articles. i was unwilling to lose grip of it and allow it to fade away as malcolmson and his cannons had faded the night before. i took a sheet of paper and a pencil from my pocket and sat down on a stone to make a rough draft of the article. before i had written three sentences i heard marion's voice. "oh, there you are, father. we were looking for you everywhere. mr. power and i want you to come and play tennis with us." i rose and stuffed my paper into my pocket. i felt quite glad that they had found me, although i do not care for playing tennis, and, as a rule, enjoy writing articles. "you will get on much better without me," i said. "oh no," said marion; "mr. power is sure to beat me in a single; but i think i'd have a pretty good chance if you are on his side." i was to act as a handicap. my efforts to help power were reckoned to be worth one, perhaps two strokes in every game for marion. this was not complimentary to me; but i dare say my tennis deserves no more respectful treatment. i agreed to be a handicap, and i was a good one. marion won the first set. i got exceedingly hot, but, up to the middle of the second set, i enjoyed myself. then godfrey appeared. he watched my efforts with an air of cold superiority and contemptuous surprise. my heart failed me and i was obliged to ask to be allowed to stop. bob power invited us to lunch on the _finola_. marion accepted the invitation joyfully. godfrey also accepted, although i do not think power meant to ask him. but godfrey is not the kind of man to miss the chance of getting into touch, however remotely, with any one as rich as conroy. power eyed him with an expression of frank dislike. godfrey, it seemed to me, did not much like power. he was probably annoyed at the way in which power made himself agreeable to marion. godfrey regarded marion as, in a sense, his property, although there was nothing in the way of an engagement between them. mcneice, whom i had hoped to meet, was not on the yacht. the steward explained to us that he was spending the day with crossan. i could see that the thought of any one spending the day with crossan outraged godfrey's sense of decency. by way, i suppose, of annoying power, he asked what had been happening on the _finola_ at twelve o'clock the night before. "i was awakened up," he said, "by the noise of carts going along the street and i looked out. i could see lights on the yacht and on the pier. what on earth were you doing at that time of night?" "coaling," said power, shortly. it was plain to me that he disliked being asked questions. it must have been plain to godfrey, too, for he immediately asked another. "how did you get coal in a place like this?" "dear me," said marion, "how very unromantic! i thought you were smuggling!" godfrey's face assumed an expression of quite unusual intelligence. he suspected power of evil practices of some sort. marion's suggestion of smuggling delighted him. "but where did you get the coal?" he persisted. "my dear godfrey," i said, "for all you or i know there may be hundreds of tons of it piled up in the co-operative store. crossan has a wonderful business instinct. he may have speculated on a visit from some large steamer and be making a large profit. i am the principal shareholder, and nothing pleases me better than to see the store succeeding." i knew, as a matter of fact, that crossan had no coal. i also knew that the _finola_ was not coaling. the carts were loaded when they were going up the hill. they would have been empty if they had been going to get coal for the _finola_. i made my remark in the hope of discouraging godfrey from asking more questions. "i wish you would smuggle something," said marion. "i should love to have some french lace laid at my door in a bale in the middle of the night." marion reads novels, and the smugglers in these import french lace. in real life the only people who try to cheat the nation out of its duty on lace are tourist ladies, and they would not share their spoils with marion. "but why did you coal in the middle of the night?" said godfrey. one of godfrey's most striking characteristics is his persistent curiosity. there is hardly anything in the world which godfrey will not find out if he is given time. a secret has the same attraction for him that cheese has for a mouse. some day, i hope, he will find a trap baited with a seductive mystery. "we always coal at night," said power. "of course," said marion, "the dirt shows so much less at night than it would in daylight." "but," said godfrey, "i don't understand why you--" i rose and said that we must go ashore. i invited power to dinner, and urged him to bring mcneice with him if possible. i made it quite plain that i was not inviting godfrey. power accepted the invitation, and sent us off in a boat. i said good-bye firmly to godfrey at the end of the pier. i was annoyed with him for cross-questioning our host at his own table. marion and i walked home. godfrey walked up the hill towards the co-operative store. i am sure he did not want to see crossan. i cannot suppose that he would venture to catechise mcneice. i expect he meant to prowl round the premises in hopes of discovering casks of smuggled brandy or cases full of tobacco. mcneice came to dinner, and i am bound to say that i found myself very nearly in agreement with godfrey's opinion of him. he was a singularly ill-mannered man. power devoted himself to marion, and i felt at once that their conversation was not of a kind that was likely to be interesting either to mcneice or me. they were talking about ski-ing and skating in switzerland. mcneice made no effort to talk at all. he sucked his soup into his mouth with a loud hissing noise, and glared at me when i invited him to admire our scenery. his fish he ate more quietly, and i took the opportunity of reminding him of our correspondence about st. patrick. the subject roused him. "there are," he said, "seventeen different theories about the place of that man's birth." i knew nine myself, my own, of which i was a little proud, being the ninth. i did not expect mcneice to deliver a harangue on the whole seventeen, but that is what he did. having bolted his fish, he began in a loud, harsh voice to pour contempt on all attempts at investigating the early history of our national saint. he delayed our progress through dinner a good deal, because he would neither refuse nor help himself to the _entrée_ which my butler held at his elbow. it was not until he had finished with the whole seventeen theories about the saint that he turned his attention to dinner again. i ventured to suggest that he had not even mentioned my own theory. "oh," he said, "you have a theory too, have you?" my theory, at the time of its first appearance, occupied ten whole pages of the _nineteenth century_, and when republished, with notes, in pamphlet form, was reviewed by two german papers. i felt hurt by his ignorance of it, and reminded him again that we had corresponded about the subject while i was writing the article. "if you've time to waste on that sort of thing," he said, "why not devote it to living bishops instead of one who has been dead over a thousand years?" the idea of investigating the origins of our existing bishops was new to me but not in the least attractive. "wouldn't it be rather waste of labour," i said, "to build up an hypothesis about the birthplace of a living bishop when--" "it's certainly waste of labour to build up an hypothesis about a dead one." "i meant to say," i added, "that if one did want to know such a thing--" "nobody does," said mcneice. "it would," i went on, "be much simpler to write and ask him." i gathered from the way in which he spoke that mcneice did not like bishops; but i was not prepared for the violence of the speech which he made to me after dinner. marion and power were at the piano, which stands in a far-off corner of my rather oversized drawing-room. mcneice settled himself in front of the fire, his long legs straddled far apart, the bow of his white tie twisted under his ear. he is a man of singularly ferocious appearance. he has very bushy eyebrows which meet across the bridge of his nose, shining green eyes, a large jaw heavily underhung, and bright red hair. he addressed me for more than half an hour on the subject of bishops in general. i should be very sorry to write down the things he said. some of them were quite untrue. others were utterly unjust. it is quite wrong, for instance, to impute it as a crime to a whole class of men that their heads are bald. nobody can help being bald if his hair will not grow any more than he can help being fat if his stomach will swell. fatness was another of the accusations which mcneice hurled against the bishops. i suppose this violent hatred of an inoffensive class of men was partly the result of mcneice's tremendous protestantism. the poet milton, i think, felt in the same way about the prelates of his day. partly it may have been the expression of his naturally democratic temperament. bishops like to be called "my lord" by servants and clergymen. mcneice, i imagine, has a quite evangelical dislike of such titles. i dare say that it was the fact of my being a lord which made him so rude to me. on the afternoon of my garden-party i happened to be standing close beside lady moyne when she was saying good-bye to the dean. her final remark was addressed quite as much to him as to me. "what we have got to do," she said, "is to make use of this virile democracy of ours; to mould it into an instrument for the preservation of social order. the introduction of the home rule bill gives us just about the chance we want." i found myself wondering, while the diatribe against the bishops was in full swing, whether lady moyne would succeed in moulding mcneice into a weapon for her hand. it seemed to me more probable at the moment that mcneice would in the end tumble her beautiful head from the block of a guillotine into the basket of sawdust which waited underneath. marion and bob power were singing songs from gilbert and sullivan's operas while mcneice preached to me. they at least were having an enjoyable evening. i dare say mcneice enjoyed himself too. if so, my dinner-party was not given in vain. one cannot reasonably expect more than three out of every four people to be happy at the same time. it was my misfortune that i happened to be the fourth. chapter vi the _finola_ steamed out of our bay next morning. marion saw her go, and became quite lyrical at breakfast about the beauty of her "lines," a word which, as applied to the appearance of a yacht, she can only have learned from bob power. i was not able to share her rapture because the _finola_ went out at 6 a. m., an hour at which i make it a settled rule to be in bed. marion is generally in bed at 6 a. m. too. she made an exceptional effort that morning. for a week i enjoyed almost unbroken peace, and accumulated quite a large sheaf of notes for my work on the irish rebellions. even godfrey refrained from worrying me. but such happiness was too good to last long. on saturday morning three things happened, every one of them of a disturbing kind. i received a letter from lady moyne in which she invited me to spend three days during the following week at castle affey. castle affey is lord moyne's chief irish place. he has three others in various parts of the country and one in england. it is about ten miles from my home. lady moyne invited marion too; but this was evidently an after thought, and she discounted the value of the invitation by saying that her party was to consist almost entirely of men and might be dull for marion. i suspected politics at once, and advised marion to refuse the invitation. i accepted it. politics bore me a good deal; but it is interesting to watch politicians at their game. it is also pleasant, very pleasant, to be in the company of lady moyne. the prospect of the visit was as i have said disturbing. i prefer monotony. but if things must fall splashing into the pool of my life, i would as soon they took the form of visits to castle affey as any other. the next thing which happened that morning was a deputation. it consisted of six out of the twenty carters whom crossan has organized in the interests of our fishing industry. they made the modest request that i should drive my nephew godfrey out of the neighbourhood. i felt the strongest possible sympathy with them. if i were a carter, a fisherman, a shopkeeper, or a farmer, and lived in kilmore, i should certainly wish godfrey to live somewhere else. i did not even question the members of the deputation about their special reasons for wanting to get rid of godfrey. they told me in general terms that he was interfering in business which was "none of his." i wanted no evidence in support of such a statement. godfrey always interferes in everything. a very freckled young man who seemed to be junior member of the deputation, added that godfrey "spied" upon them. of course godfrey spied on them. he spies on me. strong as my sympathy was with the perfectly reasonable request of the deputation, i could not act as i was asked. godfrey is, of course, in my employment. he collects the head rents still payable to me from some parts of the town which were not sold when i parted with the rest of my estate. for this i pay him £200 a year. i could, i suppose, dismiss him if i chose; but the plain fact is that if i dismissed godfrey he would immediately starve or go to the workhouse. he is quite unfit to earn his living in any way. once, after great exertions, i secured for him a kind of minor clerkship in a government office. his duties, so far as i was able to learn, were to put stamps on envelopes, and he was provided with a damp sponge to prevent any injury which might happen to his tongue through licking the stamps. at the end of a year he was dismissed as hopelessly incompetent. he came back to me, beautifully dressed, with a small despatch-box full of tradesmen's bills, and a grievance against the government. it was plain to me after that experiment that godfrey could never earn his own living. i did not see my way to let him drift into the workhouse. he is, little as i like him, the heir to my title, and, in mere decency, i could not allow the cost of his support to fall on the rates. this is just one of the ways in which the democratic spirit of independence has affected us all without our knowing it. in the seventeenth century any member of the aristocracy who was afflicted with an heir like godfrey had him shut up in the bastille, or the tower, by means of _lettres de cachet_ or whatever corresponded to such instruments in england. there the objectionable young man ate bread and drank water at the expense of the public funds. nobody seems to have suffered any discomfort at the thought that the cost of the support of his relative was falling either on the rates or the taxes. (i am not sure which it was but it must have been one or the other.) nowadays we are horribly self-conscious in such matters. the debilitated labourer began it, objecting, absurdly, to being fed by other people in the workhouse. his spirit spread to the upper classes, and it is now impossible, morally, for me, a peer, to send my heir to the workhouse. fortunately public opinion is swinging round again. the latest type of working-man has no objection to receiving an old age pension, and likes to hear of his children being given free breakfasts at school. in time this new feeling will soak through to the class to which i belong. then i shall be able, without a qualm, to send godfrey to the workhouse. at present, i regret to say, i cannot. i explained all this carefully to the deputation. it pained me to have to say no to their request, but i said it quite firmly. my decision, i think, was understood. my feelings i fear were not. very soon after the deputation left, godfrey himself arrived. he wanted me to dismiss crossan. i am not at all sure that i could dismiss crossan even if i wanted to do so. he is the manager of our co-operative store, and although most of the money which went to the starting of that enterprise was mine there is a considerable number of small shareholders. crossan also runs the fishing business and our saw mill. i capitalized both these industries, lending money to the men to buy nets and good boats, and buying the various saws which are necessary to the making of planks. this no doubt gives me some hold over crossan, but not enough to enable me to dismiss him as i might a cook. besides, i do not want to dismiss crossan. he is managing these different enterprises in such a way that they earn fair interest on the capital i put into them. "i've been looking into things a bit, excellency," said godfrey. i quite believed that. the deputation of carters said the same thing in other words. "and you'll find yourself in an awkward place one of these days if that fellow crossan is allowed to go on as he's going." "i hope you're not going to drag up that dispute about the carters, godfrey. i'm sick of it." the dispute about the carters is really an unpleasant business. as originally organized there were eight protestant carters and four roman catholics. a year ago crossan dismissed the four roman catholic carters, and one of the protestants who was suspected of religious indifference. their places were filled by five orangemen of the most determined kind. now the profits of this carting business are considerable. the five men who were dismissed appealed to godfrey. godfrey laid their case before me. i gathered that godfrey had a high opinion of the outcasts who always spoke to him with the respect due to his position. he had a low opinion of the five interlopers who were men of rude speech and democratic independence of manner. i was foolish enough to speak to crossan about the matter. he met me with a blunt assertion that it was impossible to trust what he called "papishes." there, as a lover of peace rather than justice, i wanted to let the matter rest; but godfrey took up the subject again and again in the course of the following year. he persisted, not out of any love for justice though this once he was on the side of justice, but simply out of hatred of crossan. "it's not only the dismissal of those carters," said godfrey. "there's a great deal more behind that. there's something going on which i don't understand." "if you don't understand it," i said, "you can't expect me to." "look here, excellency, you remember the time that yacht of conroy's, the _finola_, was in here?" "of course i do. you went and left my cards on bob power." "i'm very sorry now that i did. there's something fishy about that yacht. what was she doing on the night she was here?" "coaling," i said; "i don't see why i should dismiss crossan because conroy's yacht came in here for coal." "she wasn't coaling," said godfrey. i knew that, of course; so i said nothing, but left godfrey to develope his grievance whatever it was. "ever since that night," said godfrey, "there has been something or other going on in the yard behind the stores. those carters are in it, whatever it is, and a lot more men, fishermen and young farmers. they're up there every night." "probably dancing," i said. "much more likely to be drinking." "i wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, godfrey. you know perfectly well that the store has not got a licence, and there's no drink sold there. besides crossan is a fanatical teetotaller." "that wouldn't stop him," said godfrey, "if he could sell the stuff cheap and make money on it; if"--here he sank his voice--"if it hadn't paid duty." now crossan is one of those christians who has added to the original ten commandments a mohammedan prohibition of alcohol in any form. godfrey, i have no doubt, would break any of the commandments which he recognized, if he saw his way to making a small profit on the sin. but i did not think that even a 25 per cent. dividend would tempt crossan to disregard his self-imposed prohibition of alcohol. "that's all nonsense," i said. "in the first place the _finola_ didn't come in here to land a cargo of smuggled goods." "then what did she come for?" i did not know, so i ignored godfrey's question. "and in the second place crossan wouldn't debauch the whole place by making the men drunk night after night on smuggled spirits. why, only three weeks ago he spoke to me seriously about the glass of claret i drink at dinner. he did it quite respectfully and entirely for my good. i respected him for it." "he's up to some mischief," said godfrey, sulkily, "and it won't be too pleasant for you, excellency, when the inland revenue people find out, and you are let in for a prosecution. i tell you that every night for the last week men have been going up to that store after dark, twenty or thirty of them, truculent, disrespectful blackguards out of the orange lodge. i've watched them." "did you watch them coming out again?" "i did, twice," said godfrey. "they didn't go home till nearly one o'clock in the morning. i couldn't stop up every night, so i only saw them twice." "well," i said, "were they drunk?" "no," said godfrey, unwillingly, "they were not. they walked quite straight." "that explodes your theory then. if they had been drinking smuggled spirits for hours and hours, they would have been drunk." "they were at some mischief," said godfrey. "they were probably getting up a concert," i said. "no, they weren't, for--" "look here, godfrey," i said, "i've listened to you pretty patiently for a long time; but i really cannot spare you the whole morning. if you have anything to do i wish you'd go and do it. if you haven't you'd better go to bed and sleep off your absurd suspicions." one has to speak very plainly to godfrey. hints are simply wasted on him. even after my last remark he hesitated for a moment. then he turned and went. i felt in the mood to write a short story which i have had in my mind for some time. i very often write short stories; but have never yet got an editor who cares to print any of them. the one i had in my mind when godfrey left me was, however, likely to be particularly good. it was to be the autobiography of a murderer; not an ordinary murderer who slays through desire of gain or in obedience to an inborn criminal instinct. my murderer was to be a highly respectable, god-fearing man, a useful citizen, a good father, a man of blameless life and almost blameless thoughts, generous, high-principled, beloved. he was to slay his victim with one of the fire-irons on his hearth. the murderous impulse was to take possession of him quite suddenly but with absolutely irresistible force. he was to kill a man who had been boring him for hours. my intention was to write the story in such a way as to win public sympathy for my murderer and to make every one feel that the dead man deserved his fate. i meant to model the dead man on my nephew godfrey. i still think that a very good short story might be written along those lines, but i doubt whether i shall ever write it. i wrote about two thousand words that morning before i was interrupted by the luncheon gong. i was unable to go on writing after luncheon because the conversation i had with marion distracted my mind and turned my thoughts to another subject. "father," she said, "do you think that mr. power could really have been smuggling things in that yacht?" "no," i said; "he couldn't possibly." "it's very queer," said marion. "what's queer?" "oh, nothing. only this morning rose had a new gold brooch, quite a handsome one." rose is marion's maid, a pleasant and i believe efficient girl of agreeable appearance. "even if mr. power was smuggling," i said, "it's exceedingly unlikely that he'd bring in a cargo of gold brooches to give to the servants in the district." "oh, i didn't mean that," said marion. "in fact rose told me that her young man gave her the brooch. he's a very nice, steady young fellow with a freckly face and he drives one of the carts for crossan." he must, i suspect, be the same young man who accused godfrey of being a spy. if so he is evidently a judge of character, and his selection of rose as a sweet-heart is a high compliment to her. "he promised her a gold bracelet next week," said marion, "and rose is very mysterious about where he gets the money." "as long as he doesn't steal it from me," i said, "i don't care where he gets it." "it's very queer all the same. rose says that a lot of the young men in the village have heaps of money lately, and i thought it might have something to do with smuggling." this is what distracted my mind from the story of the man who murdered godfrey. i could not help wondering where rose's young man and the others got their money. they were, i assumed, the same young men who frequented the co-operation store during the midnight hours. it was, of course, possible that they might earn the money there by some form of honest labour. but i could not imagine that crossan had started one of those ridiculous industries by means of which government boards and philanthropic ladies think they will add to the wealth of the irish peasants. besides, even if crossan had suddenly developed symptoms of kindly idiocy, neither wood-carving or lace-making could possibly have made rose's freckly faced young man rich enough to buy a gold brooch. the thing puzzled me nearly as much as did the _finola's_ midnight activity. chapter vii all competent critics appear to agree that art ought to be kept entirely distinct from moral purposes. a picture meant to urge us on to virtue--and there are such pictures--is bad art. a play or a novel with a purpose stands condemned at once. the same canon of criticism must, i suppose, apply to parties of all kinds, dinner-parties, garden-parties, or house-parties. a good host or hostess ought, like the painter and the novelist, to aim at making her work beautiful in itself; and should not have behind the hospitality a cause of any kind, charitable or political. i myself dissent, humbly, of course, from this view. pictures like _time, death and judgment_--i take it as an example of the kind of picture which is meant to make us good because i once saw it hung up in a church--appeal to me strongly. i do not like novels which aim at a reform of the marriage laws; but that is only because sex problems bore me horribly. i enjoy novels written with any other purpose. i hate parties, such as those which godfrey instigates me to give, which have no object except that of merely being parties, the bare collection together of human beings in their best clothes. i was, therefore, greatly pleased when i discovered that my original guess was right and that lady moyne's party was definitely political. i found this out when i arrived in the drawing-room before dinner. i was a little too early and there was no one in the room except moyne. he shook hands with me apologetically and this gave me a clue to the nature of the entertainment before me. he dislikes politics greatly, and would be much happier than he is if he were allowed to hunt and fish instead of attending to such business as is carried on in the house of lords. but a man cannot expect to get all he wants in life. moyne has a particularly charming and clever wife who enjoys politics immensely. the price he pays for her is the loss of a certain amount of sport and the endurance of long periods of enforced legislative activity. "i ought to have told you before you came," he said, "that--well, you know that my lady is very strongly opposed to this home rule bill." moyne is fifteen years or so older than his wife. he shows his respect for her by the pretty old-fashioned way in which he always speaks of her as "my lady." "the fact is," he went on, "that the people we have with us at present--" "babberly?" i asked. moyne nodded sorrowfully. babberly is the most terrific of all unionist orators. if his speeches were set to music, the orchestra would necessarily consist entirely of cornets, trumpets and drums. no one could express the spirit of babberly's oratory on stringed instruments. flutes would be ridiculous. "of course," said moyne, still apologetically, "it really is rather a crisis you know." "it always is," i said. "i've lived through seventy or eighty of them." "but this is much worse than most," he said. "a man called malcolmson arrived this afternoon, a colonel of some sort. was in the artillery, i think." "you read his letter in _the times_, i suppose?" "yes, i did. but i needn't tell you, kilmore, that that kind of thing is all talk. my wife--" "i fancy lady moyne would look well as _vivandière_," i said, "marching in front of an ambulance waggon with a red cross on it." moyne looked pained. he is very fond of lady moyne and very proud of her. this is quite natural. i should be proud of her too if she were my wife. "her idea," said lord moyne, "is--" just then our dean came into the room. his presence emphasised the highly political nature of the party. unless she had asked crossan, lady moyne could not have got hold of any one of more influence with our north of ireland protestant democracy. the dean cannot possibly be accustomed to the kind of semi-regal state which is kept up at castle affey. i should be surprised to hear that he habitually dresses for dinner. it was only natural, therefore, that he should be a little overawed by the immensity of the rooms and the number of footmen who lurk about the halls and passages. when he began explaining to me the extreme iniquity of the recent vatican legislation about mixed marriages, he spoke in a quite low voice. as a rule this subject moves the dean to stridency; but the heavy magnificence of castle affey crushed him into a kind of whisper. this encouraged me. if the dean had been in his usual condition of vigour, i should not have ventured to do anything except agree with him heartily. feeling that i might never catch him in a subdued mood again, i seized a chance of expressing my own views on the mixed marriage question. it seems to me that the whole difficulty about the validity of these unions might be got over by importing a few priests of the greek church into ireland. the vatican, i believe, recognizes that these orientals really are priests. the protestants could not reasonably object to their ministrations since they refuse to acknowledge the jurisdiction of the pope. a mixed marriage performed by one of them would, therefore, be valid in the opinion of the ecclesiastical advisers of, let us say, the bridegroom. it would be quite unobjectionable to those responsible for the soul of the bride. i put my plan as persuasively as i could; but the dean did not seem to see any merit in it. indeed i have never met any one who did. that is the great drawback to trying to help the irish nation out of its difficulties. no one will ever agree to a reasonable compromise. i took lady moyne in to dinner and enjoyed myself very much. she was--as indeed she always is--beautifully dressed. although she talked a good deal to babberly who sat on the other side of her, she left me with the impression that i was the person who really interested her, and that she only turned occasionally to her other neighbour from a sense of duty. babberly talked about unionist clubs and the vigorous way in which the members of them were doing dumb bell exercises, so as to be in thoroughly good training when the home rule bill became law. the subject evidently interested him very much. he has a long white beard of the kind described as patriarchal. when he reaches exciting passages in his public speeches, and even when he is saying something emphatic in private life, his beard wags up and down. on this occasion it rose and fell like a foamy wave. that was what convinced me that he was really interested in the activity of the unionist clubs. lady moyne smiled at him in her bewilderingly bewitching way, and then turned round and smiled at me. "but," i said, "do you actually mean to go out and do battle?" "it won't be necessary," said babberly. "once the english people understand that we mean to die rather than see our lives and liberties--" "nowadays," said lady moyne, "when the industrial proletariate is breaking free from all control, it is a splendid thing for us to have a cause in which we take the lead, which will bind our working classes to us, and make them loyal to those who are after all their best friends and their natural leaders." i quite saw lady moyne's point. crossan would not be at all likely to follow her or regard her as his best friend in ordinary matters. he might even resent her interference with his affairs. but on the subject of home rule crossan would certainly follow any one who took his side of the great controversy. if lady moyne wore an orange sash over her pretty dresses crossan would cheer her. while home rule remained a real danger he would refrain from asking why lord moyne should spend as much on a bottle of champagne for dinner, as would feed the children of a labourer for a week. it did not surprise me to find that lady moyne was clever enough to understand crossan. i wanted to know whether babberly understood. "but," i said to him, "suppose that the men you are enrolling take what you say seriously--" "i assure you, lord kilmore," said babberly, "we are quite serious." i could hear malcolmson at the other end of the table explaining to moyne a scheme for establishing a number of artillery forts on the side of the cave hill above belfast lough. his idea apparently, was to sink any british warship which was ill-advised enough to anchor there with a view to imposing home rule on us. malcolmson, at all events, was quite serious. "it will never come to fighting," said babberly again. "after all, the great heart of the english people is sound. they will never consent to see their brethren and co-religionists handed over--" lady moyne turned to me and smiled again. i am sixty years of age, but her smile gave me so much pleasure that i failed to hear the rest of what babberly said. when at the end of dinner lady moyne left us, we congregated round the other end of the table, and everybody talked loud; everybody, that is, except moyne and me. moyne looked to me very much as if he wanted to go to sleep. he blinked a good deal, and when he got his eyes open seemed to hold them in that state with considerable effort. i did not feel sleepy, and became more and more interested as the conversation round me grew more violent. babberly talked about a campaign among the english constituencies. he had a curious and quite pathetic faith in the gullibility of the british working-man. nobody listened much to babberly. the dean prosed on about the effects of the _ne temere_ decree. we all said that we agreed with him, and then stopped listening. malcolmson got on to field guns, and had an elaborate plan for training gunners without actual practice. babberly did not like this talk about artillery. he kept on saying that we should never get as far as that. a mr. cahoon, who came from belfast, and spoke with the same kind of accent as mcneice, prophesied doleful things about the paralyzing of business under a home rule parliament. what interested me was, not the conversation which beat fiercely on my ears, but the personal question, why had lady moyne invited me to this party? i am constitutionally incapable of becoming excited about politics, and have therefore the reputation, quite undeserved, of being that singular creature, a liberal peer. why, being the kind of gallio i am, i should have been, like a second daniel, thrown among these lions, i could not understand. they were not the least likely to convert me to their own desperate intensity of feeling. if lady moyne wanted to convert me a far better plan would have been to invite me to her house after the politicians had gone away. circe, i imagine, did not attract new lovers by parading those whom she had already turned into swine. nor could i suppose that i had been brought to castle affey in order to convert people like malcolmson to pacific ways of thought. in the first place, lady moyne did not want him converted. he and his like were a valuable asset to the conservative party. and even if she had wanted them converted i was not the man to do it. i am mildly reasonable in my outlook upon life. to reason with malcolmson is much the same as if a man, meaning well, were to offer a seidlitz powder to an enraged hippopotamus. it was not until next day that i found a solution of my problem. moyne buttonholed me after breakfast, and invited me, rather wistfully i thought, to go round the stables with him. he wanted my opinion of a new filly. i went, pursued by the sound of the dean's voice. he was telling the story of a famous case of wife desertion brought about by the _ne temere_ decree. he was telling it to cahoon, the belfast manufacturer, who must, i am sure, have heard it several times before. i used, long ago, to be a good judge of horses. i still retained my eye for a neat filly. moyne's latest acquisition was more than neat. i stroked her neck, and patted her flanks with genuine appreciation. moyne looked quite cheerful and babbled pleasantly about hunting. then lady moyne came through the door of the stable. i was very glad to see her. her dress, a simple brown tweed, suited her admirably, and her smile, less radiant, perhaps, than it was the night before when set off by her diamonds, was most attractive. moyne, too, though i knew that he did not want to talk politics, was glad to see her. she came into the horse-box, and fondled the filly. then she sighed. "what a lot we have to go through for a good cause!" she said. "those terrible men!" "heavy going," said moyne, "that kind of thing at breakfast. let's take out the new car, and go for a spin." "i should love to," she said, "but i must not. i only ran out to speak to you for a minute, lord kilmore." her eyes led me to believe at dinner the night before that i was the one man among her guests that she really wanted to talk to. now her lips said the same thing plainly. i did not believe it, of course; but i felt quite as much gratified as if it had been true. "mr. conroy comes this afternoon," she said. "that millionaire fellow?" said moyne, who was evidently not well up in the list of his visitors. "and i want you to take him in hand," said lady moyne to me--not to her husband. "he's very clever, and it's most important to get him interested in our movement." "you'd much better take him in hand yourself," i said. "if any one could interest him--" "i shall, of course; but i can't always be with him. i'm dreadfully afraid that if mr. babberly talks to him--but you know what mr. babberly is. he's splendid in parliament and on a platform; perfectly splendid. we've nobody like him. but he might not quite suit mr. conroy. then poor dear colonel malcolmson does talk such nonsense. of course it's very good in its way, and i do hope the liberals will lay to heart what he says about fighting before it's too late--" "mr. conroy is a business man," i said, "and has a reputation for shrewdness." "that's just it," said lady moyne, "and the others--the dean and that curious mr. cahoon. they're dears, perfect dears in the way they stand up for the union and the empire, but--" she shrugged her shoulders, and smiled. "i quite understand," i said; "but, after all, i'm rather an old bore, too." "you!" said lady moyne. "you're a literary man, and that's so rare, you know, in our class. and, besides, you're a liberal. i don't mean in any offensive sense of the word; only just that you're not a party man. i must run away now; but you will do your best with mr. conroy, won't you? we want a big subscription from him." the dean caught me a little later in the morning, and, though i told him i had letters to write, he insisted on explaining to me that, as a clergyman, he considered it wrong to take any active part in politics. "the church," he said, "cannot allow herself to become attached to any party. she must stand above and beyond party, a witness to divine and eternal righteousness in public affairs." i am, on the whole, glad that i heard the dean say this. i should certainly have believed he was taking a side in politics, if he had not solemnly assured me that he was not. i might even have thought, taking at their face value certain resolutions passed by its general synod, that the church was, more or less, on the side of the unionists, if the dean had not explained to me that she only appeared to be on their side because they happened to be always in the right, but that she would be quite as much on the side of the liberals if they would only drop their present programme which happened in every respect to be morally wrong. this cleared my mind for me, and i felt quite ready to face conroy at luncheon, and dispel any difficulties he might feel about the church and politics. chapter viii mr. conroy arrived at luncheon-time, and lady moyne took him in hand at once. i watched her talking to him during the meal and afterwards when they walked together round the lawn. i came to the conclusion that lady moyne would have no difficulty in obtaining any subscription she wanted from the millionaire. they were, of course, intimate with each other. lady moyne had been conroy's guest in the days when his london house was a centre of social life. she had sailed with him on the _finola_. but this was the first time she had him at castle affey; and therefore the first time he had seen lady moyne in her character as hostess. it is not to be wondered at that he yielded to her charm. like all women of real capacity lady moyne was at her best in her own house. but she was too clever a hostess to devote herself entirely to one guest. she took babberly for a drive later in the afternoon and i felt that my time had come. i determined to be true to my trust and to make myself agreeable to conroy. unfortunately he did not seem to want my company. he went off for a long walk with malcolmson. this surprised me. i should have supposed beforehand that talk about artillery would have bored conroy; and malcolmson, since this home rule struggle began, has talked of nothing else. i spent the afternoon with mr. cahoon, and we talked about home rule, of course. "what those fellows want," he said, "is to get their hands into our pockets. but it won't do." "those fellows" were, plainly, the nationalist leaders. "taxation?" i said. "belfast will be the milch cow of the dublin parliament," said cahoon. "money will be wanted to feed paupers and pay priests in the south and west. we're the only people who have any money." i had never before come in contact with a man like cahoon, and i was very much interested in him. his contempt, not only for our fellow-countrymen in leinster, munster and connacht, but for all the other inhabitants of the british isles was absolute. he had a way of pronouncing final judgment on all the problems of life which fascinated me. "that's all well enough in its way," he would say; "but it won't do in belfast. we're business men." i think he said those words five times in the course of the afternoon, and each time they filled me with fresh delight. if the man had been a fool i should not have been interested in him. if he had been a simple crude money maker, a stock exchange imperialist, for instance, i should have understood him and yawned. but he was not a fool. a man cannot be a fool who manages successfully a large business, who keeps in touch with the swift vicissitudes of modern international commerce, who has organized into a condition of high efficiency an industrial army of several thousand working-men and women. and mr. cahoon, in a curious hard way, was touched with idealisms; i discovered, accidentally, that he devotes his spare time on saturdays to the instruction of young men in cricket and football. his sunday afternoons he gives to an immense bible-class for boys of fifteen or sixteen. he has built and maintains, on the sole condition that he does not actually lose money by it, a kind of model village in a suburban district of belfast. in order to look after this village properly he gets up at five o'clock in the morning on three days in the week. in winter, when his social work is in full swing, he spends almost all his evenings at a large working-men's club. he spends his summer holidays in the seaside camp of the boys' brigade. it would be difficult to find a man who crams more work into what are supposed to be his leisure hours. he has, of course, little time for reading and he never travels. his devotion to good works leaves him no opportunity for culture, and accounts for the fact that he believes the things which babberly says on platforms. he would, i did not actually try him with the subject, but i have no doubt he would, have brushed the philosophy of emmanuel kant into the world's waste-basket with his unvarying formula: it wouldn't do in belfast. they are business men there. we worried on about his fear of the over-taxation of belfast and the industrial north. i tried to get from him some definite account of the exact taxes which he feared. i tried to get him to explain how he proposed to fight, against whom he intended to fight, who might be expected to fight on his side. i do not think he got angry with me for my persistency, but his contempt for me steadily increased. i am not a business man and so i could not possibly, so he hinted, understand how they feel about the matter in belfast. "but do you think," i said, "that your workmen will go out and be shot in order to save you from paying an extra penny in the pound income tax? that's what it comes to, you know, and i don't see why they should do it. they don't pay income tax, or for that matter death duties." cahoon looked me full in the face for nearly half a minute without replying. then he took out his watch and looked at it. then he took me by the arm and led me towards the yard. "did you ever see the green loaney scutching mill?" he said. i had never seen any scutching mill. i have only a vague idea of what a scutching mill is. "it'll not be more than twenty miles from this," said cahoon. "and in my car we'll do it and be back for dinner." i did not particularly want to spend the rest of the afternoon rushing about the country in cahoon's motor car. i preferred to stay quietly on the castle affey lawn and talk about home rule. "but about the working-man," i said, "and the prospect of his fighting--" "you'll be better able to talk about that," said cahoon, "when you've seen the man i'm going to take you to. seeing's believing." i was, of course, quite willing to go with cahoon if he would really show me a citizen soldier in a scutching mill. we got out the motor car and started. "he's a man by the name of mcconkey," said cahoon. "a good name," i said. "one expects something from a mcconkey." cahoon did not say anything for about ten minutes. then he went on-"mcconkey is foreman in the mill." "the scutching mill?" i asked. it was, of course, the scutching mill. i only asked the question in order to keep up the conversation. the long silences were embarrassing. cahoon did not answer me. at the end of another quarter of an hour of furious driving he gave me a little further information about mcconkey. "he neither drinks nor smokes." this led me to think that he might be some relation to my friend crossan, possibly a cousin. "i happen to know," said cahoon a little later, "that he has upwards of £500 saved." undoubtedly mcconkey and crossan are close relations, brothers-in-law perhaps. we reached the green loaney scutching mill at about half-past five o'clock. cahoon, who seemed to know all about the establishment, led me through some very dusty purlieus. mcconkey, when we came upon him, did not seem particularly pleased to see cahoon. he looked at me with suspicious malignity. "there's a gentleman here," said cahoon, "who wants to know whether you mean to fight rather than submit to home rule." "aye," said mcconkey, "i do." then he looked me square in the face without winking. cahoon did the same thing exactly. neither of them spoke. it was clearly my turn to say something; but with four hard grey eyes piercing my skin i found it difficult to think of a remark. in the end i said: "really?" they both continued to stare at me. then mcconkey broke the silence again. "you'll no be a papist?" he said. "certainly not," i replied. "in fact i am a church-warden." mcconkey thrust his hand deep into a hip pocket in the back of his trousers and drew out a somewhat soiled packet of yellow tracing paper. "look at thon," he said. i unfolded the tracing paper and found on it drawings of a machine gun. cahoon peered over my shoulder. "she's a bonny wee thing," said mcconkey. she looked to me large and murderous. cahoon expressed his admiration for her, so i said nothing. "i'll no be that badly off for something to fight with," said mcconkey, "when the time comes." "do you mean to say," i said, "that you've bought that weapon?" "i haven't her bought yet," said mcconkey; "but i have the money by me." "and you actually mean--" i said. "ay. i do." i looked at cahoon. he was still studying the drawings of the gun. "it'll be queer," said mcconkey, slowly, "if she doesna' land a few of them in hell before they have me catched." i turned to cahoon again. "do you really think," i said, "that he--?" "we're business men," said cahoon, "and we don't throw away our money." "but," i said, "who are you going to shoot at? it would be silly to attack a tax collector with a gun like that. i don't see who--" "oh," said cahoon, "don't fret about that. we'll find somebody to shoot at." "there'll be plenty," said mcconkey, "when the time comes." "the real difficulty," said cahoon, "is that--" "they'll no be wanting to stand up till us," said mcconkey. the relations of capital with labour are, i understand, strained in other parts of the united kingdom. here, with home rule on the horizon, they seem to be actually cordial. there is certainly a good deal to be said for lady moyne's policy. so long as cahoon and mcconkey have a common taste for making domestic pets of machine guns they are not likely to fall out over such minor matters as wages and hours of work. i had a good deal to think of as cahoon drove me back to castle affey. my main feeling was one of great personal thankfulness. i shall never, i hope, take part in a battle. if i do i hope i shall be found fighting against some properly organized army, the men and officers of which have taken up the business of killing in a lofty professional spirit. i cannot imagine anything more likely to shatter my nerve than to be pitted against men like mcconkey, who neither drink nor smoke, but save and spend their savings on machine guns. the regular soldier has his guns bought for him with other people's money. he does not mind much if no gory dividend is earned. mcconkey, on the other hand, spends his own money, and being a business man, will hate to see it wasted. he would not be satisfied, i imagine, with less than fifty corpses per cent. as a return on his expenditure. at dinner that evening conroy made a suggestion for our evening's entertainment. "lady moyne," he said, "ought to read us the speech which she is to make next week to the unionist women." i had never heard of the unionist women before, and knew nothing of their wish to be spoken to. the dean assured me that they were numerous and quite as enthusiastic as their husbands and brothers. cahoon said that he was giving his mill hands a half holiday in order that the girls might go to listen to lady moyne. babberly struck in with a characteristic speech. "the influence of women," he said, "can hardly be over-estimated. we must never forget that the most impressionable years of a man's life are those during which he is learning to say his prayers beside his mother's knee." this, as i recognized was a mere paraphrase of the proverb which states that the hand which rocks the cradle rules the world. the secret of babberly's great success as an orator is that he has a striking power of putting platitudes into new words. i ventured to suggest that, so far as the present political situation was concerned it was hardly worth while trying to get at the children who were learning to say their prayers. the home rule bill would be either rejected or passed long before any of that generation had votes. lady moyne was good enough to smile at me; but babberly felled me at once. "the women whom we expect to influence," he said, "have fathers, brothers and husbands as well as young children." after dinner we had the speech. a secretary, who had once been lady moyne's governess and still wore pince-nez, brought a quantity of type-written matter into the drawing-room. moyne wanted me to slip away with him to the billiard room; but i refused to do so. i wanted to watch lady moyne making her speech. i am glad that i resisted his appeal. lady moyne not only read us the speech. she delivered it to us, treated us, indeed, to a rehearsal, i might even call it a dress rehearsal, for she described at some length the clothes she intended to wear. they must have been the most sumptuous in her wardrobe. "the poor dears," she said, "want something to brighten their lives. besides, they'll take it as a compliment to them if i'm like solomon in all his glory." i gathered from this remark that the audience was to consist mainly of the wives and sisters of mcconkey and other men of the same class. cahoon's wife, if he had one, would not require a display of lady moyne's best clothes to seal her attachment to the union. the speech was an uncommonly good one. a phrase in it frequently repeated, appealed to me very strongly. lady moyne spoke about "our men." i do not know why it is, but the phrase "our women" as used for instance by military officers who have been to india, always strikes me as singularly offensive. it suggests seraglios, purdahs and other institutions by which turks, and orientals generally, assert and maintain the rights of property with regard to the other sex. "our men," on the other hand, is redolent of sentimental domesticity. i never hear it without thinking of women who are mothers and makers of men; who sew on trouser buttons and cook savoury messes for those who are fighting the battle of life for them in a rough world, sustained by an abiding vision of noble womanhood and the sanctity of home. it is an extraordinarily appealing phrase and lady moyne used it for all it was worth. as addressed by her to wives and sisters of the belfast working-men, it had a further value. the plural possessive pronoun bracketed mcconkey with lord moyne. mcconkey's wife, assuming for the moment that he had not abstained from matrimony as he had from tobacco, shared his joys and sorrows, his hopes and fears, heartened him for his daily toil, would join no doubt in polishing the muzzle of the machine gun. so lady moyne in her gorgeous raiment, sustained lord moyne, her man. that was the suggestion of the possessive pronoun, and the audience was not allowed to miss it. poor moyne did miss it, for he was nearly asleep in a chair. but mcconkey's wife would not. her heart would glow with a sense that she and lady moyne were sisters in their anxious care for the men entrusted to them. that single phrase made such a violent emotional appeal to me that i missed all the rest of the speech. each time i began to recover a little from hearing it and was prepared to give my attention to something else, lady moyne used to repeat it, and then i was hypnotized again. i have no doubt, however, that the speech was a powerful appeal for the maintenance of the union. conroy said so afterwards and babberly entirely agreed with him. the dean suggested that something might be put in about the sanctity of the marriage tie, a matter of particular importance to women and likely to be seriously affected by the passing of a home rule bill. lady moyne thanked him for calling her attention to the omission. the secretary, who had once been a governess, adjusted her pince-nez and took a note. in the smoking-room that evening conroy took command of the conversation, and for the first time since i arrived at castle affey we got off politics. he told us a good deal about how he made his fortune. most men who have made fortunes enjoy talking about how they made them. but their stories are nearly always most uninteresting. my impression is that they do not themselves understand how they came to be rich. but conroy understood, or at all events thought he understood, his own success. he believed that he was rich because he had, more than other men, a love of the excitement which comes with risk. he had the spirit of the true adventurer, the man who pursues novelty and danger for their own sakes. every story he told us illustrated and was meant to illustrate this side of his character. he despised the rest of us, especially me perhaps. we, cahoon, the dean, even malcolmson, though he was a bristly fighting man, certainly moyne who had gone quietly to bed--we were tame barndoor fowls, eating the sordid messes spread for us by that old henwife, civilized society. conroy was a free bird of the wild. he snatched golden grain for nutriment from the hand of a goddess. these were not his words or his metaphors, but they represented the impression which his talk and his stories left on my mind. at twelve o'clock i rose to say good night. as i did so a servant entered the room and told conroy that his motor was ready for him at the door. conroy left the room at once, and left the house a few minutes later. i suppose we ought, all of us, to have been surprised. motor drives in the middle of the night are an unusual form of amusement, and it was impossible to suppose that conroy could have any business requiring immediate personal attention in the neighbourhood of castle affey. but his talk during the evening had left its impression on other minds as well as mine. we bid each other good night without expressing any astonishment at conroy's conduct. cahoon refrained from saying that inexplicable midnight expeditions were not the kind of things they cared for in belfast. even he recognized that a man who had accumulated as large a fortune as conroy's must not be judged by ordinary standards. i, unfortunately, failed to go to sleep. i tried to read the works of alexander pope, of which i found a well-bound copy in my bedroom. but my mind only became more active. i got up at last and covered six sheets of the castle affey note paper with a character sketch of conroy. i maintained that he was wrong in supposing that a capacity for daring is the secret of becoming rich. bob power, for instance, is as daring as any man living and certainly loves risk for its own sake, but bob will not die a rich man. nor will conroy. wealth falls into the hands of such men occasionally, as vast hoards of gold did one hundred and fifty years ago into the holds of pirate ships. but no one ever heard of a buccaneer who died with a large fortune safely invested. before conroy dies his fortune will have taken to itself wings and fled back to that goddess of his who gave it. this was the substance of my article. marion typed it out for me when i went home, but neither of the editors who usually print my articles would have it. i suppose that they did not know conroy personally. if they had known him they would have appreciated my character sketch. i called it, i remember, "our contemporary pirates," a title which ought to have been attractive. at three o'clock, just as i was finishing my article, i heard conroy's motor on the gravel outside my window. he appeared at breakfast looking fresh and cheerful. none of us asked him where he had been the night before, and he did not offer us any information. after breakfast he asked me to go for a walk with him. lady moyne, who heard the invitation given, looked pleased, and i recollected at once that i had promised to interest conroy in the unionist cause and lead him on to the point of giving a large subscription to our funds. these party funds have always been rather a puzzle to me. i have never understood why it should be necessary for rich liberals, rich conservatives and american irishmen to spend enormous sums of money in persuading people to vote. the theory of democratic government is, i suppose, that the citizen expresses his opinion freely in a polling booth. if he has not got an opinion it would surely be better to leave him alone. if he has an opinion and attaches any importance to it he will go to the polling booth without being dragged there by a kind of special constable hired for the purpose. if the money of the party funds were given to the voters in the form of bribes, the expenditure would be intelligible. it might even be justified; since an occasional tip would be most welcome to nearly every elector. but to spend tens of thousands of pounds on what is called organization seems very foolish. however i am not a practical politician, and my immediate object was not to explain the theory of political finance to conroy, but to work him up into the frame of mind in which he would sign cheques. i cannot flatter myself that i did this or even helped to do it. conroy did not give me a chance. he began to talk about the irish land question, a thing in which i no longer take any but an academic interest. he asked me if i still owned a small estate in co. galway which had belonged to my father. i told him that i had long ago sold it and was uncommonly glad to do so. "not a paying proposition?" said conroy. "oh," i said, "it paid very well; but the fact is, what with the agitation about grazing lands, and the trouble about people in congested districts--" "i reckon," said conroy, "that your ancestors mismanaged the property some." i expect they did. but i did not expect to have their misdeeds brought home to me in a vigorous personal way. "your father," said conroy, "or your grandfather, turned my grandfather off a patch of land down there in 1850." my grandfather had, i have heard, a theory that small holdings of land were uneconomic. he evicted his tenants and made large grass farms. nowadays we hold the opposite opinion. we are evicting large tenants and establishing small holdings. our grandsons, i dare say, will go back again to the large farms. i explained to conroy that he ought not to blame my grandfather who was acting in accordance with the most advanced scientific theories of his time. conroy was very nice about the matter. he said he had no grudge against either me or my grandfather. he had, however, so he told me frankly, a prejudice against everything english; an inherited prejudice, and not quite so irrational as it looked. it was after all the english who invented the economic theories on which my grandfather acted. he talked so much about his dislike of england and everything english that i did not like to introduce the subject of the subscription to lady moyne's political fund. he did, in the end, subscribe largely. when i heard about his £1000 cheque i supposed that he must have counted the union with us a misfortune for england and so wished to perpetuate it. either that was his motive, so i thought, or else lady moyne had captivated him as she always captivates me. chapter ix i had no sooner settled down quietly at home and got to work again on my history than i was assailed by godfrey. i wish very much that he was conroy's nephew and not mine. conroy goes driving in a motor in the middle of the night, so he must like disturbances. i hate them. "i'm sorry, excellency, but i am afraid i shall have to interrupt you." godfrey, besides being objectionable in other ways, is a liar. he is not sorry, he is very glad, when he gets the chance of interrupting me. i should resent the disturbance less if he acknowledged frankly that he enjoyed annoying me. "it can't be time," i said, "for another garden-party yet; but, if it is, i'd rather you made out the invitation list yourself. i'm busy. besides making out lists is one of the things you're good at. i should be sure to leave out somebody." "i don't want to talk about garden-parties," said godfrey. "this is something much more serious." "there's no use coming to me about it," i said. "i told you last time that your tailor could bring you into the county court if he liked. i shan't pay him again." the inference was a natural one. godfrey had said that he wanted to talk about something more important than a garden-party. but the inference was wrong. godfrey looked offended. "i sent nicholson and blackett a cheque last week," he said. i waited patiently. if godfrey's business had nothing to do with garden-parties or tailors' bills, i could only suppose that he meant to make some fresh complaint about crossan. "pringle cashed it all right," said godfrey, after a short pause. "i went in there the day after your party and played tennis with his daughter. they were awfully pleased." i dare say they were. people attach a surprising amount of importance to godfrey's social patronage. i myself should be more inclined to cash his cheques for him if he stayed away from my house. but i did not want to argue with godfrey about pringle's taste in guests. "what's crossan been doing to you?" i asked at last. "he hasn't been doing anything to me." "then for goodness' sake, godfrey, let the man alone." "i don't like the way he's going on." "you never did. there's nothing fresh about that. you've complained about him regularly every week for five years." this was an exaggeration. i am sometimes away from home for more than a week at a time and godfrey does not always complain about crossan in his letters. "look here, excellency," said godfrey, "it's far better for you to know what crossan's doing. he's going about all over the country day after day. he's got a motor car." i can quite understand that crossan's owning a motor car must have a very irritating effect on godfrey. i cannot afford to keep one. that any one else in the district over which i ought, according to godfrey's theory, to be a kind of king, should assume a grandeur impossible for me is simply an aggravated kind of insolence. no wonder that godfrey, with the honour of the family at heart, resented crossan's motor car. i tried to soothe him. "it's probably quite an inferior machine," i said. "it will break down soon." "it's not only that," said godfrey, "though i think crossan ought to stay at home and mind his business. he must be neglecting things. but--i wish you'd walk up to the store with me, excellency. crossan's away." "i'd much rather go when crossan's at home," i said; "but, of course, if you won't leave me in peace until i do, i may as well go at once." i got my hat and walking stick. on the way up to the store godfrey preserved an air of mysterious importance. i had no objection whatever to his doing this; because he could not talk and look mysterious at the same time, and i particularly dislike being talked to by godfrey. i expect he tried to be dignified with a view to impressing me, but just before we reached the store he broke down and babbled fatuously. "marion told me yesterday," he said, "that she'd had a letter from that fellow power." "she told me that too," i said. "well, i think you ought to put a stop to it. it's not right." "my dear godfrey," i said, "you appear to forget that he's one of the powers of kilfenora and private secretary to a millionaire." this twofold appeal to the highest and strongest feelings which godfrey possesses ought to have silenced him. he did, i think, feel the force of what i said. but he was not satisfied. "if you knew all that was going on," he said, "you wouldn't like it." we reached the store. the young woman who controls the sale of miscellaneous goods was alert and smiling behind her counter. whatever crossan might be doing she at all events was attending to her business. godfrey took no notice of her. he led me through the shop to the yard behind it. he pushed open the door of one of the outhouses. "that door ought to be locked," he said. this was true. i was somewhat surprised to find it open. "i forced the lock this morning," said godfrey, "with a screw driver." "in that case," i said, "you can hardly blame crossan for its being open. why did you do it?" "i wanted to see what he had inside," said godfrey, "and i wanted you to see." there was a good deal inside. in fact the outhouse, a large building, was filled from floor to ceiling with packing-cases, some of them very large indeed. godfrey pointed to a small one near the door. "just lift that up, will you, excellency?" said godfrey. "no, i won't. why should i? i'm not a railway porter, and it looks heavy." "it is heavy. just watch me for a moment if you don't want to lift it yourself." godfrey with evident difficulty lifted the packing-case, staggered a few steps with it and then set it down. the packing-case may have been heavy but it was quite small. it seemed to me that godfrey was making a rather pitiful exhibition of his physical feebleness. "you ought to do things with dumb bells," i said. "the muscles of your arms are evidently quite soft." godfrey took no notice of the taunt. he was in a state of tremendous moral earnestness. "i want your permission to open these cases," he said. "i won't give you any such permission," i said. "how can i? they're not my packing-cases." godfrey argued with me for quite a long time, but i remained firm. for some reason which i could not understand, godfrey was unwilling to open the packing-cases without permission from somebody. i should have supposed that having already forced a door he would not have boggled at the lid of a packing-case; but he did. he evidently had some vague idea that the law takes a more serious view of smashing packing-cases than it does of housebreaking. he may have been right. but my record so far was clear. i had not forced the lock of the door. "what do you suppose is in those cases?" said godfrey. "artificial manure," i said. our store does a large business in artificial manure. it generally comes to us in sacks, but there is no reason why it should not come in packing-cases. it is tremendously heavy stuff. "those cases were landed from the _finola_," said godfrey. "she wouldn't come here with a cargo of artificial manure." "if you've brought me all the way up here to accuse conroy of smuggling," i said, "you've wasted your own time and mine." "i don't accuse conroy of smuggling," said godfrey. "in fact, i'm going to write to him to-night to tell him what's going on." "very well," i said. "you can if you like, but don't mix my name up with it." we walked back together as far as the village. godfrey was silent again. i could see that he still had something on his mind, probably something which he wanted me to do. he kept on clearing his throat and pulling himself together as if he were going to say something of importance. i was uncomfortable, for i felt sure that he intended to attack me again about marion's correspondence with bob power. i have never, since she was quite a little girl, interfered with marion's freedom of action. i had not the smallest intention of making myself ridiculous by claiming any kind of authority over her, especially in a matter so purely personal as the young man she chose to favour. besides, i like bob power. at worst there was nothing against him except his smuggling, and smuggling is much less objectionable than the things that godfrey does. i should rather, if it came to that, have a son-in-law who went to prison occasionally for importing spirits without consulting the government than one who perpetually nagged at me and worried me. but i did not want to provoke further arguments by explaining my feelings to godfrey. i was therefore rather relieved when he finally succeeded in blurting out what was in his mind. "i hope, excellency," he said, "that you will take the first chance you get of speaking to crossan." in sudden gratitude for escaping a wrangle about marion and bob power i promised hurriedly that i would speak to crossan. i was sorry afterwards that i did promise. still, i very much wished to know what was in the packing-cases. i did not really believe it was artificial manure. i did not believe either that it was smuggled brandy. my chance came two days later. i met crossan in the street. he was standing beside his motor car, a handsome-looking vehicle. he evidently intended to go for a drive. i felt at once that i could not ask him a direct question about the packing-cases. i determined to get at them obliquely if i could. i began by admiring the motor. "she's good enough, my lord," said crossan. he is a man of few words, and is sparing of his praise. "good enough" is, from crossan, quite an enthusiastic compliment. "if your lordship would care about a drive any day," he said, "it'll be a pleasure to me." crossan always interjects "my lord" and "your lordship" into the middle of the remarks he makes to me; but he says the words in a very peculiar tone. it always seems to me that he wishes to emphasize the difference in our social station because he feels that the advantage is all on his side. "the rank," so his tone suggests, "is but the guinea stamp. the man"--that is in this case crossan himself--"is the gowd for a' that." "you can get about the country pretty quickly in that car," i said. crossan looked at me with a perfectly expressionless face for some time. then he said said-"if you think, my lord, that i'm neglecting my work, you've only to say so and i'll go." i hastened to assure him that i had no intention of finding fault with him in any way. my apology was as ample as possible. after another minute spent in silent meditation crossan expressed himself satisfied. "it suits me as little to be running round the country," he said, "as it would suit your lordship." "i quite understand that," i said. "but then i don't do it. you do." "it has to be," said crossan. i did not quite see why it had to be; but crossan spoke with such conviction that i dared not contradict him and did not even like to question him. fortunately he explained himself. "i'm the grand master, as your lordship is aware," he said. "worshipful" is the title of courtesy applied to grand masters, and i'm sure no one ever deserved it better than crossan. "if we're not ready for them, my lord, they'll have our throats cut in our beds as soon as ever they get home rule." "they," of course were the "papishes," crossan's arch enemies. i wanted very much to hear more of his activities among the orangemen. i wanted to know what steps he, as grand master, was taking to prevent cut-throats creeping in on us while we slept. i thought i might encourage him by telling him something he would be pleased to hear. "mcconkey," i said, "who is foreman in the green loaney scutching mill, is buying a splendid quick-firing gun." the remark did not have the effect i hoped for. it had an exactly opposite effect. crossan shut up like a sea anemone suddenly touched. "your lordship's affairs won't be neglected," he said stiffly. "you may count on that." i felt that i could. i have the utmost confidence in crossan's integrity. if a body of "papishes" of the bloodiest kind were to come upon crossan and capture him; if they were to condemn him to death and, being god-fearing men, were to allow him half an hour in which to make his soul; he would spend the time, not in saying his prayers, not even in cursing the pope, but in balancing the accounts of the co-operative store, so that any auditor who took over the books afterwards might find everything in order. "if you really feel it to be your duty," i said, "to go round the district working up--" "you'll have heard of the home rule bill, maybe," said crossan. i had heard of it, several times. after my visit to castle affey i even understood it, though it was certainly a measure of great complexity. i think i appreciated the orthodox protestant view of it since the day i talked to mcconkey. i wanted crossan to realize how fully i entered into his feelings, so i quoted a phrase from one of babberly's speeches. "in this supreme crisis of our country's destiny," i said, "it is the duty of every man to do his uttermost to avert the threatened ruin of our common protestantism." that ought to have pacified crossan even if it did not rouse him to enthusiasm. huge crowds have cheered babberly for saying these moving words. but crossan received them from me in sullen silence. "it would be well," he said at last, "if your lordship and others like you were more in earnest." crossan is not by any means a fool. i have occasionally been tempted to think he is, especially when he talks about having his throat cut at night; but he has always shown me in the end that he has in him a vein of strong common sense. he recognized that i was talking bombast when i spoke about the supreme crisis; but, curiously enough, he is quite convinced of babberly's sincerity when he says things of that sort. it was nearly an hour after crossan left me when i recollected that i had not found out anything about the packing-cases. the subject somehow had not come up between us, though i fully intended that it should. our talk about home rule gave me no clue to what was in the cases. i could scarcely suppose that they were full of gorgets for distribution among orangemen, defensive armour proof against the particular kind of stabs which crossan anticipated. godfrey called on me the next morning in a white heat of righteous indignation. he had received an answer to the letter which he wrote to conroy. before showing it to me he insisted on my reading what he called his statement of the case. it occupied four sheets of quarto paper, closely type-written. it accused bob power and mcneice of using the _finola_ for smuggling without the owner's knowledge. it made out, i am bound to say, quite a good case. he had collected every possible scrap of evidence, down to rose's new brooch. i suppose marion told him about that. he said at the end of the letter that he had no motive in writing it except a sincere wish for conroy's welfare. this was quite untrue. he had several other motives. his love of meddling was one. hatred of crossan was another. jealousy of bob power was a third. "now is there anything objectionable in that letter? anything that one gentleman would not write to another?" i admitted that on the whole it was a civil letter. "now look at his answer," said godfrey. conroy's answer was on a post-card. it consisted of six words only. "do not be a damned fool." "well," i said, "that's sound advice even if it's not very politely expressed." "conroy's in it too," said godfrey, vindictively, "and i'll make them all sorry for themselves before i've done with them." chapter x i find by consulting my diary that it was on the 30th of june that i went to dublin. i am not often in dublin, though i do not share the contempt for that city which is felt by most ulstermen. cahoon, for instance, will not recognize it as the capital of the country in which he lives, and always speaks of dublin people as impractical, given over to barren political discussion and utterly unable to make useful things such as ships and linen. he also says that dublin is dirty, that the rates are exorbitantly high, and that the houses have not got bath-rooms in them. i put it to him that there are two first-rate libraries in dublin. "if i want a book," he said, "i buy it. we pay for what we use in belfast. we are business men." "but," i explained, "there are some books, old ones, which you cannot buy. you can only consult them in libraries." "why don't you go to london, then?" said cahoon. the conversation took place in the club. i lunched there on my way through belfast, going on to dublin by an afternoon train. i was, in fact, going to dublin to consult some books in the college library. marion and i had been brought up short in our labours on my history for want of some quotations from the diary of a seventeenth-century divine, and even if i had been willing to buy the book i should have had to wait months while a second-hand bookseller advertised for it. trinity college, when i entered the quadrangle next day, seemed singularly deserted. the long vacation had begun a week before. fellows, professors and students had fled from the scene of their labours. halfway across the square, however, i met mcneice. he seemed quite glad to see me and invited me to luncheon in his rooms. i accepted the invitation and was fed on cold ham, stale bread and bottled stout. thackeray once hinted that fellows of trinity college gave their guests beer to drink. many hard words have been said of him ever since by members of dublin university. i have no wish to have hard things said about me; so i explain myself carefully. mcneice's luncheon was an eccentricity. it is not on cold ham solely, it is not on stale bread ever, that guests in the common room are fed. if, like prince hal, they remember amid their feasting "that good creature, small beer," they do not drink it without being offered nobler beverages. when the university, in recognition of my labours on the life of st. patrick, made me a doctor of both kinds of law, i fared sumptuously in the dining hall and afterwards sipped port rich with the glory of suns which shone many many years ago on the banks of the upper douro. after luncheon, while i was still heavy with the spume of the stout, mcneice asked me if i had seen the new paper which was being published to express, i imagine also to exacerbate, the opinions of the ulster unionists. he produced a copy as he spoke. it was called _the loyalist_. "we wanted something with a bite in it," he said. "we're dead sick of the pap the daily papers give us in their leading articles." pap is, i think, a soft innocuous food, slightly sugary in flavour, suitable for infants. i should never have dreamed of describing the articles in _the belfast newsletter_ as pap. an infant nourished on them would either suffer badly from the form of indigestion called flatulence or would grow up to be an exceedingly ferocious man. i felt, however, that if mcneice had anything to do with the editing of _the loyalist_ its articles would be of such a kind that those of the _newsletter_ would seem, by comparison, papescent. "we're running it as a weekly," said mcneice, "and what we want is to get it into the home of every protestant farmer, and every working-man in belfast. we are circulating the first six numbers free. after that we shall charge a penny." i looked at _the loyalist_. it was very well printed, on good paper. it looked something like _the spectator_, but had none of the pleasant advertisements of schools and books, and much fewer pages of correspondence than the english weekly has. "surely," i said, "you can't expect it to pay at that price." "we don't," said mcneice. "we've plenty of money behind us. conroy--you know conroy, don't you?" "oh," i said, "then lady moyne got a subscription out of him after all. i knew she intended to." "lady moyne isn't in this at all," said mcneice. "we're out for business with _the loyalist_. lady moyne's--well, i don't quite see lady moyne running _the loyalist_." "she's a tremendously keen unionist," i said. "she gave an address to the working-women of belfast the week before last, one of the most moving--" "all frills," said mcneice, "silk frills. your friend crossan is acting as one of our agents, distributing the paper for us. that'll give you an idea of the lines we're going on." crossan, i admit, is the last man i should suspect of being interested in frills. the mention of his name gave me an idea. "was it copies of _the loyalist_," i asked, "which were in the packing-cases which you and power landed that night from the _finola_?" mcneice laughed. "come along round with me," he said, "and see the editor. he'll interest you. he's a first-rate journalist, used to edit a rebel paper and advocate the use of physical force for throwing off the english rule. but he's changed his tune now. just wait for me one moment while i get together an article which i promised to bring him. it's all scattered about the floor of the next room in loose sheets." i read _the loyalist_ while i waited. the editor was unquestionably a first-rate journalist. his english was of a naked, muscular kind, which reminded me of swift and occasionally of john mitchel. but i could not agree with mcneice that he had changed his tune. he still seemed to be editing a rebel paper and still advocated the use of physical force for resisting the will of the king, lords and commons of our constitution. it is the merest commonplace to say that ireland is a country of unblushing self-contradictions; but i do not think that the truth of this ever came home to me quite so forcibly as when i read _the loyalist_ that it would be better, if necessary, to imitate the boers and shoot down regiments of british soldiers than to be false to the empire of which "it is our proudest boast that we are citizens." the editor--such was the conclusion i arrived at--must be a humorist of a high order. his name was diarmid o'donovan and he always wrote it in irish characters, which used to puzzle me at first when i got into correspondence with him. we found him in a small room at the top of a house in a side street of a singularly depressing kind. mcneice explained to me that _the loyalist_ did not court notoriety, and preferred to have an office which was, as far as possible, out of sight. he said that o'donovan was particularly anxious to be unobtrusive. he had, before he became connected with _the loyalist_, been editor of two papers which had been suppressed by the government for advocating what the litany calls "sedition and privy conspiracy." he held, very naturally, that a paper would get on better in the world if it had no office at all. if that was impossible, the office should be an attic in an inaccessible slum. o'donovan, when we entered, was seated at a table writing vigorously. i do not know how he managed to write at all. his table was covered with stacks of newspapers, very dusty. he had cleared a small, a very small space in the middle of them, and his ink-bottle occupied a kind of cave hollowed out at the base of one of the stacks. it must have been extremely difficult to put a pen into it. the chairs--there were only two of them besides the editorial stool--were also covered with papers. but even if they had been free i should not have cared to sit down on them. they were exceedingly dirty and did not look safe. mcneice introduced me and then produced his own article. o'donovan, very politely, offered me his stool. "mcneice tells me," he said, "that you are writing a history of irish rebellions. i suppose you have said that nationalism ceased to exist about the year 1900?" "i hadn't thought of saying that," i said. "in fact--in view of the home rule bill, you know--i should have said that irish nationalism was just beginning to come to its own." o'donovan snorted. "there's no such thing as irish nationalism left," he said. "the country is hypnotized. we've accepted a bill which deprives us of the most elementary rights of freemen. we've licked the boots of english liberals. we've said 'thank you' for any gnawed bones they like to fling to us. we've--" it struck me that o'donovan was becoming rhetorical. i interrupted him. "idealism in politics," i said, "is one of the most futile things there is. what the nationalist party--" "don't call them that," said o'donovan. "i tell you they're not nationalists." "i'll call them anything you like," i said, "but until you invent some other name for them i can't well talk about them without calling them nationalists." "they--" said o'donovan. "very well," i said. "_they._ so long as you know who i mean, the pronoun will satisfy me. they had to consider not what men like you wanted, but what the liberal party could be induced to give. i don't say they made the best bargain possible, but--" "anyhow," said mcneice, "we're not going to be governed by those fellows. that's the essential point." i think it is. the unionist is not really passionately attached to the union. he has no insuperable antipathy to home rule. indeed, i think most unionists would welcome any change in our existing system of government if it were not that they have the most profound and deeply rooted objection to the men whom mcneice describes as "those fellows," and o'donovan indicates briefly as "they." "and so," i said, turning to o'donovan, "in mere despair of nationality you have gone over to the side of the unionists." "i've gone over," said o'donovan, "to the side of the only people in ireland who mean to fight." supposing that ulster really did mean to fight o'donovan's position was quite reasonable. but babberly says it will never come to fighting. he is quite confident of his ability to bluff the conscientious liberal into dropping the home rule bill for fear of civil war. o'donovan, and possibly mcneice, will be left out in the cold if babberly is right. the matter is rather a tangled one. with babberly is lady moyne, working at her ingenious policy of dragging a red herring across the path along which democracy goes towards socialism. on the other hand there is mcneice with fiery intelligence, and o'donovan, a coldly consistent rebel against english rule in any shape and form. they have their little paper with money enough behind it, with people like crossan circulating it for them. it is quite possible that they may count for something. then there is malcolmson, a man of almost incredible stupidity, but with a knowledge, hammered into him no doubt with extra difficulty, of how to handle guns. o'donovan and mcneice were bending over some proof sheets and talking in low whispers; there was a knock at the office door, and a moment later malcolmson entered. he looked bristlier than ever, and was plainly in a state of joyous excitement. he held a copy of the first number of _the loyalist_ in his hand. he caught sight of me at once. "i'm damned," he said, "if i expected to see you here, kilmore. you're the last man in ireland--" "i'm only here by accident," i said, "and i'm going away almost at once. let me introduce you to mr. mcneice and mr. o'donovan." malcolmson shook hands with the two men vigorously. i never shake hands with malcolmson if i can possibly help it, because he always hurts me. i expect he hurt both mcneice and o'donovan. they did not cry out, but they looked a good deal surprised. "i happened to be in dublin," said malcolmson, "and i called round here to congratulate the editor of this paper. i only came across it the day before yesterday, and--" "you couldn't have come across it any sooner," i said, "for it's only just published." "and to put down my name as a subscriber for twenty copies. if you want money--" "they don't," i said, "conroy is financing them." "conroy has some sound ideas," said malcolmson. "you approve of the paper, then?" said mcneice. "i like straight talk," said malcolmson. "we aim at that," said o'donovan. "i'm dead sick of politics and speech making," said malcolmson. "what i want is to have a slap at the damned rebels." "mr. o'donovan's point of view," i said, "is almost the same as yours. what he wants--" "i'm glad to hear it," said malcolmson, "and i need only say that when the time comes, gentlemen, and it won't be long now if things go on as they are going--you'll find me ready. what ireland wants--" malcolmson paused. i waited expectantly. it is always interesting to hear what ireland wants. many people have theories on the subject, and hardly any one agrees with any one else. "what ireland wants," said malcolmson dramatically, "is another oliver cromwell." he drew himself up and puffed out his chest as he spoke. he must, i think, have rather fancied himself in the part of a twentieth century puritan horse soldier. i looked round at o'donovan to see how he was taking the suggestion. oliver cromwell i supposed, could not possibly be one of his favourite heroes. but i had misjudged o'donovan. his sympathy with rebels of all nations was evidently stronger than his dislike of the typical englishman. after all, cromwell, however objectionable his religious views may have been, did kill a king. o'donovan smiled quite pleasantly at malcolmson. i dare say that even the idea of a new massacre of drogheda was agreeable enough to him, provided the inhabitants of the town were the people to whom he denied the title of nationalists and malcolmson wanted to have a slap at because they were rebels. then mcneice got us all back to practical business in a way that would have delighted cahoon. mcneice, though he does live in dublin, has good belfast blood in his veins. he likes his heroics to be put on a business basis. the immediate and most pressing problem, he reminded us, was to secure as large a circulation as possible for _the loyalist_. "you get the paper into the people's hands," he said to malcolmson, "and we'll get the ideas into their heads." malcolmson, who is certainly prepared to make sacrifices in a good cause, offered to hire a man with a motorcycle to distribute the paper from house to house over a wide district. "i know the exact man we want," he said. "he knows every house in county antrim, and the people like him. he's been distributing bibles and selling illuminated texts among the farmers and labourers for years. he's what's called a colporteur. that," he turned to o'donovan with his explanation, "is a kind of scripture reader, you know." if any one in the world except malcolmson had suggested the employment of a scripture reader for the distribution of _the loyalist_, i should have applauded a remarkable piece of cynicism. but malcolmson was in simple earnest. "will you be able to get him?" i said. "the society which employs him may perhaps--" "oh, that will be all right," said malcolmson. "there can't be any objection. but if there is--i happen to be a member of the committee of the society. i'm one"--he sunk his voice modestly--"of the largest subscribers." i am inclined to forget sometimes that malcolmson takes a leading part in church affairs. at the last meeting of the general synod of the church of ireland he said that the distribution of the bible among the people of ireland was the surest means of quenching the desire for home rule. free copies of _the loyalist_ for the people who already have bibles and a force of artillery are, so to speak, his reserves. chapter xi the 12th of july, was, of course, indicated by nature itself as a day in every way suitable for a great unionist demonstration. babberly and lady moyne were not the people to neglect an opportunity. they organized a demonstration. then somebody--i think it must have been mcneice in the pages of _the loyalist_--suggested that the thing should be called a review and not a demonstration. malcolmson took the idea up warmly and forced babberly's hand. english journalists of the conservative kind--journalists of every kind swarmed over belfast for a week beforehand--were delighted and trumpetted the thing as a review. liberal journalists lost their tempers--the clever ones losing theirs most hopelessly--and abused the orangemen in finely pointed paradoxical epigrams, which i dare say excited the admiration of sentimental nationalists in chelsea, but had not the smallest effect of any kind on the people of belfast. they, just then, had no leisure time to spend in reading epigrams, and never at any time appreciated paradox. an english statesman of great ability announced to the world at large that a demonstration was one thing, and a review was quite a different thing. he went no further than to point out the fact that there was a distinction between the two things; but everybody understood that a demonstration was, in his opinion, quite harmless, whereas a review might end in getting somebody into trouble. the nationalist leaders--"those fellows" as mcneice called them--issued a kind of manifesto. it was a document which breathed the spirit of moderate constitutionalism, and spoke the words of grave, serious patriotism. it made a strong appeal to the people of belfast not to injure the cause of liberty, law and order by rash and ill-considered action. it said that no nationalist wanted to see babberly and lord moyne put into prison; but that most nationalists had been made to sleep on plank beds for utterances much less seditious than this advertisement of a review. o'donovan and mcneice tore this manifesto to pieces with jubilant scorn in the next number of _the loyalist_. a roman catholic bishop issued a kind of pastoral to his flock urging them to remain at home on the 12th of july, and above all things not to attempt a counter demonstration in belfast. it was a nice pastoral, very christian in tone, but quite unnecessary. no sane roman catholic, unless he wanted a martyr's crown, would have dreamed of demonstrating anywhere north of the boyne on that particular day. the newspapers were very interesting at this time, and i took in so many of them that i had not time to do anything except read them. i had not even time to read them all, but marion used to go through the ones i could not read. with a view to writing an essay--to be published in calmer times--on "different points of view" we cut out and pasted into a book some of the finer phrases. we put them in parallel columns. "truculent corner boys," for instance, faced "grim, silent warriors." "men in whom the spirit of the martial psalms still survives," stood over against "ruffians whose sole idea of religion is to curse the pope." "sons of unconquerable colonists, men of our own race and blood," was balanced by "hooligans with a taste for rioting so long as rioting can be indulged in with no danger to their own skins." we were interrupted in this pleasant work by the arrival of a letter from lady moyne. she summoned me--invited would be quite the wrong word--to castle affey. i went, of course. babberly was there. he and lady moyne were shut up in the library along with lady moyne's exhausted secretary. they were writing letters which she typed. i saw moyne himself before i saw them. "i'm afraid," he said, "i'm very much afraid that some of our people are inclined to go too far. malcolmson, for instance. i can't understand malcolmson. after all the man's a gentleman." "but," i said, "malcolmson wants to fight. he always said so." "quite so, quite so. we all said so. i've said so myself; but it was always on the distinct understanding--" "that it would never come to that. i've heard babberly say so." "but--damn it all, kilmore!--it doesn't do to push things to these extremes. the whole business has been mismanaged. the people have got out of hand; and there's malcolmson, a man who's dined at my table a score of times, actually egging them on. now, what do you think we ought to do?" "the government is threatening you, i suppose?" "it's growling," said moyne. "not that i care what the government does to me. it can't do much. but i do not want her ladyship mixed up in anything unpleasant. it won't do, you know. people don't like it. i don't mind for myself, of course. but still it's very unpleasant. men i know keep writing to me. you know the sort of thing i mean." i did. the members of the english aristocracy still preserve a curious sentiment which they call "loyalty." it is quite a different thing from the "loyalty" of crossan, for instance, or mcneice. i fully understood that there were men in clubs in london who would look coldly at poor moyne (men of such importance that their wives' treatment of lady moyne would matter even to her) if he were discovered to be heading an actual rising of ulster protestants. i promised to do what i could to get moyne out of his difficulty. i found that babberly and lady moyne had worked out a very feasible plan without any help from me. "that fellow malcolmson has rushed things," said babberly, "and there's an abominable rag called _the loyalist_--" "by the way," i said, "i hear that the nationalists at their last meeting in dublin joined in singing 'god save the king.'" i wanted to hear what babberly thought of this. i was disappointed. the fact did not seem to interest him. "i don't know who edits the thing," he went on, still referring to _the loyalist_. "conroy is behind it," i said. "i happen to know that." "but surely," said lady moyne, "mr. conroy cannot want to encourage violence. he has just as much to lose as any of us--more than most of us--by any kind of outbreak of the democracy." "lady moyne has suggested to malcolmson," said babberly, "that he should agree to call this 12th of july business a march past." "is that any improvement on review?" i asked. "of course," said lady moyne, "the government doesn't want to be driven to take steps against us. there would be horrible rioting afterwards if they struck moyne's name off the privy council or did anything like that. it would be just as unpleasant for them as it would be for us, more so in fact." "your idea," i said, "is to give the government a loophole of escape." "malcolmson has agreed all right," said babberly, "and if only that wretched little paper--did you say conroy was in it?" "i'll write to mr. conroy at once," said lady moyne. "i'm sure his connection with a paper of that kind is simply a mistake." she turned to the table and began to write her letter. the secretary in a distant corner of the room was still typing out a long pronouncement which babberly intended to forward to _the times_. a minute or two later lady moyne turned to me with one of her brightest smiles. "we want you to be with us on the 12th," she said. in england or scotland a countess who gives an invitation for "the 12th" is understood to mean the 12th of august, and her guest must be ready to shoot grouse. in north-eastern ulster "the 12th" meant the 12th of july, and the party, in this case at all events, was likely to end in the shooting of policemen. "at the review?" i said, "i mean to say the march past? but i never go to political meetings. i'm no good at all as a speaker." "oh, it doesn't matter about your speaking. we should love to hear you, of course. but if you'd really rather not--!" i think lady moyne was relieved when i assured her that i really would rather not. "but you'll be on the platform," she said. "we want you very much indeed." "i don't see," i said, "that i'll be the least use to you." "the point is," said babberly, "that you're a liberal." "oh, you mustn't say that," said lady moyne. "that's only foolish gossip. i'm perfectly certain that lord kilmore never was--" "never," i said. "but then i never was a conservative either." "that's just it," said lady moyne. "don't you see?" "the point is," said babberly, "that if you are on the platform it will be quite clear--i mean to say as it's generally understood that you're inclined to liberalism--" i began to understand a little. last time i was at castle affey lady moyne made a great point of my associating myself with her party in opposing home rule. the fact that i was a liberal (though not in any offensive sense of the word) gave weight to the opposition; and i might help to make the other liberals (who were liberals in the most offensive possible sense) take the threats of babberly seriously. this time i was to sit on the platform side by side with malcolmson and cahoon, because, being a liberal, or rather suspected of being inclined to liberalism, my presence might induce the other liberals, who were liberals indeed, not to take babberly's remarks at their face value. that is the drawback to the kind of detached position which i occupy. i am liable to be used for such various purposes that i get confused. however, i ought, no doubt, to be very thankful that i am useful in any way. "if you think, my dear lady moyne," i said, "that my presence at the march past will be of the slightest service to you--" "it will," she said. "it will, indeed, of the very greatest service, and moyne will be delighted." i was thinking of moyne when i made the promise. i do not mean to say that i should have undertaken to perch myself like a fool on a wooden platform in the middle of a mob simply out of friendship for moyne. i would not have done it unless lady moyne had looked at me with a particular expression in her eyes, unless i had hoped that she would give my hand a little squeeze of intimate friendship when i was bidding her good night. still i did think of moyne too, and was quite genuinely pleased that i was able to help him out of a difficult position. i found him later on roaming about among the cucumber frames in a desolate corner of the garden. a man who was digging potatoes directed me to that curious retreat. "it's all right, moyne," i said. "we've got the whole thing settled most satisfactorily. you needn't be afraid of any disagreeable public scandal." "thank god!" said moyne, fervently. "how did you manage it?" "i can't take any credit for the arrangement," i said. "lady moyne and babberly had it all cut and dried before they consulted me at all." "what are they going to do?" "well, in the first place they've got malcolmson and the rest of that lot to stop calling the thing a review. it's to be officially known for the future as a march past." "who is to march past what?" said moyne. "i forgot to ask that," i said, "but i rather fancy the audience is to march past you." "i don't see," said moyne, "that there's much difference between calling it a march past and calling it a review. they're both military terms; and what i object to is being associated with--" "lady moyne seemed to think," i said, "that it made all the difference in the world; and that the government would grasp at the olive branch." "i suppose it will be all right," said moyne doubtfully. "the next part of the plan," i said, "is that i am to be on the platform." "you'll rather hate that, won't you, kilmore?" "i shall detest it." "and i don't see what good it will do." "nor do i; but lady moyne and babberly both say that as i'm a liberal--" "surely to god you're not that!" said moyne. "no, i'm not. but i'm suspected of being inclined that way. therefore my being on the platform will prove to the world that you're not nearly so much of a unionist as you've been trying to make out." "but i am," said moyne. "i know that, of course; but lady moyne wants to persuade people that you're not, just for the present, till this fuss about the review wears off." "i suppose it will be all right," said moyne, again. it was all right. an announcement was made in all the leading papers that no one had ever intended to hold a review on the 12th of july, but that the unionist leaders had expressed their unalterable determination to have a march past. the liberal papers said that this abandonment of the principal item on their programme showed more distinctly than ever that the ulster unionists were merely swaggering cowards who retreated before the firm front showed by the government in face of their arrogant claims. the unionist papers said that belfast by insisting on the essential thing while displaying a magnanimous disregard for the accidental nomenclature, had demonstrated once and for ever the impossibility of passing the home rule bill. a few days later my name appeared amongst those of other gentlemen who intended to take seats on the platform in belfast. the unionist papers welcomed the entry into public life of a peer of my well-known intellectual powers and widely recognized moderation. the liberal papers said that the emptiness of ulster's opposition to home rule might be gauged by the fact that it had welcomed the support of a dilettante lordling. chapter xii our meeting on the 12th of july was held in the botanic gardens, and nobody marched past anything. a platform, not unlike the grand stand at a country race meeting, was built on the top of a long slope of grass. at the bottom of the slope was a level space, devoted at ordinary times to tennis-courts. beyond that the ground sloped up again. the botanists who owned the gardens must, i imagine, have regretted that our meeting was a splendid success. i did not see their grounds afterwards, but there cannot possibly have been much grass left. the poor tennis-players must have been cut off from their game for the rest of the summer. the space in front of the platform was packed with men, and the air was heavy with the peculiarly pungent smell of orange peel. i cannot imagine how any one in the crowd managed to peel an orange. the men seemed to be so tightly packed as to make the smallest movement impossible. possibly the oranges were deliberately peeled beforehand by the organizers of the meeting with a view to creating the proper atmosphere for the meeting. there certainly is a connection between the smell of oranges and political enthusiasm. i felt a wave of strong feeling come over me the moment i climbed to my seat; and as no one had at that time made a speech, it can only have been the oranges which affected me. i wish some philosopher would work out a theory of oranges. the blossom of the tree is used at weddings as a symbol of enduring love, perhaps as an aid to affection. the mature fruit pervades political meetings, which are all called together with a view to promoting strife and general ill feeling. what would happen if any one came to a meeting crowned with the blossoms? what would become of a bride if she were decked with the fruit? is there any connection whatever between the fruit and the lily? it is certainly associated with political action of the most violent kind. poor moyne, who took the chair, wore one of the lilies, a very small one, in the lapel of his coat. lady moyne carried a large bouquet of them. babberly wore one. so did malcolmson. our dean would have worn one if he could; but it is impossible to fix a flower becomingly into the button-hole of a clerical coat. we began by singing a hymn. the dean declaimed the first two lines of it, and then the bands took up the tune. considering that there must have been at least forty bands present, all playing, i think we got through the hymn remarkably well. we certainly made an impressive amount of noise. i think it was babberly who suggested the hymn. he had an idea that it would impress the english nonconformists. i do not think it did; but, so far as our meeting was concerned, that did not matter. we were not singing it--any of us, except babberly--with a view to impressing other people. we were singing with the feeling in our breasts, that we were actually marching to battle under the divine protection. the reporters of the unionist papers made the most of the prevailing emotion. they sent off telegrams of the most flamboyant kind about our puritan forefathers. poor moyne, who is a deeply religious man, did not sing the hymn. he has a theory that hymns and politics ought not to be mixed. i heard him arguing the position afterwards with the dean who maintained that the question of home rule was not a political one. political questions are those, so he argued, with regard to which there is a possibility of difference of opinion among honest men. but all honest men are opposed to home rule, which is therefore not a political question. my seat was in the very front of the platform, and when we had finished the hymn i noticed that the smell of perspiration was beginning to overpower the oranges. it is my misfortune to have an unusually acute sense of smell. no one afflicted with such an infirmity ought to take any part in the politics of a modern democratic state. moyne introduced babberly to the audience, and everybody cheered, although no one heard a word he said. moyne has not a good voice at any time, and his objection to the hymn had made him nervous. babberly was not nervous, and he has a very good voice. i imagine that at least half the audience heard what he said, and the other half knew he was saying the right things because the first half cheered him at frequent intervals. he began, of course, by saying that our forefathers bled and died for the cause which we were determined to support. this, so far as my forefathers and moyne's are concerned, is horribly untrue. the ancestors of both of us commanded regiments of the volunteers who achieved the only home rule parliament which ever sat in ireland. my own great grandfather afterwards exchanged his right to legislate in dublin for the peerage which i now enjoy. but moyne and i were no doubt in a minority in that assembly. babberly's forefathers may possibly have bled and died for the union; but i do not think he can be sure about this. his father lived in leeds, and nobody, not even babberly himself, knows anything about his grandfather. when the audience had stopped cheering babberly's forefathers, he went on to tell us that belfast had the largest shipbuilding yard, the largest tobacco factory, the largest linen mill, and the second largest school of art needlework in the united kingdom. these facts were treated by everybody as convincing reasons for the rejection of the home rule bill, and a man, who was squeezed very tight against the platform just below me, cursed the pope several times with singular vindictiveness. babberly's next statement was that he defied the present government to drive us out of the british empire, which we had taken a great deal of trouble in times past to build up. this was, of course, a perfectly safe defiance to utter; for no one that i ever heard of had proposed to drive babberly, or me, or moyne out of the empire. then we got to the core of babberly's speech. some fool, it appeared, wanted to impeach babberly, and babberly said that he wanted to be impeached. i am a little hazy about the exact consequences of a successful impeachment. there has not been one for a long time; but i have an idea that the victim of the process is called before the house of lords and beheaded. how far recent legislation may have curtailed the powers of the house of lords in the matter i do not know; but even under our new constitution impeachment must remain a very serious matter. it was, we all felt, most heroic of babberly to face this kind of undefined doom in the way he did. this was the last thing which babberly said in his speech. he talked a great deal more, but he did not say anything else which it is possible to write down. i do not think i have ever heard any public speaker equal to babberly in eloquence. he gave one incontestable proof of his power as an orator that day in belfast. he must have spoken for very nearly an hour, and yet no one noticed that he was not saying anything for the greater part of the time. i did not notice it, and probably should never have found it out if i had not tried afterwards to write down what he said. after babberly came the dean. i suffer a great deal from the dean's sermons on sundays; but i thoroughly enjoyed his speech. he is not babberly's rival in eloquence; but he has a knack of saying the kind of things which people listen to. he began by telling us what he would do if he found himself in command of the forces of ulster at the beginning of a great war. "lord moyne," he said, "should organize my transport and commissariat." i cannot imagine any job at which moyne would be more certain to fail totally. but the dean justified himself. "i have stopped in lord moyne's house," he said, "and i know how well he manages the food supply of a large establishment. my friend mr. babberly should draw up the plan of campaign. his cautious intellect should devise the schemes for circumventing the wiles and stratagems of the enemy. he should map out the ambuscades into which the opposing troops should fall. you have listened to mr. babberly to-day. you will agree with me about his fitness for the work to which i should put him." i had listened to babberly and i did not agree with the dean. but i formed one of a very small minority. moyne began to look uneasy. it seemed to me that he did not much like this military metaphor of the dean's. i imagine that he would have been still more uncomfortable if he had been obliged to take an active part in a campaign planned by babberly. "for the command of a forlorn hope," said the dean, "for the leading of a desperate charge, for the midnight dash across the frontier--" some one in the audience suggested the boyne as the boundary of the frontier. "i should select colonel malcolmson." the audience highly approved of his choice. it seemed to me that the people did not quite grasp the fact that the dean was speaking only metaphorically. some thought of the same kind struck moyne. he fidgetted uneasily, babberly made an effort to stop the dean, but that was impossible. "for settling the terms of peace with the beaten enemy--" "we'll beat them," said several people in the crowd. "i should call upon my good friend lord kilmore." this gave me a severe shock. for a moment i thought of standing up and refusing to act as military ambassador of the ulster army. then i recollected that if moyne managed the transport and babberly planned the campaign it was exceedingly unlikely that there would be any beaten enemy. i kept my seat and watched babberly whispering earnestly to lady moyne. malcolmson followed the dean. moyne leaned over to me and expressed a hope that malcolmson was not going to commit us to anything outrageous. from the look of malcolmson's eye as he rose i judged that moyne's hope was a vain one. "the dean," said malcolmson, "has spoken to you about the campaign. i ask you, are you prepared to undertake one?" "good heavens!" said moyne. babberly squeezed his way past lady moyne. "this won't do," he said to moyne, "malcolmson mustn't go too far." "the dean," said malcolmson, "has told us where to find our commanders. looking round upon this vast assembly of determined men i can tell the dean where to look for the rank and file of the army." "you'll have to stop him," said babberly. i dare say the thought of the impeachment which was hanging over his head made him nervous. "i can't," said lord moyne. "i ask those present here," said malcolmson, "who, when the supreme moment comes are prepared to step forward into the ranks, to hold up their hands and swear." malcolmson did not make it quite clear what oaths we were to employ. but his audience appeared to understand him. thousands of hands were held up and there was a kind of loud, fierce growl, which i took to be the swearing. lord moyne turned to me. "what am i to do, kilmore?" "i don't know," i said. malcolmson and the ten or twelve thousand men in front of him were still growling like a very angry thunderstorm at a distance. the thing was exceedingly impressive. then some one started the hymn again. i never heard a hymn sung in such a way before. if the explosions of large guns could be tuned to the notes of an octave the effect of firing them off, fully loaded with cannon balls, would be very much the same. malcolmson, beating time very slowly with his hand from the front of the platform, controlled this human artillery. lady moyne came to me and shouted in my ear. it was necessary to shout on account of the terrific noise made by malcolmson's hymn. "as soon as he sits down you'll have to get up and say something." "i can't," i yelled. "i'm no good at all as a public speaker." the beginning of lady moyne's next shout i could not hear at all. only the last words reached me. "--on account of your being a liberal, you know." for the first time since i have known her i refused to do what lady moyne asked me. very likely i should have given in at last and made an indescribable fool of myself; but before she succeeded in persuading me, malcolmson's hymn stopped. malcolmson himself, apparently satisfied with his performance, sat down. "what on earth am i to do?" said moyne. "you can write to the papers, to-morrow," i said. "but now?" said moyne, "now." "the only thing i can think of," i said, "is to start them singing 'god save the king.' that will commit them more or less--at least it may." moyne rose to his feet and asked all the bands present to play "god save the king." babberly backed him and the bands struck up. considering that the audience had just pledged themselves with inarticulate oaths and most terrifying psalmody to march in malcolmson's army, their enthusiasm for the king was striking. they sang the national anthem quite as whole-heartedly as they had sung the hymn. they are a very curious people, these fellow-countrymen of mine. moyne cheered up a little when we got back to the club. "that was a capital idea of yours, kilmore," he said. "i don't see how they can very well accuse us of being rebels after the way we sang the national anthem." "i wonder if they'll impeach babberly," i said. "oh, that's only a labour member," said moyne. "he doesn't really mean it. those fellows never do." "do you think our people really meant it to-day?" i said. "meant what? god save the king? of course they did." "i was thinking of the hymn," i said. "i hope to god," said moyne, "they didn't mean that." this is a curious view of hymn-singing for a religious man to take. chapter xiii i cannot make out why everybody thinks i am a liberal. lady moyne was the first who mentioned to me this slur on my character. babberly evidently believed it. then, shortly after the belfast meeting, i had a letter, marked "private and confidential," from sir samuel clithering. although clithering is not a member of the government, he is in close touch with several very important ministers. under ordinary circumstances i should not mention clithering's name in telling the story of his letter. i know him to be a conscientious, scrupulously honourable man, and i should hate to give him pain. under ordinary circumstances, that is, if things had gone in ulster in the way things usually do go, clithering would have felt it necessary to assert publicly in the papers that he did not write the letter. this would have been very disagreeable for him because he does not like telling lies; and the unpleasantness would certainly be aggravated by the fact that nobody would believe him. so many important and exciting things, however, have happened in ulster since i got the letter that i do not think clithering will now want to deny that he wrote it. i have, therefore, no hesitation in mentioning his name. this letter was written in the best politico-diplomatic style. i had to read it nine times before i could find out what it was about. when i did find out i made a translation of it into the english of ordinary life, so as to make quite sure of not acting beyond my instructions. i was first of all complimented on not being a party politician. this, coming from one of the government wire-pullers, meant, of course, that i was in his opinion a strong liberal. i have noticed for years that the only party politicians in these islands are the people who are active on the other side; and that party politics are the other side's programme. my correspondent evidently agreed with lady moyne and babberly that as i was not a conservative, i must be a supporter of the government. having made this quite unwarranted assumption, the letter went on to suggest that i should ask conroy if he would like a peerage. the point was not made quite clear, but i gathered that conroy could have any kind of title that he liked, up to an earldom. i know, of course, that peerages are given in exchange for subscriptions to party funds, by the party, whichever it may be, which receives the subscriptions. i did not know before that peerages were ever given with a view to inducing the happy recipient not to subscribe to the funds of the other party. but in conroy's case this must have been the motive which lay behind the offer. he had certainly given lady moyne a handsome cheque. he was financing mcneice's little paper in the most liberal way. he had, i suspected, supplied crossan with the motor car in which he went about the country tuning up the orange lodges. it seemed quite likely it was his money with which rose's young man bought the gold brooch which had attracted marion's attention. conroy was undoubtedly subsidizing ulster unionism very generously. i suppose it must have been worth while to stop this flow of money. hence the suggestion that conroy might be given a peerage. this, at least, was the explanation of the letter which i adopted at the time. i have since had reason to suppose that the government knew more than i did about the way conroy was spending his money, and was nervous about something more important than babberly's occasional demonstrations. my first impulse was to burn the letter and tell my correspondent that i was not a politician of any sort, and did not care for doing this kind of work. then my curiosity got the better of my sense of honour. a man cannot, i think, be both an historian and a gentleman. it is an essential part of the character of a gentleman that he should dislike prying into other people's secrets. the business of the historian, on the other hand, is to rake about if necessary through dust-bins, until he finds out the reasons, generally disreputable, why things are done. a gentleman displays a dignified superiority to the vice of curiosity. for the historian curiosity is a virtue. i am, i find, more of an historian than a gentleman. i wanted very much to find out how conroy would take the offer of a peerage. i also wanted to understand thoroughly why the offer was made. some weeks were to pass before i learned the government's real reason for wanting to detach conroy from the unionist cause; but luck favoured me in the matter of sounding conroy himself. i had a letter from him in which he said that he was coming to our neighbourhood for a few days. i immediately asked him to stay with me. then i tried, very foolishly, to make my nephew godfrey feel uncomfortable. "conroy," i said, "is coming here to stay with me next tuesday." "how splendid!" said godfrey. "i say, excellency, you will ask me up to dinner every night he's here, won't you?" "i thought," i said, "that you wouldn't like to meet conroy." "of course i'd like to meet him. he might give me a job of some kind or get me one. a man like that with millions of money must have plenty of jobs to give away." when godfrey speaks of a job he means a salary. nearly everybody does. "if i can only get the chance of making myself agreeable to him," said godfrey, "i'm sure i'll be able to get something out of him." "i'm surprised," i said, "at your wanting to meet him at all. after the post-card he wrote you--" "oh, i don't mind that in the least," said godfrey. "i never take offence." this is, indeed, one of godfrey's chief vices. he never does take offence. it was talleyrand, i think, who said that no man need ever get angry about anything said by a woman or a bishop. godfrey improves on this philosophy. he never gets angry with any one except those whom he regards as his inferiors. "it would be a good opportunity," said godfrey, "for your second menagerie party. we've only had one this year. i expect it would amuse conroy." "i'm nearly sure it wouldn't." "we'll have to do something in the way of entertaining while he's here," said godfrey. "i suppose you'll have the moynes over to dinner?" i knew that the moynes were in london, so i told godfrey that he could write and ask them if he liked. i tried to be firm in my opposition to the garden-party, but godfrey wore me down. it was fixed for wednesday, and invitations were sent out. i discovered afterwards that godfrey told his particular friends that they were to have the honour of meeting a real millionaire. in the case of the pringles he went so far as to hint that conroy was very likely to give him a lucrative post. on the strength of this expectation, pringle, who is an easy man to deceive, allowed godfrey to cash a cheque for £10. conroy arrived on sunday afternoon, travelling, as a millionaire should, in a motor car. godfrey dined with us that night, and made himself as agreeable as he could. conroy had, apparently, forgotten all about the post-card. i did not get a minute alone with my guest that night and so could do nothing about the peerage. i thought of approaching him on the subject next morning after breakfast, though that is not a good hour for delicate negotiations. but even if i had been willing to attack him then, i hardly had the chance. godfrey was up with us at half-past ten. he wanted to take conroy on a personally conducted tour round the objects of interest in the neighbourhood. conroy said he wanted to go to the house of a man called crossan who lived somewhere near us, and would be very glad if godfrey would act as guide. it is a remarkable proof of godfrey's great respect for millionaires that he consented to show conroy the way to crossan's house. they went off together, and i saw no more of conroy till dinner-time. he deliberately avoided my garden-party, although godfrey had explained to him the night before that my guests would be "quite the funniest lot of bounders to be found anywhere." the pringles must have been disappointed at not meeting conroy. miss pringle, whose name i found out was tottie, looked quite pretty in a pink dress, and smiled almost as nicely as she did when bob power took her to gather strawberries. mrs. pringle asked godfrey to dine with them that night, and tottie looked at him out of the corner of her eyes so as to show him that she would be pleased if he accepted the invitation. pringle himself joined in pressing godfrey. i suppose he must really have believed in the salary which godfrey expected to get from conroy. godfrey promised to dine with them. he explained his position to me afterwards. "i needn't tell you, excellency," he said, "that i don't want to go there. i shall get a rotten bad dinner and mrs. pringle is a rank outsider." "miss pringle," i said, "seems a pleasant girl. she's certainly pretty." "poor little tottie!" said godfrey. "that sort of girl isn't bad fun sometimes; but i wouldn't put up with boiled mutton just for the sake of a kiss or two from her. the fact is--" "your banking account," i said. "that's it," said godfrey. "pringle's directors have been writing rather nasty letters lately. it's perfectly all right, of course, and i told him so; but all the same it's better to accept his invitation." godfrey is the most unmitigated blackguard i've ever met. "i hardly see tottie pringle as the next lady kilmore," said godfrey; "but, of course, that's the game." i do not believe it. tottie pringle--i do not for a moment believe that she ever allowed godfrey to kiss her--does not look the kind of girl who-"you'll make my excuses to conroy, won't you, excellency? tell him--" "what is the exact amount of the over-draft?" i said; "he'll probably want to know." "better not say anything about that," said godfrey. "tell him i had a business engagement." godfrey's necessity gave me my opportunity. i had conroy all to myself after dinner, and i sounded him very cautiously about the title. the business turned out to be much more difficult than i expected. at first conroy was singularly obtuse. he did not seem to understand what i was hinting at. there was really no excuse for him. our surroundings were very well suited for delicate negotiations. i had given him a bottle of champagne at dinner. i had some excellent port on the table afterwards. my dining-room is a handsome apartment, a kind of large hall with a vaulted roof. the light of the candles on the table mingled in a pleasantly mysterious way with the twilight of the summer evening. the long windows lay wide open and a heavy scent of lilies crept into the room. the lamp on the sideboard behind me lit up the impressive portrait of my great grandfather in the uniform of a captain of volunteers, the irish volunteers of 1780. any one, i should have supposed, would have walked delicately among hints and suggestions in such an atmosphere, among such surroundings. but conroy would not. i was forced at last to speak rather more plainly than i had intended to. then conroy turned on me. "what does your government think i should want the darned thing for?" he said. "oh, i don't know. i suppose the usual reasons." "what are they?" said conroy, "for i'm damned if i know." "well," i said, "when you put it that way i don't know that i can exactly explain. but most people like it. i like it myself, although i'm pretty well used to it. i imagine it would be much nicer when you came to it quite fresh. if you happen to be going over to london, you know, it's rather pleasant to have the fellow who runs the sleeping-car bustling the other people out of the way and calling you 'my lord.'" conroy sat in grim silence. "there's more than that in it," i said. "that's only an example, quite a small example of the kind of thing i mean. but those little things count, you know. and, of course, the extra tip that the fellow expects in the morning wouldn't matter to you." conroy still declined to make any answer. i began to feel hot and flurried. "there are other points, too," i went on. "for instance a quite pretty girl called tottie pringle wants to marry my nephew godfrey--at least he says she does--simply because he'll be lord kilmore when i'm dead. you've met my nephew godfrey, so you'll realize that she can't possibly have any other motive." "what," said conroy, "does your government expect me to do in return for making me attractive to tottie pringle?" "it's not my government," i said. "i'm not mixed up with it or responsible for it in any way." "i always understood," said conroy, "that you are a liberal." "everybody understands that," i said, "and it's no use my contradicting it. as for what the government wants you to do, i haven't been actually told; but i fancy you'd be expected to stop giving subscriptions to lady moyne." "is that all?" "that's all i can think of. but, of course, there may be other things." "i reckon," said conroy, "that your government can't be quite fool enough to mind much about what lady moyne does with my money. the pennies she drops into the slot so as to make babberly talk won't hurt them any." this was very much my own opinion. if i were a member of the government--i rather think i actually was, a few weeks later--babberly would merely stimulate me. "you can tell your government from me--" said conroy. "it's not my government." "well tell _that_ government from me, that when i want a title i'll put down the full market price. at present i'm not taking any." next day conroy went off with crossan in his motor car. he did not come back. i got a telegram from him later in the afternoon asking me to forward his luggage to belfast. i forget the excuse he made for treating me in this very free and easy way; but there was an excuse, i know, probably quite a long one, for the telegram filled three sheets of the paper which the post-office uses for these messages. conroy's sudden departure was a bitter sorrow and disappointment to godfrey. he came up to dinner that night with three new pearl studs in the front of his shirt. "what i can't understand," he said, "is why a man like conroy should spend his time with your upper servants; people like crossan, whom i shouldn't dream of shaking hands with." "i'm afraid," i said, "that he's not going to give you that job you hoped for." "he may," said godfrey. "i think he liked me right enough. if only he could be got to believe that power is robbing him right and left." "but is he?" "he's doing what practically comes to the same thing. once conroy finds out--and he will some day--i should think i'd have a middling good chance of getting his secretaryship. he must have a gentleman for that job, otherwise he'd never be able to get along at all. i don't suppose he knows how to do things a bit. he evidently doesn't know how to behave. look at the way he's gone on with crossan since he's been here. now if i were his secretary--" godfrey mumbled on. he evidently has hopes of ousting bob power. he may possibly succeed in doing so. godfrey has all the cunning characteristic of the criminal lunatic. three days later he got his chance of dealing with bob power. the _finola_ anchored in our bay again and bob power was in command of her. chapter xiv bob power spent the afternoon with us. strictly speaking, i ought to say he spent the afternoon with marion. i only saw him at tea-time. he let me understand then that he would like to stay and dine with us. i felt that i ought to be vexed at the prospect of losing another quiet evening. conroy had cost me two evenings. my visit to castle affey, my political march past, and my expedition to dublin had robbed me of nine others. i could ill afford to spare a twelfth to bob power. yet i felt unreasonably pleased when he promised to dine with us. there is a certain flavour of the sea about bob, a sense of boisterous good fellowship, a joyous irresponsibility, which would have been attractive to me at any time, and were singularly pleasant after my political experiences. i was not at all so well pleased when a note arrived from godfrey in which he asked whether he too could dine with us. he arrived long before dinner, before i had gone upstairs to dress, and explained himself. "i heard," he said, "that power was up here, so i thought i'd better come too." "how lucky it is," i said, "that pringle didn't invite you to-night." "i shouldn't have gone if he had. i should have considered it my duty to come here. after all, excellency, some one ought to look after marion a bit." "for the matter of that," i said, "some one ought to look after tottie pringle." "you never can tell," said godfrey, "what silly fancy a girl will take into her head, and that fellow power is just the sort who might--" godfrey nodded sagaciously. it has always been understood that godfrey is to marry marion at some future time. i have always understood this and, on personal grounds, dislike it very much; though i do not deny that the arrangement is convenient. my title is not a very ancient or particularly honourable one, but i do not like to think of its being dragged in the gutter by a pauper. if godfrey married marion he would have the use of her income. godfrey has certainly understood this plan for the future. he may treat himself occasionally to the kisses of tottie pringle, but he is not the man to allow kissing to interfere with his prospect of earning a competence. whether marion understood her fate or not, i do not know. she always endured godfrey with patience. i suppose that this condition of affairs gave godfrey a certain right to nod sagaciously when he spoke of looking after marion. but i resented both his tone and the things he said. i left him and went up to dress. marion's behaviour during the evening fully justified godfrey's fears, though i do not think that anything would have excused him for expressing them to me. she was amazingly cheerful during dinner, and in so good a temper, that she continued smiling at godfrey even when he scowled at her. bob power was breezily agreeable, and i should have thoroughly enjoyed the stories he told us if i had not been conscious all the time that godfrey was frowning at my right ear. he sat on that side of me and bob power on the other, so my ear was, most of the time, the nearest thing to my face that godfrey could frown at. after dinner bob and marion behaved really badly; not to godfrey, but to me. no one could behave badly to godfrey because he always deserves worse than the worst that is done to him. but i am not a very objectionable person, and i have during the last twenty-two years shown a good deal of kindness to marion. i do not think that she and bob ought to have slipped out of the drawing-room window after singing one short song, and left me to be worried by godfrey for the whole evening. only one way of escape presented itself to me. i pretended to go to sleep. that stopped godfrey talking after a time; but not until i had found it necessary to snore. i heard every word he said up to that point. i woke up with a very good imitation of a start when bob and marion came in again. that happened at ten o'clock, and bob immediately said good night. under ordinary circumstances godfrey stays on till nearly eleven; but that night he went away five minutes after bob left. next morning there was trouble. it began with marion's behaviour at breakfast. as a rule she is a young woman of placid and equable temper, one who is likely in the future to have a soothing effect on her husband. that morning she was very nearly hysterical. when we went into my study after breakfast she was quite incapable of work, and could not lay her hands on any of the papers which i particularly wanted. i was irritated at the moment, but i recognized afterwards that she had some excuse, and in any case my morning's work would have been interrupted. at half-past ten i got a note from godfrey--written in pencil and almost illegible--in which he asked me to go down to see him at once. he said that he was in severe pain and for the time confined to bed. "you're sure," he said, "to have heard a garbled account of what happened, before you get this letter. i want to tell you the _facts_ before i take further action." the word "facts" was underlined shakily. i had, of course, heard no account of anything which had happened. i handed the letter to marion. "do you know what this means?" i asked. marion read it. "rose told me this morning," she said, "that there had been some kind of a row last night. she said godfrey was killed." "that isn't true at all events," i said. "he's still alive." "of course i didn't believe her," said marion. "but i think you ought to have told me at breakfast," i said. "i hate having these things sprung on me suddenly. at my time of life even good news ought to be broken to me gradually. any sudden shock is bad for the heart." "i thought there might be no truth in the story at all," said marion, "and you know, father, that you don't like being worried." i don't. but i am worried a great deal. "i suppose," i said, "that i'd better go down and see him. he says he's in great pain, so he's not likely to be agreeable; but still i'd better go." "do," said marion; "and, of course, if there's anything i can do, anything i can send down to him--" "i don't expect he's as bad as all that," i said. "men like godfrey are never seriously hurt. but if he expresses a wish for chicken jelly i'll let you know at once." i started at once. i met bob power just outside my own gate. he was evidently a little embarrassed, but he spoke to me with the greatest frankness. "i'm extremely sorry, lord kilmore," he said, "but i am afraid i hurt your nephew last night." "badly?" "not very," said bob. "collar bone and a couple of ribs. i saw the doctor this morning." "broken?" "yes. it wasn't altogether my fault. i mean to say--" "i'm sure it was altogether godfrey's," i said. "the thing which surprises me is that nobody ever did it before. godfrey is nearly thirty, so for twenty years at least every man he has met must have been tempted to break his ribs. we must, in spite of what everybody says, be a christian nation. if we were not--" "he would keep following me about," said bob. "i told him several times to clear away and go home. but he wouldn't." "he has a fixed idea that you're engaged in smuggling." "even if i was," said bob, "it would be no business of his." "that's just why he mixes himself up in it. if it had been his business he wouldn't have touched it. there's nothing godfrey hates more than doing anything he ought to do." "i'm awfully glad you take it that way," said bob. "i was afraid--" "my dear fellow," i said, "i'm delighted. but you haven't told me yet exactly how it happened." "i was moving a packing-case," said bob, "a rather large one--" he hesitated. i think he felt that the packing-case might require some explanation, especially as it was being moved at about eleven o'clock at night. i hastened to reassure him. "quite a proper thing for you to be doing," i said, "and certainly no business of godfrey's. every one has a perfect right to move packing-cases about from place to place." "he told me he was going for the police, so--" "i don't think you need have taken any notice of that threat. the police know godfrey quite well. they hate being worried just as much as i do." "so i knocked him down." "you must have hit him in several places at once," i said, "to have broken so many bones." "the fact is," said bob, "that he got up again." "that's just the sort of thing he would do. any man of ordinary good feeling would have known that when he was knocked down he was meant to stay down." "then the two other men who were with me, young fellows out of the town, set on him." "was one of them particularly freckly?" i asked. "i didn't notice. why do you ask?" "if he was it would account for my daughter's maid getting hold of an inaccurate version of the story this morning. but it doesn't matter. go on with what you were saying." "there isn't any more," said bob. "they hammered him, and then we carried him home. that's all." "i am going down to see him now," i said. "he's thinking of taking further action." "let him," said bob. "is miss d'aubigny at home?" "yes, she is. if you're going up to see her--" "i would," said bob, "if i thought she wouldn't be angry with me." "she's nervous," i said, "and excited; but she didn't seem angry." just outside the town i met crossan and, very much to my surprise, mcneice walking with him. crossan handed me a letter. i put it into my pocket and greeted mcneice. "i did not know you were here," i said. "when did you come?" "last night," said mcneice. "crossan brought me on his motor." "were you in time for the scrimmage?" "you'd maybe better read the letter i've given you, my lord," said crossan. "if i'd been there," said mcneice, "your nephew would probably be dead now. in my opinion he ought to be." "the letter i've just given your lordship," said crossan, "is an important one." "i'm sure it is," i said. "but i haven't time to read it now." "what's in it, my lord, is this. i'm resigning the management of your business here, and the sooner you're suited with a new man the better." "if my nephew godfrey has been worrying you, crossan," i said, "i'll take steps--" "it's not that, my lord. for all the harm his talk ever did me i'd stay on. but--" he looked at mcneice as if asking permission to say more. "political business," said mcneice. "of course," i said, "if it's a matter of politics, everything must give way to politics. but i'm very sorry to lose you, crossan. my business affairs--" "you'll have no business affairs left, my lord, if the home rule bill passes." "but you're going to stop it," i said. "we are," said crossan. he certainly believed that he was. at the present moment he believes that he did stop it. i found godfrey propped up in bed. his face had a curiously unbalanced appearance owing to the way in which one side of his jaw was swollen. bob power's original blow must have been a hard one. i noticed when he spoke that one of his eye teeth was broken off short. he began to pour out his complaint the moment i entered the room. "a murderous assault was made on me last night," he said. "after i left your house i walked down--" "don't talk if it hurts you, godfrey," i said. he was speaking in a muffled way which led me to think that the inside of his mouth must be nearly as much swollen as the outside. "that fellow power had a band of ruffians with him. if he had fought fair i shouldn't have minded, but--" "what were you doing," i said, "to make him attack you? he must have had some reason." "i wasn't doing anything. i was simply looking on." "that may have been the most objectionable thing possible," i said. "i don't say that his violence was justified; but it may have been quite excusable if you insisted on looking on at something which he didn't want you to see." godfrey actually tried to smile. he could not do so, of course, on account of the condition of his mouth, but i judged by the expression of his eyes that he was trying to. godfrey's smiles are always either malicious or idiotic. this one, if it had come off, would have been malicious. "i saw all i wanted to," he said, "before they attacked me. in fact, i was just going for the police--" "i suppose you sent for the police this morning?" i said. "no, i didn't. i don't trust the police. i wouldn't trust the magistrates here, except you, of course, excellency. what i'm going to do is write to the chancellor of the exchequer." "good gracious, godfrey! why the chancellor of the exchequer? what interest can you expect him to take in your fights? if you are going to make a political matter of it at all, you'd far better try the secretary of state for war. it's much more in his line." "but the chancellor of the exchequer is the man who's responsible for the revenue, isn't he?" "you can't expect him to give you a pension simply because power knocked out your teeth." "he'll stop power smuggling," said godfrey. "i suppose," i said, "that it's no use my telling you that he was not smuggling?" "i saw him at it," said godfrey, "and i'm going to write to the chancellor of the exchequer." "what on earth do you expect to gain by that?" i asked. "he ought to be grateful to me for putting him on the track of the smuggling," said godfrey. "i should think he'd want to do something for me afterwards. he might--" "give you a job," i said. "yes," said godfrey. "i always heard that fellows in the treasury got good salaries." i was greatly relieved when i left godfrey. i expected that he would want to take some sort of legal proceedings against bob power which would have involved us all in a great deal of unpleasantness. i should not have been surprised if he had tried to blackmail bob or conroy, or both, and i should have disliked that very much. but his letter to the chancellor of the exchequer seemed to be merely foolish. in the first place bob power was not smuggling. in the next place the chancellor of the exchequer would never see godfrey's letter. it would be opened, i supposed, by some kind of clerk or secretary. he would giggle over it and show it to a friend. he would also giggle. then unless the spelling was unusually eccentric the letter would go into the waste-paper basket. nothing whatever would happen. i was, i own, entirely wrong. the chancellor of the exchequer did see the letter. i take that for granted, because the prime minister saw it, and i cannot see how it could have got to him except through the chancellor of the exchequer. the spelling may have been as bad as godfrey's spelling usually is, but the letter evidently gave a detailed account of what had happened, the kind of account which impresses people as being true. the letter was, in fact, the first direct evidence the government got about what conroy and mcneice and bob were doing. i dare say there were suspicions abroad before. the offer of a peerage to conroy showed that there was good reason to placate him. but it was godfrey's absurd letter which first suggested to the minds of the cabinet that conroy was using his yacht, the _finola_, for importing arms into ulster. even then i do not think that anybody in authority suspected how thoroughly conroy and bob were doing the work. they may have thought of a cargo of rifles, and a few thousand cartridges. the existence of the ulster artillery was a surprise to them at the very moment when the guns first opened fire. so far from having no consequences at all, godfrey's ridiculous letter actually precipitated the conflict which took place. i do not think that it made any difference to the result of the fighting. that would have been the same whether the fighting came a little sooner or a little later. but the letter and the action of the government which followed it certainly disorganized conroy's plans and hustled mcneice. i found mcneice in my study when i got home. i told him, by way of a joke, about the letter which godfrey intended to write. to my surprise he did not treat it as a joke. i suppose he realized at once what the consequences of such a letter might be. "they ought to have put him past writing letters," he growled, "when they had him." then, without even saying good-bye to me, he got up and left the room. in less than an hour he and crossan were rushing off somewhere in their motor car. they may have gone to hold a consultation with conroy. he was in belfast at the time. i found bob power and marion in the garden, but not, as i expected, eating gooseberries. they were sitting together on a seat opposite a small artificial pond in which i try to keep gold fish. when i came upon them they were sitting up straight, and both of them were gazing intently into the pond. this surprised me, because all the last consignment of gold fish had died, and there was nothing in the pond to look at. i told bob about godfrey and the letter to the chancellor of the exchequer. his reception of the news was even more disappointing than mcneice's was. he neither laughed, as i hoped, nor even scowled. in fact, if i had not spoken quite distinctly, i should have thought that he did not hear what i said. "lord kilmore," he said, "i think i ought to tell you at once--" then he stopped and looked at marion. she became very red in the face. "father," she said, "bob and i--" then she stopped too. i waited for a long time. neither of them did more than begin a sentence; but bob took marion's hand and held it tight. i thought it better to try to help them out. "i don't know," i said, "whether i've guessed rightly--" "of course you have, father," said marion. "if not," i said, "it'll be very embarrassing for all of us when i tell you what my guess is." "marion and i--" said bob. "have spent the morning," i said, "in finding out that you want to marry each other?" "of course we have," said marion. "of course," said bob. the discovery that they both wanted the same thing made them ridiculously happy. marion kissed me with effusive ardour, putting her left arm tight round my neck, but still holding on to bob with her right hand. bob, after our first raptures had subsided a little, insisted on going down to godfrey's lodgings, and apologizing for breaking his ribs. i told him that an apology delivered in that spirit would merely intensify godfrey's wish to write to the chancellor of the exchequer. but nothing i said moved bob in the least. he was so happy that he wanted to abase himself before some one. chapter xv babberly is in some ways a singularly unlucky man. a place for him, and that a high one, ought to have been quite secure in the next unionist cabinet. now he will never hold office under any government, and yet no one can say that his collapse was in any way his own fault. on the very day on which the chancellor of the exchequer received godfrey's letter, babberly announced his intention of holding another unionist demonstration in belfast. he did not mean any harm by this. he intended nothing worse than another eloquent speech and expected nothing more serious than the usual cheers. he regards demonstrations very much as my nephew godfrey does garden-parties. they are troublesome functions, requiring a good deal of labour and care for their successful accomplishment, but they are necessary. people expect something of the kind from time to time; and--if i do not give garden-parties, i should not, so godfrey says, keep up my position in the county. if babberly did not, so to speak, give demonstrations he would lose his position in the political world. babberly's position is, of course, vastly more important than mine. moyne, goaded on i suppose by lady moyne, wrote a letter to the papers--perhaps i should say published a manifesto--urging the extreme importance of babberly's demonstration. this was necessary because mcneice and o'donovan, in _the loyalist_, had lately adopted a sneering tone about demonstrations. and _the loyalist_ was becoming an effective force in the guidance of ulster opinion. thanks to the exertions of crossan, malcolmson and some others the paper was very widely circulated and wherever it went it was read. lady moyne, i knew, disliked _the loyalist_ and was uneasy about the tone of its articles. she felt it necessary to stimulate the popular taste for demonstrations, and wrote moyne's manifesto for him. it was a very good manifesto, full of weighty words about the present crisis and the necessity of standing shoulder to shoulder against the iniquitous plot of the government for the dismemberment of the empire. very much to my surprise, and i am sure to lady moyne's, _the loyalist_ printed a strong article in support of the proposed demonstration. nothing could have been more flattering than its reference to babberly and lord moyne; nothing better calculated to insure the success of the performance than the way in which it urged all unionists to attend it. "assemble in your thousands" was the phrase used four times over in the course of the article. there was only one sentence in it which could cause any one the slightest uneasiness. "previous demonstrations," so the article concluded, "have served their purpose as expressions of our unalterable convictions. this one must do something more. _it must convince the world that we mean what we say._" that, of course, was nothing more than babberly had proclaimed a dozen times in far more eloquent language. nor was the fact that mcneice printed the last sentence in italics particularly startling. babberly had emphasized the same statement with all the violence possible. but, so tense was the public mind at this time, everybody was vaguely anxious and excited. we felt that mcneice attached more meaning to the words than babberly did. a member of the cabinet happened to be speaking two days later at a large public meeting in croydon. he was supposed to be explaining the advantages of the new insurance act to the mistresses and servants of the smaller middle-class households. there were, i believe, very few people with sufficient faith in his power of apology to go to hear him; but, of course, there were plenty of newspaper reporters. the cabinet minister addressed them, and, ignoring for the time the grievances of the british house-and-parlourmaid, he announced that the government was going to stand no nonsense from ulster. "the leaders," he said, "of the unfortunate dupes who are to assemble next week in belfast, must understand once for all that in a democratically governed country the will of the majority must prevail, and his majesty's government is fully determined to see that it does prevail, at any cost." this, again, was nothing more than the usual thing. only the last three words conveyed anything in the nature of a threat, and many papers did not report the last three words. babberly, i think, was quite justified in supposing that the cabinet minister was saying no more than, according to the rules of the game, he was bound to say; that he was, in fact, giving a garden-party of his own to keep up his position in the county. at all events babberly replied to the government's pronouncement with a defiance of the boldest possible kind. _the loyalist_, in a special number, published in the middle of the week, patted babberly on the back, and said that the men of ulster would, if necessary, assert their right of public meeting with rifles in their hands. this was not going much further than babberly himself had often gone in earlier stages of the controversy. it is true that he had always spoken of "arms" which is a vague word and might mean nothing worse than the familiar paving stones. _the loyalist_ specified the kind of arms, mentioned rifles, which are very lethal weapons. still, viewed from a reasonable standpoint, there was nothing very alarming in the word rifles. two days later moyne motored over to my house. he seemed greatly disturbed, so i took him into my study and gave him tea. while we were drinking it he told me what was the matter with him. "look here, kilmore," he said, "do you know anything about a rumour that's flying about?" "there are so many," i said. "about the importation of arms into this country." i had my suspicions, rather more than suspicions, for i had been thinking over the somewhat remarkable performances of bob power and the _finola_. i did not, however, want to say anything definite until i knew how much information moyne had. after all bob power had now arranged to be my son-in-law. i do not know what the law does to people who import arms into a peaceful country; but the penalty is sure to be severe, and i did not want marion's wedding-day to be blighted by the arrest of the bridegroom. "they say," said moyne, "that some of the cargoes have been landed here under your windows." "i can only assure you," i said, "that i have never in my life imported so much as a pocket pistol." "i had a long letter from babberly this morning," said moyne. "he had an interview with the prime minister yesterday. it appears that the government has some information." "why doesn't the government act upon it then?" "they are acting. they want me and babberly to come out and denounce this kind of thing, to discountenance definitely--" "that's all well enough," i said, "but i don't see why you and babberly should be expected to get the government out of a hole. in fact it's your business to keep them in any holes they fall into." "under ordinary circumstances," said moyne, "we shouldn't, of course, stir hand or foot. we'd let them stew in their own juice. and i may tell you that's the line babberly thinks we ought to take. but i don't know. if there's any truth in these rumours, and there may be, you know, it seems to me that we are face to face with a very serious business. party politics are all right, of course; and i'm just as keen as any man to turn out this wretched government. they've done mischief enough, but--well, if there's any truth in what they say, it isn't exactly a question of ordinary politics, and i think that every loyal man ought to stand by--" "if there's any truth in the rumours--" i said. "the country's in a queer state," said moyne. "i don't understand what's going on." "if the people have got rifles," i said, "they're not likely to give them up because you and babberly tell them to." "babberly says there's nothing in it," said moyne, doubtfully, "and her ladyship agrees with him. she thinks it's simply a dodge of the government to spike our guns." it is curious that moyne cannot help talking about guns, even when he's afraid that somebody or other may really have one. he might, under the circumstances, have been expected to use some other metaphor. "cook our goose," for instance, would have expressed his meaning quite well, and there would have been no suggestion of gunpowder about the words. "i don't see," i said, "how you can very well do anything when both lady moyne and babberly are against you." "i can't--i can't, of course. and yet, don't you know, kilmore, i don't know--" i quite appreciated moyne's condition of mind. i myself did not know. i felt nearly certain that bob power had been importing arms in the _finola_. i suspected that crossan and others had been distributing them. and yet it seemed impossible to suppose that ordinary people, the men i lunched with in the club, like malcolmson, the men who touched their hats to me on the road, like rose's freckly-faced lover, the quiet-looking people whom i saw at railway stations, that those people actually meant to shoot off bullets out of guns with the intention of killing other people. of course, long ago, this sort of killing was done, but then, long ago, men believed things which we do not believe now. perhaps i ought to say which i do not believe now. malcolmson may still believe in what he calls "civil and religious liberty." crossan certainly applies his favourite epithet to the "papishes." he may conceivably think that they would put him on a rack if they got the chance. if he believed that he might fight. and yet the absurdity of the thing prevents serious consideration. the fact is that our minds are so thoroughly attuned to the commonplace that we have lost the faculty of imaginative vision of unusual things. commonplace men--i, for instance, or babberly--can imagine a defeat of the liberal government or a unionist victory at the general election, because liberal governments have been defeated and unionist victories have been won within our own memories. we cannot imagine that malcolmson and crossan and our large dean would march out and kill people, because we have never known any one who did such things. men with prophetic minds can contemplate such possibilities, because they have the power of launching themselves into the unseen. we cannot. this is the reason why cataclysms, things like the flood recorded in the book of genesis, and the french revolution, always come upon societies unprepared for them. the prophets foretell them, but the common man has not the amount of imagination which would make it possible for him to believe the prophets. "they eat and drink, marry, and are given in marriage," until the day when the thing happens. looking back now and considering, in the light of what actually happened, my own frame of mind while i was talking to moyne, i can only suppose that it was my lack of imagination which prevented my realizing the meaning of what was going on around me. the next event which i find it necessary to chronicle is conroy's visit to germany. i heard about it from marion. she got a letter almost every day from bob power, and it was understood that he was to pay us a short visit at the end of that week. he explained, much to marion's disappointment and mine, that this visit must be postponed. "the chief," it was thus he wrote of conroy, "has gone over to germany. he's always going over to germany. i fancy he must have property there. but it doesn't generally matter to me whether he goes or not. this time--worse luck--he has taken it into his head to have the yacht to meet him at kiel. i have to go at once." at the moment i attached no importance whatever to conroy's visit to germany. now i have come to think that he went there on a very serious business indeed. his immense financial interests not only kept him in touch with all the money markets of the world. they also gave him a knowledge of what was being done everywhere by the great manufacturers and the inventors. moreover conroy's immense wealth, when he chose to use it, enabled him to get things done for him very quietly. he could secure the delivery of goods which he ordered in unconventional ways, in unusual places. he could, for instance, by means of lavish expenditure and personal interviews, arrange to have guns put unobtrusively into innocent looking tramp steamers and transhipped from them in lonely places to the hold of the _finola_. whether the german government had any idea of what was going on i do not know. foreign governments are supposed to be well supplied with information about the manufacture and destination of munitions of war. the english government, i am sure, had not up to the last moment any definite information. its suspicions were of the very vaguest kind before the chancellor of the exchequer received godfrey's letter. the belfast demonstration--babberly's defiance of the government's warning--was fixed for the first monday in september. on the 24th of august, ten days before the demonstration, _the loyalist_ became a daily instead of a weekly paper. its circulation increased immediately. it was on sale everywhere in the north of ireland, and it was delivered with striking regularity in out of the way places in which it was almost impossible to get any other daily paper. it continued to press upon its readers the necessity of attending babberly's demonstration in belfast. it said, several times over, that the demonstration was to be one of armed men. parliament was sitting late, debating wearily the amendments proposed by unionists to the home rule bill. a nationalist member arrived at westminster one day with a copy of _the loyalist_ in his pocket. he called the attention of the chief secretary for ireland to the language used in one of the leading articles, and asked what steps were being taken to prevent a breach of the peace in belfast on the first monday in september. before the chief secretary could answer babberly burst in with another question. "is it not a fact," he asked, "that the paper in question is edited by a notorious nationalist, a physical force man, a declared rebel, one of the chosen associates of the honourable gentleman opposite?" the chief secretary replied that he had no knowledge of the political opinions of the editor in question further than as they obtained expression in his paper. he appeared to be a strong unionist. considering that o'donovan had been in prison three times, and that papers edited by him had been twice suppressed by the government, the chief secretary must have meant that he had no official knowledge of o'donovan's opinions. the distinction between knowledge and official knowledge is one of the most valuable things in political life. babberly displayed the greatest indignation at this answer to his question. "is the fair fame of the men of ulster," he asked, "to be traduced, is their unswerving loyalty to the crown and constitution to be impeached, on the strength of irresponsible scribblings emanating from a dublin slum?" the office of _the loyalist_ is in a slum. so far babberly was well informed. he cannot have known that the "scribblings" were by the pen of an eminent fellow of trinity college, or that the money which paid for printing and circulation was conroy's. the nationalist member pressed for a reply to his original question. he said that he desired nothing except that the government should perform the elementary duty of preserving law and order. that particular nationalist member had, in the days past, been put into prison with the utmost regularity whenever a government undertook to perform the elementary duty he now desired to see undertaken. and no government ever, in old times, undertook such work except when goaded to desperation by babberly. the seething of a kid in its mother's milk is forbidden by the law of moses, which shows that it must be a tempting thing to do. that nationalist member felt the temptation strongly. he evidently had hopes of sacrificing babberly on the altar of the twin gods so long worshipped by the ulster members, incarcerating him in the sacred names of law and order. but the chief secretary did not see his way to make babberly the hero of a state trial. he replied that the government was fully alive to the duty of preserving order in belfast, and refused to commit himself to any definite plan for dealing with babberly. the newspapers made the most of the incident, and o'donovan's record was scrutinized by both parties. a lively discussion ensued as to whether a "hill-sider"--some one discovered that picturesque description of o'donovan--could become a militant unionist. the text from the prophet jeremiah about the spots on the leopard was quoted several times with great effect. mcneice's name was not mentioned, nor was conroy's. we may suppose that his connection with the university saved mcneice. trinity college has, of late years, displayed such a capacity for vigorous self-defence, that the boldest politician hesitates to attack it or any one under its immediate protection. conroy escaped because no one, not even an irish member, cares to ride atilt against a millionaire. we respect little else in heaven or earth, but we do, all of us, respect money. chapter xvi on the wednesday before the day fixed for the belfast demonstration, a meeting of the ulster unionist leaders was held in london. moyne was at it. lady moyne, although the absurd conventions of our political life prevented her being present in person, was certainly an influence in the deliberations. she gave a dinner-party the night before in moyne's town house. babberly, of course, was at the dinner, and with him most of the small group of ulster members of parliament. three or four leading members of the opposition, englishmen who had spoken on ulster platforms and were in full sympathy with the ulster dislike of home rule, were also present. cahoon was not. he travelled from belfast during the night of the dinner-party and only reached london in time for the meeting of the party next day. i do not know whether cahoon was invited to the dinner or not. malcolmson was invited. he told me so himself, but he did not accept the invitation. he said he had business in belfast and he went to london with cahoon. the dean was at the dinner-party. his name appeared in the newspaper lists of guests next morning. mcneice was not there. lady moyne did not like mcneice, and, although he was a member of the "ulster defence committee," he was never admitted to what might be called the social gatherings of the party. the newspapers, in their columns of fashionable intelligence, printed a full list of the guests at this dinner, and even noted the dresses worn by some of the chief ladies. it was described as a brilliant function, and lady moyne figured as "one of the most successful of our political hostesses." i have no doubt that she was successful in impressing her views on babberly and the others. whether she thought it worth while to spend time that night in talking to the dean i do not know. immediately under the account of the dinner-party there was a short paragraph which stated that conroy, "the well-known millionaire yachtsman," had returned from a cruise in the baltic sea, and that the _finola_ was lying off bangor in belfast lough. in quite a different part of the papers there were comments and articles on the meeting of the ulster leaders to be held that afternoon. the articles in liberal papers oscillated between entreaties and threats. one of them, in a paper supposed to be more or less inspired by the government, pleased me greatly. it began with a warm tribute to the loyalty which had always characterized the men of ulster. then it said that troops were being moved to belfast in order to overcome a turbulent populace. it went on from that to argue that troops were entirely unnecessary, because ulstermen, though pig-headed almost beyond belief in their opposition to home rule, would not hesitate for a moment when the choice was given them of obeying or defying the law. they would, of course, obey the law. but, so the article concluded, if they did not obey the law the resources of civilization were by no means exhausted. as no law had, up to that time, been made forbidding the holding of the belfast demonstration, this article was perhaps premature in its attempt to impale babberly and his friends on the horns of a dilemma. the conservative papers assumed an air of calm confidence. one of them, the editor of which was in close touch with babberly, said plainly that dear as the right of free speech was to the unionist leaders they would cheerfully postpone the belfast demonstration rather than run the smallest risk of causing a riot in the streets. political principles, it is said, were sacred things, but the life of the humblest citizen was far more sacred than any principle, and the world could confidently rely on babberly's being guided in his momentous decision by considerations of the loftiest patriotism. i have no doubt that babberly fully intended to do as that paper said he would do. i feel certain that the informal consultation of the politicians at lady moyne's dinner-party had ended in a decision to postpone the demonstration. but things had passed beyond the control of babberly and lady moyne. no newspaper was able to give any report of the proceedings of the meeting held that afternoon. but malcolmson, cahoon and mcneice were all present, and the dean, having escaped the overpowering atmosphere of moyne house, was able to express his opinions freely and forcibly. on the other hand lady moyne was not there, and moyne, when it comes to persuading men, is a very poor substitute for her. the english unionists could not be there, so the weight of their moderation was not felt. the meeting broke up without reaching any decision at all; and the belfast demonstration remained on the list of fixtures for the next week. sir samuel clithering, originally a manufacturer of hosiery in the midlands, was at this time acting regularly as an official ambassador of the cabinet. the fact that he was a leading nonconformist was, i fancy, supposed to commend him in some obscure way to the ulster party. he spent the evening after the meeting in flying about in his motor between the house of commons where babberly was proposing amendments to the bill, moyne house where lady moyne and her secretary sat over her typewriter, a military club in st. james' street where malcolmson sat smoking cigars, and a small hotel in the strand where mcneice and cahoon were stopping. the dean had left london for belfast immediately after the meeting. i have no doubt that sir samuel clithering did his best; but diplomacy applied to men like mcneice and malcolmson is about as useful as children's sand dykes are in checking the advance of flowing tides. it is a source of regret to me that my account of what happened in london is meagre and disjointed. i was not there myself and events became so much more exciting afterwards that nobody has any very clear recollection of the course of these preliminary negotiations. my own personal narrative begins again two days after the london meeting, that is to say on the friday before the belfast demonstration. godfrey came up to see me at eleven o'clock with his arm in a sling. "excellency," he said, "the dean has just hoisted a large flag on the tower of the church. i'm sure you don't approve of that." it is, i hope, unnecessary to say that godfrey is at feud with the dean. the dean is a straightforward and honourable man. he and godfrey live in the same town. a quarrel between them was therefore inevitable. as a matter of fact i do not approve of the hoisting of flags on the church tower. in ireland we only hoist flags with a view to irritating our enemies, and--i am not an expert in christian theology but it seems to me that church towers are not the most suitable places for flaunting defiances. the dean and i argued the matter out years ago and arrived at a working compromise. i agreed to make no protest against flags on the 12th of july. the dean promised not to hoist them on any other day. this is fairly satisfactory to the dean because he can exult over his foes on the day of the year on which it is most of all desirable to do so. it is fairly satisfactory to me because on three hundred and sixty-four days out of every year the church remains, in outward appearance at least, a house of prayer, and i am not vexed by having to regard it as a den of politicians. that is as much as can be expected of any compromise, and i was always quite loyal to my share of the bargain. the dean, it now appeared, was not; and godfrey saw his chance of stirring up strife. "i don't think," i said, "the dean can have anything to do with the flag. he is in london." "he came back yesterday," said godfrey, "and the flag he has hoisted is a large union jack." now the union jack is of all flags the most provocative. any other flag under the sun, even the royal standard, might be hoisted without giving any very grave offence to any one. but the union jack arouses the worst feelings of everybody. some little time ago a fool flew a union jack out of the window of a dublin house underneath which the irish leader happened at the moment to be proclaiming his loyalty to the empire and his ungovernable love for the english people. the fool who hoisted the flag was afterwards very properly denounced for having gone about to insult the irish nation. the dean might, i think, have set floating a banner with three orange lilies emblazoned upon it like the fleur-de-lys of ancient france. no one's feelings would have been much hurt and no one's enthusiasm unusually stirred. but it is characteristic of the dean that when he does a thing at all he does it thoroughly. "just come and look at it," said godfrey. "it's enormous." we went into the library, from the windows of which a clear view can be obtained of the town and the church which stands above it. there certainly was a flag flying from the church tower. i took a pair of field-glasses and satisfied myself that it was the union jack. "would you like me to speak to the dean about it?" said godfrey. "certainly not," i said. "any interference on your part would merely--and these are rather exciting times. the dean is entitled, i think, to a little license. i don't suppose he means to keep it there permanently." then, borne to us by a gentle breeze across the bay, came the sound of the church bells. we have a fine peal of bells in our church, presented to the parish by my father. they are seldom properly rung, but when they are--on christmas day, at easter and on the 12th of july--the effect is very good. "surely," i said, "the dean can't be having a harvest thanksgiving service yet? it's not nearly time." then i noticed that instead of one of the regular chimes the bells were playing a hymn tune. it was, as i might have guessed, the tune to which "o god, our help in ages past" is sung in ireland. the hymn, since babberly's first demonstration in belfast, had become a kind of battle song. it is, i think, characteristic of the irish protestants that they should have a tune of their own for this hymn. elsewhere, in england, in scotland, in the united states and the colonies this metrical version of the 90th psalm is sung to a fine simple tune called st. ann. but we are not and never have been as other men are. without a quiver of our nerves we run atilt at the most universally accepted traditions. the very fact that every one else who uses the hymn sings it to the tune called st. ann would incline us to find some other tune if such a thing were obtainable. we found one which musicians, recognizing that we had some right to claim it as ours, called "irish" or "dublin." this tune emerged suddenly from nowhere in response to no particular demand in the middle of the eighteenth century. it is anonymous, but it was at once wedded to the words of that particular hymn, and we have used it ever since. it is difficult to give an opinion on the comparative merits of two hymn tunes, and i hesitate to say that ours is a finer one than that used by the rest of the english-speaking world. i am, however, certain that there is in our tune an unmistakable suggestion of majestic confidence in an eternal righteousness, and that it very well expresses the feeling with which we sing the hymn at political demonstrations and elsewhere. it came to me that day across the waters of the bay, hammered slowly out by the swinging bells, with a tremendous sense of energy. the english st. ann seemed lilty and almost flippant in comparison. i raised my glasses again and took another look at the union jack, blown out from its flag-post and displaying plainly its tangled crosses. then i noticed that men were entering the churchyard singly, in pairs and in little groups of three and four. "the dean," i said, "must have some sort of service in church to-day. if it isn't the harvest thanksgiving it must be an anniversary of something. what happened at this time of year, godfrey? i can't remember anything." i still stared through my glasses. i was struck by the unusual fact that only men were going into the church. then, quite suddenly, i saw that every man was carrying a gun. i laid down my glasses and turned to godfrey. "i wish," i said, "that you'd go down to the town--not to the church, mind, godfrey, but into the town, and ask somebody--ask the police sergeant at the barrack what is going on in the church." godfrey is always at his very best when he has to find out something. he would have made almost an ideal spy. if any one is ever wanted by the nation for the more disagreeable part of secret service work i can confidently recommend godfrey. half an hour later he returned to me hot and breathless. "the police sergeant told me, excellency, that the dean's going to march all the orangemen and a lot of other men along with them to belfast for the unionist demonstration. they are having service in the church first and they've all got rifles." i have all my life steadily objected to politics being mixed with religion. i hold most strongly that the church ought not to be dominated by politicians. the church is degraded and religion is brought into contempt when they are used by party leaders. but--the bells had ceased ringing. the hymn was now, no doubt, being sung by the men within. it occurred to me suddenly that on this occasion it was not the politicians who were taking possession of religion, but religion which was asserting its right to dominate politics. this is plainly quite a different matter. i can even imagine that politics might be improved if religion asserted itself a little more frequently than it does. i still maintain that it is only right and fair to keep politics out of the church. i am not at all sure that it is right to keep the church out of politics. "i told the sergeant," said godfrey, "that he had better go and stop them at once." "oh, did you?" i said. "do you know, godfrey, that's just the kind of suggestion i'd expect you to make under the circumstances." "thanks awfully, excellency," said godfrey. "i'm awfully glad you're pleased." there are besides the sergeant three constables in our police barrack. they are armed as a rule with short round sticks. on very important occasions they carry an inferior kind of firearm called a carbine. there were, i guessed about three hundred men in the church, and they were armed with modern rifles. godfrey's faith in the inherent majesty of the law was extremely touching. "did he go?" i asked. "i don't think he intends to," said godfrey, "but he did not give me a decided answer." our police sergeant is a man of sense. "did you say," i asked, "that they're going to march to belfast?" "that's what the sergeant told me," said godfrey. "actually walk the whole way?" belfast is a good many miles away from us. it would, i suppose, take a quick walker the better part of two days to accomplish the journey. "he said 'march,'" said godfrey. "i suppose he meant to walk." this is, as we are constantly reminded, the twentieth century. i should have supposed that any one who wanted to get from this place to belfast would have gone in a train. our nearest railway station is some way off, but one might walk to it in an hour and a half. once there, the journey to belfast can be accomplished in another two hours. it seems rather absurd to spend two days over it, but then the whole thing is rather absurd. the rifles are absurd. the gathering of three hundred men into a church to indulge in a kind of grace before meat as preparation for a speech from babberly is rather absurd. to set a peal of bells playing--but i am not quite sure about the hymn tune. it did not sound to me absurd as it came across the bay. i am, i trust, a reasonable man, not peculiarly liable to be swept off my feet by waves of emotion; but there was something in the sound of that hymn tune which prevented me from counting it, along with our other performances, as an absurdity. chapter xvii the dean and his men did actually march to belfast. i saw them there two days later. i also saw them start, ranged in very fair order with the dean at their head. the most surprising thing about their march was that they had no band. there are at least two bands in the town. i subscribe to both of them regularly and have occasionally given a donation to a third which enjoys an intermittent existence, springing into sudden activity for a week or two and then disappearing for months. i asked the police sergeant, who is a south of ireland man and very acute of mind, why none of the bands accompanied the army. the explanation he gave me was interesting and suggestive. "there isn't as much as a boy in the district," he said, "who'd content himself with a drum when he might have the handling of a rifle." and yet an excessive fondness for drums has been reckoned--by english politicians--one of the failings of the ulster man. i went to belfast next morning quite unexpectedly. no peal of bells heartened me for my start, partly because all the bell-ringers and nearly all the able-bodied members of the church in the parish had marched forth with the dean. partly also, i suppose, because i did not travel in a heroic way. i am much too old to undertake a two-days' walking tour, so i went by train. godfrey saw me off. i owed this attention, i am sure, to the fact that marion was with me. she told godfrey that she was going to marry bob power, but godfrey did not on that account cease to regard her as his property. he had hopes, i fancy, that bob power would be killed in some fight with a custom house officer. marion, on the other hand, was vaguely afraid that either bob or i would get injured while rioting in belfast. that was her reason for going with me. i went because i received on friday evening a very urgent letter from lady moyne. she and lord moyne had just arrived in belfast, and her letter was sent to me by a special messenger on a motor bicycle. she wished me to attend an extraordinary meeting of the "ulster defence committee" which, in defiance of our strong sabbatarian feeling, was to be held on sunday afternoon. "we elected you a member of the committee at a meeting held yesterday in london," she wrote, "so you have a perfect right to be present and to vote." that meeting must have been held after mcneice, malcolmson and cahoon returned to ireland. they regard me as a laodicean in the matter of home rule, and would never have consented to my sitting on a committee which controlled, or at all events was supposed to control, the actions of the ulster leaders. "it's most important, dear lord kilmore," the letter went on, "that you should be present on sunday. your well-known moderation will have a most steadying influence, and if it should come to a matter of voting, your vote may be absolutely necessary." after getting a letter of that kind i could not well refuse to go to belfast. even without the letter i should, i think, have gone. i was naturally anxious to see what was going to happen. i spent my time in the train reading several different accounts of an important nationalist meeting held the day before in a village in county clare, the name of which i have unfortunately forgotten. three of the chief nationalist orators were there, men quite equal to babberly in their mastery of the art of public speaking. i read all their speeches; but that was not really necessary. none of them said anything which the other two did not say, and none of them left out anything which the other two had said. they all began by declaring that under home rule all irishmen should receive equal consideration and be treated with equal respect. they all looked forward to the day when they would be walking about the premises at present occupied by the bank of ireland in dublin with their arms round babberly's neck. the dearest wish of their hearts--so they all said, and the people of county clare cheered heartily--was to unite with lord moyne, babberly, malcolmson and even the dean in the work of regenerating holy ireland. any little differences of religious creed which might exist would be entirely forgotten as soon as the home rule bill was safely passed. they then went on to say that the belfast people, and the people of county antrim and county down generally, were enthusiastically in favour of home rule. the fact that they elected unionist members of parliament and held unionist demonstrations was accounted for by the existence of a handful of rack-renting landlords, a few sweating capitalists and some clergymen whose churches were empty because the people were tired of hearing them curse the pope. poor moyne has sold every acre of his property and the dean's only difficulty with the majority of his large congregation is that he does not curse the pope often enough to please them. cahoon, i am told, only sweats in the old-fashioned intransitive sense of the word. he is frequently bathed in perspiration himself. i never heard of his insisting on his workmen getting any hotter than was natural and necessary. but these criticisms are beside the mark. no one supposes that a political orator means to tell the truth when he is making a speech. politics could not be carried on if he did. what the public expects and generally insists on is that the inevitable lies should have their loins girt about with a specious appearance of truthfulness. every speaker must offer distinct and convincing proofs that his statements are strictly accurate reflections of fact. the best and simplest way of doing this is by means of bold challenge. the speaker offers to deposit a large sum of money with the local mayor to be paid over to a deserving charity, if any opponent of the speaker can, to the satisfaction of twelve honourable men, generally named, disprove some quite irrelevant truism, or can prove to the satisfaction of the same twelve men the falsity of some universally accepted platitude. this method is very popular with orators, and invariably carries conviction to their audiences. the nationalist members in county clare broke away into a variant of the familiar plan. they challenged the government. "let the government," they said, all three of them, "proclaim the meeting to be held in belfast on monday next, and allow the public to watch with contempt the deflation of the wind-distended bladder of ulster opposition to home rule. we venture to say that the little group of selfish wire-pullers at whose bidding the meeting has been summoned, will sneak away before the batons of half a dozen policemen, and their followers will be found to be non-existent." the government, apparently, believed the nationalist orators, or half believed them. sir samuel clithering was sent over to belfast, to report, confidentially, on the temper of the people. he must have sent off his despatch before the dean's army marched in, before any of the armies then converging on the city arrived, before the belfast people had got out their rifles. the government in the most solemn and impressive manner, proclaimed the meeting. that was the news with which we were greeted when our train drew up at the platform in belfast. the proclamation of meeting is one of the regular resources of governments when irish affairs get into a particularly annoying tangle. there have been during my time hundreds of meetings proclaimed in different parts of the country. the lord lieutenant and the chief secretary never get any thanks for their action. the people who want to hold the meeting always accuse the government of violating the right of free speech and substituting a military tyranny for the magna charta. the other people who do not want the meeting to be held always say that the government ought to have proclaimed it much sooner than it did, and ought to have imprisoned, perhaps beheaded, the men who intended to speak at the meeting. bob power met us on the platform, which was horribly crowded, and immediately conducted marion to a motor car which he had in waiting outside the station. then he came back to me and we went together in search of marion's luggage. it was while we were pushing our way through the crowd that he told me the great news. i said that the failure of the demonstration would be a disappointment to the dean and his riflemen who would have to walk all the way home again without hearing babberly's speech. "i'm not so sure about that," said bob. "we may have the meeting in spite of their teeth." "you can't possibly," i said, "hold a meeting when--dear me! who are those?" there was a crowd round the luggage van where we were trying to discover marion's trunk. an unmannerly porter shoved me back, and i bumped into a man who had something hard and knobby in his hand. i looked round. he was a soldier in the regular khaki uniform with a rifle in his hand. the bayonet was fixed. i felt deeply thankful that it was pointing upwards and not in a horizontal direction when the porter charged me. it might quite easily have gone through my back. this man appeared to be a kind of outpost sentry. behind him, all similarly armed, were twenty or thirty more men drawn up with their backs to the wall of the station. a youth, who looked bored and disgusted, was in command of them and stood at the end of the line. his sword struck me as being far too big for him. "who on earth are those?" i said. "those," said bob, "are the troops who are overawing us. some of them. there are lots more. you'll see them at every street corner as we go along. by jove! i believe that's nosey henderson in command of this detachment. excuse me one moment, lord kilmore. henderson was with me at harrow. i'll just shake hands with him." he turned to the young officer as he spoke. "hullo nosey," he said, "i didn't know you were in these parts." "ordered up from the curragh," said henderson. "damned nuisance this sort of police duty. we oughtn't to be asked to do it." "your particular job," said bob, "is to overawe the railway porters, i suppose." "been here since nine o'clock this morning," said henderson, "and haven't had a blessed thing to eat except two water biscuits. what's the row all about? that's what i can't make out." "oh! it's quite simple," said bob. "our side wants to hold a meeting--" "you are on a side then, are you?" "of course i am," said bob. "i'm in command of a company of volunteers. we don't run to khaki uniforms and brass buttons, but we've got guns all right." "i say," said henderson, "tell me this now. any chance of a scrap? real fighting, you know? i've been asking all sorts of fellows, and nobody seems to be able to say for certain." "we shan't begin it," said bob; "but, of course, if you get prodding at us with those spikes you have at the end of your guns--" "there are a lot of fellows in this town that would be all the better of being prodded. every porter that walks along the platform spits when he passes us in a damned offensive way. you would think they were looking for trouble." the crowd round the luggage van cleared away a little and we found marion's trunk. bob handed it over to a porter and we joined marion in the motor car. the scene outside the station was striking. a considerable body of dragoons, some mounted, some on foot beside their horses, were grouped together near the great gate which led into the railway company's yard. their accoutrements and the bridles of their horses jangled at every movement in a way very suggestive of military ardour. the trappings of horse soldiers are evidently made as noisy as possible. perhaps with the idea of keeping up the spirits of the men. some highlanders, complete in their kilts, stood opposite the dragoons at the other end of the yard. a sergeant was shouting explosive monosyllables at them in order to make them turn to the left or to the right as he thought desirable. behind them were some other soldiers, englishmen i presume, who wore ordinary trousers. they were sitting on a flight of stone steps eating chunks of dry bread. their rifles were neatly stacked behind them. round the motor car were about thirty men whom i hesitate to call civilians, because they had rifles in their hands; but who were certainly not real soldiers, for they had no uniforms. they looked to me like young farmers. "my fellows," said bob, pointing to these men. "pretty tidy looking lot, aren't they? i brought them along as a sort of guard of honour for marion. they're not really the least necessary; but i thought you and she might be pleased to see them." here and there, scattered among the military and bob's irregular troops, were black uniformed policemen, rosy-faced young men, fresh from a healthy life among the cattle ranches of roscommon, drafted to their own immense bewilderment into this strange city of belfast, where no one regarded them with any reverence, or treated them with the smallest respect. the motor car started, creeping at a walking pace through the mingled crowd of armed men who thronged the entrance to the station. our guard of honour, some of them smoking, some stopping for a moment to exchange greetings with acquaintance, kept up with us pretty well. then, as we got clear of the station and went faster, we left our guard behind. one man indeed, with a singular devotion to duty, poked his rifle into the car and then ran alongside of us with his hand on the mudguard. he carried marion's trunk into the hotel when we got there. our drive was an exciting one. at every street corner there were parties of soldiers. along every street stalwart policemen strolled in pairs. there were certainly hundreds of armed irregulars. for the most part these men seemed to be under no control; but occasionally we met a party marching in something like military formation, led by an officer, grave with responsibility. one company, i remember, got in our way and for a long time could not get out of it. their officer had been drilling them carefully and they were all most anxious to obey his orders. the difficulty was that he could not recollect at the moment what orders he ought to give to get them out of our way. he halted them to begin with. then in firm tones, he commanded a half-right turn and a quick march. we had to back our car to avoid collision with the middle part of the column. their officer halted them again. we offered to go back and take another route to our hotel; but the officer would not hear of this. he told his men to stand at ease while he consulted a handbook on military evolutions. in the end he gave the problem up. "get out of the way, will you," he said, "and form up again when the car is past." this was unconventional, but quite effective. the men--and it is to their credit that not one of them smiled--broke their formation, scattered to right and left and reformed after we had passed. this took place in a narrow side street in which there was very little traffic. i recognized the wisdom of the officer in choosing such a place for his manoeuvres. in the main streets the business of the town seemed to be going on very much as usual. it was saturday afternoon. shops and offices were closing. young men and girls passed out of them and thronged the trams which were leaving the centre of the city. they took very little notice of the soldiers or the police. in the poorer streets women with baskets on their arms were doing their weekly shopping at the stalls of small butchers and greengrocers. groups of factory girls marched along with linked arms, enjoying their outing, unaffected apparently by the unusual condition of their streets. the newspaper boys did a roaring trade, shrieking promises of sensational news to be found in the pages of the _telegraph_ and _echo_. marion became intensely excited. "doesn't it look just as if the town had been captured by an enemy," she said, "after a long siege?" "it hasn't been captured yet," said bob. i have often tried to understand how it was that bob power came to take the active part he did in the fighting which followed, and how he came to be in command of a body of volunteers. he had not, so far as i know, any actual hatred of the idea of home rule. he was too light-hearted to be in full sympathy with fanatical puritans like crossan and mcneice. he certainly had no hatred of the british empire or the english army. he was, up to the last moment, on friendly terms with those of the army officers whom he happened to know. he chatted with them and with detached inspectors of police in the same friendly way as he did with henderson at the railway station. i can only suppose that he regarded the whole business--to begin with at all events--as a large adventure of a novel and delightful kind. he went into it very much as many volunteers went into the boer war, without any very strong convictions about the righteousness of the cause in which he fought, certainly without any realization of the horror of actual bloodshed. there are men of this temperament, fortunately a good many of them. if they did not exist in large numbers the world's fighting would be very badly done. the mere mercenary--uninspired by the passion for adventure--will at the best do as little fighting as possible, and do it with the smallest amount of ardour. fanatics cannot be had to order. some kind of idea--in most cases a religious idea--is necessary to turn the ordinary church-going business man or farmer into an efficient fighting unit. the kind of patriotism which is prepared to make sacrifices, to endure bodily pain and risk death, is very rare. it is on the men who enjoy risk, who love struggle, who face death with a laugh, the men of bob power's reckless temperament, that the world must rely when it wants fighting done. hitherto men of this kind have been plentiful. whether our advancing civilization is going to destroy the breed is a question which, i am pleased to say, need not be answered by my generation. there are enough bob powers alive to last my time. chapter xviii i fully intended to go to church on sunday morning. i was, in fact, waiting for marion at the door of the hotel, when sir samuel clithering came to see me. "i shall be so much obliged," he said, "if you will spare me a few minutes." i did not want to spare any minutes to sir samuel clithering. in the first place i had promised to take marion to the cathedral. "a parade service"--i quote the official title of the function--was to be held for the benefit of the volunteers and marion naturally wanted to see bob power at the head of his men. i wanted to hear the men singing that hymn again, and i wanted to hear what sort of sermon the dean--our dean, not the dean of the cathedral--would preach on such an occasion. he was advertised to preach, as "chaplain general of the loyalists." these were three good reasons for not giving sir samuel clithering the few minutes he demanded. i had, also, a fourth. i had held, as i have related, previous communications with clithering. i suspected him of having more peerages in his pocket for distribution, and i did not want to undertake any further negotiations like that with conroy. he might even--and i particularly disliked the idea--be empowered to offer our dean an english bishopric. i kept this last reason to myself, but i stated the other three fully to sir samuel. he seemed dissatisfied. "everybody's going to church," he complained. "i can't get lord moyne. i can't get babberly. i can't get malcolmson, and it's really most important that i should see some one. going to church is all very well--" "as a leading nonconformist," i said. "free churchman," said sir samuel. "i beg your pardon, free churchman. you ought not to object to people going to church. i've always understood that the free churchmen are honourably distinguished from other christians by their respect for the practice of sunday worship." "of course, i don't object to people going to church. i should be there myself if it were not that--" he hesitated. i thought he might be searching for an appropriate text of scripture so i helped him. "your ass," i said, "has fallen into a pit, and you want--" this was evidently not exactly the text he wanted. he seemed astonished when i quoted it. "ass!" he said. "what ass?" "the government," i said. "it is in rather a hole, isn't it?" "capital," said clithering, laughing without the smallest appearance of mirth, "capital! i didn't catch the point for a moment, but i do now. my ass has fallen into a pit. you put the matter in a nutshell, lord kilmore. i don't mind confessing that a pit of rather an inconvenient size does lie in front of us. i feel sure that you, as a humane man, won't refuse your help in the charitable work of helping to get us out." marion came downstairs in her best hat. it was not for nothing that bob power and i and the running volunteer had struggled with her trunk. her frock, also, was charming. "your daughter," said clithering. "now my dear young lady, you must spare your father to me for an hour. affairs of state. affairs of state. but you'll allow me to send you to church in my car. my private secretary is in it, and i shall tell him to see you safely to church, to secure a seat for you--" "the dean has reserved seats for us," i said. "capital, capital. we can regard that as settled then. my private secretary--an excellent young fellow whom i picked up at toynbee hall--a student of our social problems--a man whom i'm sure you'll like." he conducted marion to the door and handed her over to the private secretary from toynbee hall. i resigned myself and led clithering to a deserted smoking-room. "i never saw so much church-going anywhere," he said. "it's most remarkable. i don't think the government quite appreciates--" as a matter of fact the percentage of church-going men on that particular sunday was considerably over the average. on the other hand there were much fewer women than usual. every church of every protestant denomination was holding a "parade service" for volunteers, and most of the women who tried to get in had to be turned away from the doors. i thought it well to rub the facts in a little. "rack-renting landlords," i said. "sweating capitalists, and clergymen whose churches are empty because their congregations are tired of hearing them curse the pope!" "eh?" said clithering, "what's that? what's that?" "only a quotation," i said. "i forget if it was a cabinet minister--" "not at all," said clithering. "i recollect the words now. it was one of the irish members. no cabinet minister would dream of saying such things. we have a high sense of the importance of the ulster problem. nothing, i assure you, is further from our minds than the desire to minimize or treat with undue flippancy the conscientious objections, even the somewhat unreasonable fears of men whom we recognize as--" clithering paused. i had not anything particular to say, so i waited for him to begin again. "i understand," he said, "that a meeting of the unionist defence committee is to be held this afternoon." "yes," i said. "i'm going to it. i'm not really a member of the committee, at least i wasn't until yesterday; but--" "i quite understand, quite understand. in fact--speaking now in the strictest confidence--i may say that the suggestion to add your name to the committee was made--well it was made to lady moyne by a very important person. it was generally recognized that a man of your well-known moderation--" i was beginning to dislike being called a man of moderation nearly as much as i disliked being called a liberal. "what do you want me to do?" i asked. "the situation--the very difficult and distressing situation is this," said clithering, "stated roughly it is this. the government has proclaimed to-morrow's meeting." "that," i said, "is the pit into which--i don't want to be offensive--i'll say, your ox has fallen." "and the town is full of troops and police. any attempt to hold the meeting can only result in bloodshed, deplorable bloodshed, the lives of men and women, innocent women sacrificed." "the strength of babberly's position," i said, "is that he doesn't think bloodshed deplorable." "but he does. he told me so in london. he repeated the same thing this morning." "i don't mean babberly personally," i said, "i mean his party; malcolmson, you know, and our dean. if you'd only gone to hear the dean preach this morning you'd know what he thinks about blood. i've often heard him say that the last drop of it--mind that now, sir samuel--the last drop ought to be shed. that's going as far as any one very well could, isn't it?" "but he must," said clithering, "he must think bloodshed deplorable." "no, he doesn't," i said. "you mustn't think everybody is like your government. it's humanitarian. we're not. we're business men." clithering caught at the last phrase. it appealed to him. he did not know the meaning attached to it by cahoon. "that's just it," he said. "we want to appeal to you as business men. we want to suggest a reasonable compromise." "i'm afraid," i said, "that you've come to the wrong place. i'm not the least averse to compromises myself, in fact i love them. but the belfast business man--you don't quite understand him, i'm afraid, sir samuel. have you heard him singing his hymn?" "no. what hymn? but leaving the question of hymns aside for the moment--" "you can't do that," i said, "the hymn is the central fact in the situation." clithering thought this over and evidently failed to understand it. "what i am empowered to suggest," he said, "is a compromise so very favourable to the ulster claims that i can hardly imagine your rejecting it. the government will allow the meeting to be held this day week if your committee will agree to the postponement." "if," i said, "you will also withdraw your home rule bill--" "but we can't," said clithering. "we can't do that. we'll insert any reasonable safeguards. we'll concede anything that ulster likes to ask, but we're pledged, absolutely pledged, to the bill." "well," i said, "as far as pledges are concerned, we're pledged against it." "what we deprecate," said sir samuel, "is violence of any kind. constitutional agitation, even if carried on with great bitterness is one thing. violence--but i'm sure, lord kilmore, that we can rely on you to use your influence at the meeting this afternoon to secure the acceptance of the terms we offer. i'm sure we can count on you. you can't _want_ bloodshed." i did not want bloodshed, of course. i do not suppose that anybody did. what clithering could not understand was that some people--without wanting bloodshed--might prefer it to home rule. he left me, still i fancy relying on my well-known moderation. no man ever relied on a more utterly useless crutch. moderation has never been of the slightest use anywhere in ireland and was certainly a vain thing in belfast that day. i walked round to the club and found nobody in it except conroy. he alone, among the leading supporters of the loyalist movement, had failed to go to church. i thought i might try how he would regard the policy of moderation. "i suppose," i said, "that you'll have to give up this meeting to-morrow." "i don't think so," said conroy. "i've just been talking to sir samuel clithering," i said, "and he thinks there'll be bloodshed if you don't." "i reckon he's right there. we're kind of out for that, aren't we?" "it won't be so pleasant," i said, "when it's your blood that's shed. i don't mean yours personally, i mean your friends." "the other side will do some of the bleeding," said conroy. "still," i said, "in the end they'll win." "i wouldn't bet too heavy on that," said conroy. "you don't mean to say that you think that a handful of north of ireland farmers and mechanics can stand up against the british empire?" "it's fixed in my mind," said conroy, "that the british lion will get his tail twisted a bit before he's through with this business. i don't say that he won't make good in the end. nobody but god almighty can tell this minute whether he will or not; but he'll be considerable less frisky when he's finished than he is to-day." "but," i said, "even supposing you clear the streets of the soldiers and police to-morrow--i do not see how you can; but if you do the government will simply anchor a battleship off carrickfergus and shell the whole town into a heap of ruins." "i'm calculating on their trying that," said conroy. that was all i could get out of conroy. i left him, feeling uneasily that his vote would certainly go against clithering's compromise. his confidence in the fighting powers of the raw men whom bob and others had taken to church with them struck me as absurd. his cool assumption of power to deal with the british fleet was arrogance run mad. on my way back to my hotel i ran into a congregation which had just got out of some church or other. in the first rank--they were marching in very fair order--was crossan. he saluted me and stopped. "i'm thinking," he said, "that you won't have seen them." he pointed to a small group of men who were bringing up the rear of the congregation's march. they were dragging a heavy object along with two large ropes. i recognized the leader of them at once. he was cahoon's foreman friend, mcconkey. i was pleased to find that he recognized me. "i have her safe," he said. "would you like to take a look at her?" i did. she was a machine gun of a kind quite unknown to me; but her appearance was very murderous. mcconkey led me up to her. he stroked her black side lovingly and patted her in various places. "i was trying her yesterday," he said, "down on the slob land under the shore road. man o' man, but she shoots bonny!" i had no doubt of it. she was likely to be accountable for a good deal of bloodshed if there was any street fighting next day. the record of her bag would, i should think, haunt sir samuel clithering for the rest of his life. "i've a matter of five thousand cartridges," said mcconkey in a hoarse whisper, "and there's another five thousand ordered." chapter xix the committee met at three o'clock in the afternoon. sir samuel clithering was not, of course, a member of it; but he lurked about outside and waylaid us as we went in. he was in a condition of pitiful bewilderment. alice whose adventures in wonderland have been very dear to me since i first read them aloud to marion, was once placed in a difficult and awkward position by the kings, queens and knaves of the pack of cards with which she was playing coming to life. this was sufficiently embarrassing. but clithering was much worse off than alice. in her story all the cards came to life, and though the unexpectedness of their behaviour made things difficult for her there was a certain consistency about the whole business. a card player might in time adjust himself to a game played with cards which possessed wills of their own. but poor clithering had to play with a pack in which one suit only, and it not even the trump suit, suddenly insisted that the game was a reality. the other three suits, the liberals, the conservatives, and the irish nationalists still behaved in the normal way, falling pleasantly on top of each other, and winning or losing tricks as the rules of the game demanded. the ulster party alone--clubs, we may call them--would not play fairly. they jumped out of the player's hand and obstinately declared that the green cloth was a real battlefield. the higher court cards of the suit--lady moyne for instance, and babberly--clithering felt himself able to control. it was the knaves--i am sure he looked on mcneice as a knave--the tens, the sevens and the humble twos which behaved outrageously. and clithering was not the only player who was perplexed. i had been to luncheon with the moynes. babberly was there of course. so was malcolmson. clithering sat next but one to lady moyne. malcolmson was between them. it was a curious alliance. the emissary of the government, which had passed measures which all good aristocrats disliked intensely, joined hands for the moment with the lady whose skill as a political hostess had frequently been troublesome to clithering's friends. i do not suppose that such an alliance could possibly last long. those whom misfortune, according to the old proverb, forces into bed together, always struggle out again at opposite sides when the clouds cease to be threatening. but while it lasted the alliance was firm enough. they were both bent on pressing the advantages of moderation on malcolmson. they produced very little effect. malcolmson is impervious to reason. he kept falling back, in replying to their arguments, on his original objection to home rule. "i shall never consent," he said, "to be governed by a pack of blackguards in dublin." it was really a very good answer, for every time he made it he drove a wedge into the coalition against him. lady moyne was bound to admit that all irishmen outside ulster are blackguards, and that the atmosphere of dublin is poisonous. clithering, on the other hand, was officially committed to an unqualified admiration for everything south of the boyne. i do not think that malcolmson appreciated his dialectic advantage. his mind was running on big guns rather than arguments. lady moyne squeezed my hand as we parted after luncheon, and i think i am not exaggerating in saying that there were tears in her eyes. she succeeded at all events in giving me the impression that her future happiness depended very largely on me. i determined, as i had determined several times before, to be true to the most charming lady of my acquaintance. moyne took the chair at our meeting. next him sat babberly. cahoon, mcneice and malcolmson sat together at the bottom of the table. i was given a chair on moyne's other side. conroy would not sit at the table at all. he had two chairs in a corner of the room. he sat on one of them and put his legs on the other. he also smoked a cigar, which i think everybody regarded as bad form. but nobody liked to protest, because nobody, except me and mcneice, knew which side conroy was going to take in the controversy before us. babberly, i feel sure, would have objected to the cigar if he had thought that conroy favoured extreme defiance of the government. malcolmson, like many military men, is a great stickler for etiquette. he would have snubbed the cigar if he thought conroy was inclined to moderation. as things were, we all warmly invited conroy to desert his private encampment and join us round the table. "i guess i'm here as an onlooker," said conroy. "you gentlemen can settle things nicely without me, till it comes to writing cheques. then i chip in." moyne murmured a compliment about conroy's extreme generosity in the past, and babberly said that further calls on our purses were, for the present, unnecessary. then we all forgot about conroy. the dean sat half way down the table on my side. there was also present a member of parliament, a man who had sat by babberly's side in the house of commons all through the dreary months of june, july and august, supporting consistently every move he made towards wrecking the home rule bill. there ought to have been several others of the moderate party at the meeting. their letters of apology were read to us. they all had urgent business either in england or scotland, which prevented their being in belfast. i do not think their absence made much difference in the result of our deliberations. we had got beyond the stage at which votes matter much. moyne was pitifully nervous. he stated our position very fairly. it was, he said, a hateful thing to have to give in to the government. he did not like doing it. on the other hand he did not like to take the responsibility of urging the people of belfast to commit a breach of the peace. lives, he said, would certainly be lost if we attempted to hold our meeting in the face of the force of armed men which the government had collected in our streets. he would feel himself guilty of something little short of murder if he did not advise the acceptance of the compromise offered by clithering. it was, after all, a fair, more than a fair compromise. nothing would be lost by postponing the meeting for a week. it was rather a feeble speech. nobody offered any interruption, but nobody expressed any approval of what he said. when he sat down babberly rose at once. now babberly is no fool. he knows that florid orations are out of place at committee meetings. he did not treat us to any oratory. he gave us tersely and forcibly several excellent reasons for postponing our demonstration. "the government," he said, "is weakening. its offer of a compromise shows that it is beginning at last to feel the full force of the ulster objection to home rule." here mcneice interrupted him. "if that's so," he said, "we must make our objection more unmistakably obvious than before." "quite so," said babberly; "but how? is it--" "by fighting them," said mcneice. "if by fighting them," said babberly, "you mean asking the unarmed citizens of belfast to stand up against rifles--" "unarmed?" the word came from conroy in his corner. every one was startled. we had not expected conroy to take any part in the discussion. "undrilled, undisciplined," said babberly. "what can be the result of such a conflict as you suggest? our people, the men who have trusted us, will be mowed down. we shall place ourselves hopelessly in the wrong. we shall alienate the sympathies of our friends in england." a large crowd had gathered in the street outside the windows of the room in which we were sitting. i suppose that the men found waiting a tiresome business. by way of passing the time they began to sing "o god, our help in ages past." "it is of the utmost importance to us," said babberly, "to retain the sympathies of the english constituencies. any illegal violence on our part--" "you should have thought of that before you told the english people that we meant to fight," said mcneice. "if you follow my advice to-day," said babberly, "there will be no necessity for fighting." the hymn outside gathered volume. it seemed to me that thousands of voices were joining in the singing of it. it became exceedingly difficult to hear what babberly was saying. i leaned forward and caught his next few sentences. "by keeping within the limits of constitutional action at this crisis we shall demonstrate that we are, what we have always boasted ourselves, the party of law and order. we shall win a bloodless victory. we shall convince the government that we possess self-control as well as determination." then the noise of the singing outside became so great that it was impossible to hear babberly at all. mcneice tilted his chair back and began to hum the tune. malcolmson beat time to the singing with his forefingers. their action seemed to me to be intentionally insulting to babberly. the crowd outside reached the end of a verse and there was a pause. "damn that hymn!" said babberly. this roused the dean. it would have roused any dean with a particle of spirit in him. after all, a high ecclesiastic cannot sit still and listen to profane condemnation of one of the psalms of david, even if it has undergone versification at the hands of dr. watts. the conduct of mcneice and malcolmson was offensive and provocative. the noise made by the crowd was maddening. there is every excuse for babberly's sudden loss of temper. but the dean's anger was more than excusable. it was justified. he sprang to his feet, and i knew at once that he was very angry indeed. i could see a broad white rim all round the irises of his eyes, and a pulse in his temples was throbbing visibly. i recognized the symptoms. i had seen them once before at a vestry meeting when some ill-conditioned parishioner said that the dean's curate was converting to his own uses the profits of the parish magazine. the periodical, as appeared later on, was actually run at a loss, and the curate had been seven-and-ninepence out of pocket the previous year. the dean said something to babberly, but the crowd had begun the fourth verse of the hymn, and we could not hear what he said. i got up and shut both windows. the atmosphere of our committee-room was hot, and likely to become hotter; but it is better to do business in a turkish bath than not to do it at all. there was plainly no use our talking to each other unless we were able to hear. my action gave babberly time to regain his temper. "i apologize," he said. "i apologize to all of you, and especially to you, mr. dean, for an intemperate and uncalled-for exclamation." the dean sat down. the pulse in his forehead was still throbbing, but the irises of his eyes ceased to look like bulls' eyes in the middle of targets. "i have been a consistent supporter of the union," said babberly, "for twenty years. in season and out of season i have upheld the cause we have at heart on english platforms and in the house of commons. i know better than you do, gentlemen, what the temper of the english people is. i know that we shall sacrifice their friendship and alienate their sympathy if we resort to the argument of lawlessness and violence." "it's the only argument they ever listen to," said mcneice. "look at the nationalists. what arguments did they use?" "gentlemen," said babberly, "are you going to ask ulstermen to fire on the king's troops?" "i reckon," said conroy, "that we mean to use our guns now we've got them." babberly made a curious gesture with his hands. he flung them out from him with the palms upwards and then sat down. mcneice rose next. "for the last two years," he said, "we've been boasting that we meant to resist home rule with force if necessary. that's so, isn't it?" malcolmson growled an assent. "english politicians and irish rebels said we were bluffing. our own people--the men outside there in the street--thought we were in earnest. the english went on with their bill. our people drilled and got rifles. which of the two was right about us? were we bluffing or were we in earnest? we've got to answer that question to-morrow, and we'll never get another chance. if we don't fight now, we'll never fight, for there won't be a man left in ulster that will believe in us again. i don't know that there's any more to be said. i propose that lord moyne puts the question to the meeting and takes a vote." then cahoon rose to his feet. "before you do that, my lord," he said, "i'd like to say a word. i'm a business man. i've as much at stake as any one in this room. my fortune, gentlemen, is in bricks and mortar, in machinery and plant not ten miles from this city. i've thought this matter out, and i came to a conclusion years ago. home rule won't do for belfast, and belfast isn't going to have it. if i saw any way of stopping it but the one i'd take it. there are thousands, yes, gentlemen, thousands of men, women, and children depending on my business for their living. home rule means ruining it and starving them. i don't like fighting, but, by god, i'll fight before i submit to home rule." lord moyne looked slowly round the room. his face was quite pale. it seemed to me that his eyes had grown larger. they had a look of terror in them. his hands trembled among the papers in front of him. he saw at once what the result of a vote would be. he looked at me. i shook my head. it was quite plain that nothing i could say would influence the meeting in the least. "gentlemen," said moyne, "are we to attempt to hold our meeting to-morrow? those who are in favour of doing so say 'aye.'" cahoon, mcneice, malcolmson, the dean and conroy voted "aye." "the 'ayes' have it," said moyne. "before we part," said babberly, "i wish to say that i leave belfast to-night--" malcolmson muttered something. babberly held up his hand. "no," he said. "you are wrong. i'm not afraid. i'm not taking care of my own skin. but i have lived a loyal man and i mean to die a loyal man. i decline to take part in the rebellion." i have heard babberly speak on various occasions and admired his eloquence. this time i recognized his sincerity. he was speaking the truth. "i shall go back to england," he said, "and, of this you may rest assured, that i shall do what can be done in parliament and elsewhere to save you and the men whom i must call your victims from the consequences of to-day's madness and to-morrow's crime." he left the room. the five men who had voted "aye" were gathered in a knot talking eagerly. i took moyne's arm and we went out together. "her ladyship must be got away," he said. "and your daughter, kilmore. she's here, isn't she? this town will be no place for women to-morrow. luckily i have the car. you'll take them, won't you? castle affey will be the best place for the present." "what are you going to do yourself?" i asked. we passed through the door and down the flight of steps to the street. the crowd outside caught sight of us at once. some one shouted aloud. "more traitors!" the news of the result of the meeting and the part we took in it had somehow reached the people already. an angry roar went up from the crowd. those who were nearest to us cursed us. a police-officer with eight men forced a way through the crowd. at a word from their officer the men drew their batons and stood in front of us. "i think, my lord," said the officer to moyne, "that you'd better go back. we had the greatest difficulty in getting mr. babberly through, and the crowd is angrier now." "i'm going on," said moyne. "i cannot be responsible," said the officer. "i haven't enough men to control this crowd. if you go on--" moyne pushed his way through the cordon of police. i followed him. at first the people drew back a little and let us pass into the middle of the crowd. then one man after another began to hustle us. moyne linked his arm in mine and helped me along. a man struck him in the face with the flat of his hand. it was a sharp slap rather than an actual blow. moyne flushed deeply, but he neither spoke nor struck back. then suddenly the people seemed to forget all about us. a wild cheer burst from them. hats were flung into the air. sticks were waved. some one began firing shots from a revolver in rapid succession. it was a fusillade of joy, a kind of salute to mcneice who appeared at the window of the committee-room. moyne and i pushed our way on. when we were clear of the crowd moyne spoke to me again. "you'd better take them at once," he said. "it's impossible to know what'll happen here to-night." "but you?" i said. "oh, i shall stay." "don't be a fool, moyne," i said. "you're the one of all others who ought not to stay. don't you see that whatever way things go you're in for it? the mob thinks you're a traitor. i wouldn't trust those fellows we've just left not to kill you. and when the soldiers have shot them down and the subsequent investigation begins, the government is bound to fix on you as a ringleader. there'll be panic to-morrow and savage vindictiveness the next day. mcneice and malcolmson will frighten the government and the government will have you hanged or beheaded afterwards for causing the trouble. the english people will clamour for a victim, and you're exactly the sort of victim they'll like. your one chance is to get out of this. go to castle affey to-night, and telegraph to _the times_ to-morrow to say that you dissociate yourself--" moyne stopped me. "look here, kilmore," he said. "i've heard all you have to say, and i agree with it, more or less. i don't suppose i'll be either murdered by the mob or shot by the military, but--" "you will," i said, "if you stay here." "even if i am," he said, "i'll have to stay." "in the name of goodness, why?" "you know the way we've been talking for the last two years--our side, i mean." i knew the way babberly had been talking. i knew the way lady moyne had goaded him and others to talk, but poor moyne hardly ever talked at all. all he ever wanted was to be left alone. "well, i can't exactly go back on them now when they're doing what we said they ought to do. i've got to see the thing through. after all it's my fault that those poor fellows are in this horrible mess." he glanced back as he spoke. he was thinking of the angry crowd we had left behind us. "so you'll take care of the ladies," he said. "run them down to castle affey and make yourself as comfortable as you can. they won't be expecting you, but they'll manage some sort of dinner." "i'm not going," i said. "i'm staying on in belfast." "but why should you? you've no responsibility. you've never taken any part in our--it's very good of you to think of staying. it really is. and i appreciate the spirit in which--but--" "for goodness' sake, moyne," i said, "don't give me credit for any kind of heroism. that _noblesse oblige_ attitude of yours doesn't suit me a bit. it isn't in my line." "but hang it all, kilmore, you can't be staying here for the fun of it." "i've often told you," i said, "that i'm writing a history of the irish rebellions. i naturally want to see one, and there isn't likely to be another in my time. that's my only reason for staying in belfast." we found lady moyne waiting for us when we reached the hotel. she was wearing a long cloak, and had a motor-veil tied over her head. she was evidently prepared to start at once. "i've ordered the car," she said. "it ought to be round now. marion's coming with me, lord kilmore. i think she'd be better out of belfast for the next few days." the news of the decision of our committee seemed to have spread with quite unexampled rapidity. we came straight from the meeting, and we found that lady moyne had already recognized the necessity for flight. "i'm glad you're going," said moyne, "and i'm glad you're taking marion with you. but how did you know? who told you what--?" "that young man who's mr. conroy's secretary," said lady moyne. "i forget his name." "bob power," i said. "he came in to see marion, and he told us." bob must have known beforehand what the committee's decision was to be. i realized that conroy must have had the whole plan cut and dried; that the meeting at which moyne presided was simply a farce. however, there was nothing to be gained by discussing that. "i think," i said, "that moyne ought to go with you. i don't think belfast is particularly safe for him just now; and--" "moyne must stay, of course," said lady moyne. "there'll be trouble afterwards," i said. "he ought not to be mixed up in it. if he clears out at once--" lady moyne looked at me with an expression of wonder on her face. her eyes opened very wide. "surely," she said, "you don't expect him to run away." "of course not," said moyne; "of course not. and there's really no risk. i'll--" "that's not the kind of people we are," said lady moyne. "i'll join you at castle affey in a couple of days," said moyne. "castle affey," said lady moyne. "i'm not going to castle affey. i'm going to london." "what for?" i said. "and how are you going to get there? there are no steamers on sunday night." "i'm taking possession of mr. conroy's yacht," said lady moyne. "she's lying off bangor, and that young man, mr. power, said we could have her. we'll get across to stranraer this evening, and i'll have a special train and be in london to-morrow morning." "london!" said moyne. "but why london? surely castle affey--" "i must see the prime minister early to-morrow. he must be persuaded--he must be forced if necessary--to telegraph orders to belfast. don't you realize? i don't blame you, i don't blame either of you for the failure of your meeting this afternoon. i'm sure you did your best. but--but what will happen here to-morrow? we can't leave the people to be shot down like dogs. after all, they're _our_ people." "but what can you do?" said moyne. "the prime minister won't see you." "if necessary i shall force him," said lady moyne. "he shall see me." lady moyne is, as i have always said, a remarkable woman. many members of her sex have been trying for years to force their way into the presence of the prime minister. they have hitherto failed. "i am afraid," i said, "that marion won't be much use to you if you're going to come into collision with the police in any way." lady moyne smiled. "i hope i shan't be reduced to those methods," she said; "but if i am i shall leave marion at home." i had not the slightest doubt that lady moyne would succeed in seeing the prime minister. he has probably sense enough to know that though he may resist other women successfully, he cannot possibly make head against her. "if there is no rioting here to-night," said lady moyne, "i shall be in time. that young man, mr. power, seemed to think that everything would be quiet until to-morrow. i hope he's right." "he's sure to be," i said. "conroy is running the revolution and settles exactly what is to happen." "he was very confident," said lady moyne. "ah! here's marion. now we can start. good-bye, lord kilmore. do your best here. i'll make the best arrangement i can with the prime minister." chapter xx moyne and i dined together in the hotel. we should have got a better dinner at the club, and i wanted to go there. but moyne was afraid of the other men's talk. it was likely that there would be some very eager talk at the club; and moyne, whose name still figured on placards as chairman of next day's meeting would have been a butt for every kind of anxious inquiry. we did not altogether escape talk by staying in the hotel. just as we were sitting down to dinner i was told that bob power wished to see me. moyne wanted me to send him away; but i could not well refuse an interview to the man who was to be my son-in-law. i gave that as my excuse to moyne. in reality i was filled with curiosity, and wanted to hear what bob would say to us. i told the waiter to show him in. he carried no visible weapon of any kind, but he was wearing a light blue scarf round his left arm. i suppose i stared at it. "our nearest approach to a uniform," he said. "something of the sort was necessary." "but why light blue?" i asked. "oh, i don't know. it's a good colour, easily seen. the men are to wear orange, of course. i'm an officer." "captain or colonel or knight at arms?" i asked. "we haven't bothered about titles," said bob, who did not seem to recognize the question. "we haven't had time to settle details of any sort. in fact i haven't much time now. i just dropped in to tell you that you needn't be nervous about to-night. we have our men well under control, and the police ought to be able to deal with the rabble. if they can't--if there's any sign of rioting--we step in and stop it at once." he pulled a revolver from his coat pocket as he spoke. it gave us the necessary information about the way in which rioting was to be stopped. "i shall be on patrol all night," he said. "my orders--" "by the way," i said, "excuse my asking a stupid sort of question. but who gives you your orders? who is commander-in-chief?" "conroy, of course. didn't you know? he organized the whole thing. wonderful head conroy has. i don't wonder he became a millionaire. he has his men under perfect control. they may not look starchy when you see them in the streets, but they'll do what they're told. i thought you and lord moyne would be glad to know, so i dropped in to tell you. i must be off now." he got as far as the door and then turned. "marion and lady moyne got away all right," he said. "i saw them off." then he left us. "that's good news as far as it goes," i said. "i'm not sure," said moyne. "i'm not at all sure. if there had been a riot to-night, the ordinary sort of riot--but i don't know. it's very hard to know what to hope for." if there had been an ordinary riot that night, and if it had been sternly and promptly suppressed, there would perhaps have been no battle next day. if, on the other hand, conroy and bob and the others could keep their men under control, if they could secure the peace of the city for the night, then the fighting next day was likely to be serious. as moyne said, it was very hard to know what to hope for. the waiter brought in our fish, and with it a message from sir samuel clithering. he wanted to see moyne. i had had enough of clithering for one day, so i made no objection when moyne flatly refused to see him. i suppose a man cannot be a successful manufacturer of hosiery in the english midlands without possessing the quality of persistence. clithering had it. he sent another message to say that his business was very important. moyne said that he and his business might go to hell together. i hope the waiter translated this message into parliamentary language. clithering is a nonconformist, and therefore a man of tender conscience. i should not like him to be shocked. the hotel cook was doing his best for us. he sent us up an _entrée_. with it came a note from clithering. "i'm sending a telegram to the prime minister describing the condition of affairs here. may i say that you have refused to preside at the meeting to-morrow?" moyne showed me the note. then he scribbled an answer on the back of it. "you may tell the prime minister that if a meeting is held i shall preside. the announcements made in the papers and posters stand good." "do you think that's wise?" i asked. "i think it's right," said moyne. it is a great pity that right things very seldom are wise. i have hardly ever met anything which could possibly be called prudent which was not also either mean or actually wrong. our next interruption was due to a newspaper reporter. he represented several papers, among others one in new york. he had the names of all of them printed on his card, but they did not impress moyne. our waiter, who was beginning to swell with a sense of his own importance, drove off that newspaper reporter. three others, all of them representing papers of high standing, sent in their cards in quick succession. moyne laid a sovereign on the table and told the waiter that he could have it as a tip on condition that no one got into the room while we were at dinner. the waiter got the sovereign in the end; but he did not deserve it. while we were drinking our coffee a young man overwhelmed our waiter and forced his way into the room. there were two doors in our room, which is one of what is called a suite. as the young man entered by one, moyne, leaving his coffee and his sovereign behind him, left by the other. he shut it with a slam and locked it. "lord moyne, i presume?" said the young man. "lord moyne," i said, "has just left." "may i ask," he said, "if i have the honour of addressing mr. mcneice?" i explained that i was not mcneice. then, in order to get him to go away, if possible, i added that i was not malcolmson, or cahoon, or conroy, or the dean. "if you'll pardon my curiosity," he said, "i should like to ask--" i saw that i should be obliged to tell him who i was in the end. i told him at once, adding that i was a person of no importance whatever, and that i had no views of any kind on what he would no doubt want to call "the situation." "may i ask you one question?" he said. "is lord moyne going to take the chair to-morrow?" "yes," i said, "he is. but if you're going to print what i say in any paper i won't speak another word." "as a matter of fact," he said, "the wires are blocked. there's a man in the post office writing as hard as he can and handing one sheet after another across the counter as quick as he can write them. nobody else can send anything." "clithering, i expect." "very likely. seems to fancy himself a bit, whoever he is. nobody else can get a message through." he seemed an agreeable young man. moyne had probably gone to bed and i did not want to spend a lonely evening. "have a glass of claret," i said. he sat down and poured himself off half a tumbler-full. then it struck him that he owed me some return for my hospitality. "my name," he said, "is bland. i was with roberts' column in the orange free state." "ah!" i said. "a war correspondent." "i did the greek war, too," he said. "a poor affair, very. looks to me as if you were going to do better here. but it's a curious situation." "very," i said, "and most unpleasant." "from my point of view," said bland, "it's most interesting. the usual thing is for one army to clear out of a town before the other comes in or else to surrender after a regular siege. but here--" "i'm afraid," i said, "that our proceedings are frightfully irregular." "none the worse for that," said bland kindly. "but they _are_ a bit peculiar. i've read up quite a lot of military history and i don't recollect a single case in which two hostile armies patrolled the streets of the same city without firing a shot at one another. by the way, have you been out?" "not since this afternoon," i said. "it would be quite worth your while to take a stroll round," said bland. "there's not the slightest risk and you may never have a chance of seeing anything like it again." i quite agreed with bland. the odds are, i suppose, thousands to one against my ever again seeing two hostile armies walking up and down opposite sides of the street. i got my hat and we went out together. we were almost immediately stopped by a body of lancers. their leader asked us who we were and where we were going. "press correspondents," said bland, "on our way to the telegraph office." this impressed the officer. he allowed us to go on without ordering his men to impale us. i was glad of this. i am not particularly afraid of being killed, but i would rather meet my end by a sword cut or a bullet than by a lance. i should feel like a wild pig if a lancer speared me. no one could die with dignity and self-respect if he felt like a wild pig while he was passing away. "in ordinary wars," said bland, "the best thing to say is that you are a doctor attached to the ambulance corps. but that's no use here. these fellows don't want doctors!" then we met a party of volunteers. they stopped us too, and challenged us very sternly. bland gave his answer. this time it did not prove wholly satisfactory. "protestant or papist?" said the officer in command. "neither," said bland, "i'm a high caste brahmin." fortunately i recognized the officer's voice. it was crossan who commanded this particular regiment. it never was safe, even in the quietest times, to be flippant with crossan. on a night like that and under the existing circumstances, bland might very well have been knocked on the head for his joke if i had not come to his rescue. "crossan," i said, "don't make a fuss. mr. bland and i are simply taking a walk round the streets." "if he's a papist," said crossan, "he'll have to go home to his bed. them's my orders. we don't want rioting in the streets to-night." i turned to bland. "what is your religion?" i asked. "haven't any," he said. "i haven't believed any doctrine taught by any church since i was six years old. will that satisfy you?" "i was afeard," said crossan, "that you might be a papist. you can go on." this shows, i think, that the charges of bigotry and intolerance brought against our northern protestants are quite unfounded. crossan had no wish to persecute even a professed atheist. we did not go very far though we were out for nearly two hours. the streets were filled with armed men and everybody we met challenged us. the police were the hardest to get rid of. they were no doubt soured by the treatment they received in belfast. accustomed to be regarded with awe by rural malefactors and denounced in flaming periods, of a kind highly gratifying to their self-importance, by political leaders, they could not understand a people who did not mention them in speeches but threatened their lives with paving stones. this had been their previous experience of belfast and they were naturally suspicious of any stray wayfarers whom they met. they were not impressed when bland said he was a newspaper reporter. they did not seem to care whether he believed or disbelieved the apostles' creed. one party of them actually arrested us and only a ready lie of bland's saved us from spending an uncomfortable night. he said, to my absolute amazement, that we were officials of an exalted kind, sent down by the local government board to hold a sworn inquiry into the condition of belfast. this struck me at the time as an outrageously silly story, but it was really a rather good one to tell. the irish police are accustomed to sworn inquiries as one of the last resorts of harassed governments. it seemed to the sergeant quite natural that somebody should be in belfast to hold one. we came across mcconkey with his machine gun at a street corner. he had got a new crew to pull it along. i suppose the first men were utterly exhausted. but mcconkey himself was quite fresh. enthusiasm for the weapon on which he had spent the savings of a lifetime kept him from fatigue. the experience was immensely interesting; but i began to get tired after a time. the necessity for explaining what we were--or rather what we were not--at the end of every fifty yards, began to make me nervous. bland's spirits kept up, but bland is a war correspondent and accustomed to being harried by military authorities. i am not. it was a comfort to me when we ran into bob power's regiment outside the ulster hall. "bob," i said, "i want to get back to my hotel. i wish you'd see me safe, chaperone me, convoy me, or whatever you call the thing i want you to do." bland tugged at my sleeve. "get him to take me to the post-office," he said. "i'll have another go at getting a telegram through." "bob," i said, "this is my friend mr. bland. he's a war correspondent and he wants to get to the post-office." my return to the hotel was simple enough. the police kept out of the way of bob's men. the other soldiers let him and his regiment pass without challenge. bland, faithful to his professional duties, poured out questions as we went along. "how's it managed?" he said. "why aren't you at each other's throats?" "so far as we're concerned," said bob, "there's nothing to fight about. we don't object to the soldiers or the police. we're loyal men." "oh, are you?" said bland. "quite." "unless our meeting's interrupted to-morrow," i said. "of course," said bob. "that explains your position all right," said bland. "but i don't quite understand the others. i should have thought--" "the soldiers," said bob, "have strict orders not to provoke a conflict. i met henderson just now and he told me so. you remember henderson, lord kilmore? the man i was talking to at the railway station. he'd only had two water biscuits to eat all day yesterday. when i met him just now he told me he'd had nothing since breakfast to-day but one bit of butterscotch. he said he wished we'd fight at once if we were going to fight and get it over." "but the police--" said bland, still trying to get information. "i should have thought the police--" "they tried to arrest us," i said. "in fact they did arrest us but they let us go again." "i dare say they'd like to arrest us," said bob, "but you see we've all got guns." "ah," said bland, "and the ordinary inhabitants of the city--?" "they're in bed," said bob, "and we've all agreed that they'd better stay there. nobody wants a riot." "thanks," said bland. "if i can get my wire through i'll let the world know the exact position of affairs." "if you are wiring," said bob, "you might like to mention that there was jolly nearly being a fight at the gasworks. the military people got it into their heads that we intended to turn off the gas and plunge the town into darkness so as to be able to murder people without being caught. they took possession of the works and put a party of royal engineers in charge. fairly silly idea! but some fool on our side--a fellow who's been dragging a quick-firing gun about the streets all day--" "mcconkey," i said. "i know him." "i didn't hear his name," said bob, "but he got it into his head that the royal engineers were going to turn off the gas so that the soldiers could make short work of us. he wanted to wipe out those engineers with his gun. i don't suppose he'd have hit them, but he'd certainly have tried if some one hadn't run and fetched conroy. he settled the matter at once." "how?" said bland. "this story will be a scoop for me. i don't expect any one else knows it." "he handed the gasworks over to the police," said bob. "but did that satisfy any one?" i asked. "i should have thought that both the original parties would have fallen upon the police." "not at all," said bob. "the police are so much the weakest party in the town that it's plainly to their interest to keep the gas burning. even the man with the machine gun saw that." i found moyne waiting for me when i got back to the hotel. he was very depressed and took no more than a mere sip of the whisky and soda which i ordered for him. i made an effort to cheer him a little before i went to bed. "i don't think," i said, "that there'll be a battle to-morrow." "i am sure there will. what's to stop it?" "the fact is," i said, "that everybody will be too exhausted to fight. mcconkey, for instance, is still hauling that field gun of his about the streets. he simply won't have strength enough left to-morrow to shoot it off. all the soldiers and all the volunteers are marching up and down. they mean to keep it up all night. i should say that you and i and three or four other sensible people who have gone to bed will have the town entirely to ourselves to-morrow." moyne smiled feebly. "i wish it was all well over," he said. "i hope the prime minister won't be disagreeable to--. it would have been better, much better, if she'd gone to castle affey." "you needn't be a bit afraid of that," i said. this time i spoke with real assurance. no man living could be disagreeable to lady moyne, if she smiled at him. when she left belfast she was so much in earnest and so anxious, that she would certainly smile her very best at the prime minister. "i don't know," said moyne. "he may hold her responsible to some extent. and she is, you know. that's the worst of it, she is. we all are." "not at all," i said. "oh, but we are," said moyne. "i feel that. i wish to goodness we'd never--" "what i mean is that the prime minister won't hold her responsible. after all, moyne, he's a politician himself. he'll understand." "but we said--we kept on saying--babberly and all of us--" moyne was becoming morbid. "don't be a fool," i said. "of course we said things. everybody does. but we never intended to do them. any one accustomed to politics will understand that. i expect the prime minister will be particularly civil to lady moyne. he'll see the hole she's in." chapter xxi i went down to the club next morning at about half-past ten o'clock, hoping to see conroy. he, so i thought, might be able to tell me what was likely to happen during the day. moyne could tell me nothing. i left him in the hotel, desperately determined to take the chair at any meeting that might be held; but very doubtful about how he was to do it. the streets were much less obviously martial than they had been the night before. there were no soldiers to be seen. there were only a very few volunteers, and they did not seem to be doing anything particular. the police--there were not even many of them--looked quite peaceable, as if they had no more terrific duties to perform than the regulation of traffic and the arrest of errant drunkards. i began to think that i had accidentally told moyne the truth the night before. all our warriors seemed to be in bed, exhausted by their marching and counter-marching. i did not even see mcconkey with his machine gun. this disappointed me. i thought mcconkey was a man of more grit. one night's work ought not to have tired him out. clithering was in the club. he, at all events, was still active. very likely he was caught the night before by some patrolling party and forced to go to bed. unless he happened to be carrying some sort of certificate of his religious faith in his pocket, crossan would almost certainly have put him to bed. the moment he saw me he came fussing up to me. "i'm very glad to be able to tell you," he said, "that the troops are to be kept in barracks to-day unless they are urgently required. i'm sure you'll agree with me that's a good plan." "it depends," i said, "on the point of view you take. it won't be at all a good plan for the police if there's any fighting." "i telegraphed to the prime minister last night," said clithering; "i sent a long, detailed message--" "i heard about that," i said, "from one of the war correspondents, a man called bland. you rather blocked the wires, and he couldn't get his messages through." "it was of the utmost possible importance," said clithering, "that the prime minister should thoroughly understand the situation. our original idea was that the appearance of large bodies of troops in the streets would overawe--" "they weren't overawing any one," i said. "so i saw. so i saw yesterday afternoon. i telegraphed at once. i gave it as my opinion that the troops, so far from overawing, were exasperating the populace. i suggested--i'm sure you'll agree with me that the suggestion was wise--in fact i urged very strongly that the troops should be kept out of sight to-day--under arms and ready for emergencies--but out of sight. i am in great hopes that the people will settle down quietly. now, what do you think, lord kilmore?" "they'll be quite quiet," i said, "if you let them hold their meeting." "oh, but that's impossible," said clithering. "i quite agree with the prime minister there. any sign of weakness on the part of the government at the present crisis would be fatal, absolutely fatal. the belfast people must understand that they cannot be allowed to defy the law." "then you'd better trot out your soldiers again, all you've got." clithering did not seem at all pleased with this suggestion. "we shall rely upon the police," he said, "to put a stop to the meeting. i do not anticipate that there will be any organized--" "on the whole," i said, "i'm very glad i'm not a policeman." "surely," said clithering, "the responsible leaders of the unionist party will understand the criminal folly of--you don't anticipate--" "i'm nothing of a prophet," i said; "but if you ask my opinion i'd say that the police will be wiped out in about ten minutes. they're a very fine body of men; but there aren't nearly enough of them. if you really want to stop the meeting you'll have to get out the soldiers, and even with them--" "but we want to avoid bloodshed," said clithering. "we cannot have the citizens of belfast shot down by the military. think of the consequences, the political consequences. a tory government might--but we! besides, the horrible moral guilt." "it's no affair of mine," i said; "but i should have thought--i dare say i am wrong. there may be no moral guilt about killing policemen." "but they won't be killed," said clithering. "our one aim is to avoid bloodshed." "you're trying the police rather high," i said. "they'll do what you tell them, of course. but i don't think it's quite fair to ask them to face ten times their own number of men all armed with magazine rifles when they have nothing but those ridiculous little carbines." "oh, but the police are not to have firearms," said clithering. "strict orders have been given--batons ought to be quite sufficient. we must avoid all risk of bloodshed." "good gracious!" i said. "do you expect a handful of police with small, round sticks in their hands--oh! go away, clithering. you mean well, i dare say, but you're absurd." it is very seldom that i lose my temper in this sudden way. i was sorry a moment afterwards that i had given way to my feelings. poor clithering looked deeply hurt. he turned from me with an expression of pained astonishment and sat down by himself in a corner. i pitied him so much that i made an effort to console him. "i dare say it will be all right," i said. "the police will probably have sense enough to go away before they're shot. then the meeting will be held quite peaceably. i don't know what the political consequences of that may be, but you'll get off the moral guilt, and there'll be no bloodshed." this ought to have cheered and consoled clithering; but it did not. it made him more nervous than ever. "i must go at once," he said, "and see the general in command. everything must be--" he left the room hurriedly without finishing his sentence. this annoyed me. i wanted to know what everything must be. the reading-room of the club is on the first floor, and the window commands an excellent view of donegal place, one of the principal thoroughfares of belfast. the club stands right across the eastern end of the street, and the traffic is diverted to right and left along royal avenue and high street. at the far, the western end, of donegal place, stands the new city hall, with the statute of queen victoria in front of it. there again the traffic is split at right angles. some of the best shops in the town lie on either side of this street. a continuous stream of trams passes up and down it, to and from the junction, which is directly under the club windows, and is the centre of the whole belfast tramway system. it is always pleasant to stand at the reading-room window and watch the very busy and strenuous traffic of this street. as a view point on that particular morning the window was as good as possible. donegal place is the chief and most obvious way from the northern and eastern parts of the city to the place where the meeting was to be held. between eleven o'clock and twelve the volunteers began to appear in considerable numbers. i saw at once that i had been wrong in supposing that they meant to spend the day in bed. one company after another came up royal avenue or swung round the corner from high street, and marched before my eyes along donegal place towards the scene of the meeting. small bodies of police appeared here and there, heading in the same direction. now and then a few mounted police trotted by, making nearly as much jangle as if they had been regular soldiers. the hour fixed for the meeting was one o'clock, but at noon the number of men in the street was so great that ordinary traffic was stopped. a long line of trams, unable to force their way along, blocked the centre of the thoroughfare. the drivers and conductors left them and went away. crowds of women and children collected on the roofs of these trams and cheered the men as they marched along. at half-past twelve moyne drove along in a carriage. the dean was beside him, and cahoon had a seat with his back to the horses. the progress of the carriage was necessarily very slow. i could not see moyne's face, but he sat in a hunched-up attitude suggestive of great misery. the dean sat bolt upright, and kept taking off his hat to the crowd when cheers broke out. cahoon, whose face i could see, seemed cheerful and confident. at the back of the carriage, perched on a kind of bar and holding on tightly to the springs, was bland. barefooted urchins often ride in this way, and appear to enjoy themselves until the coachman lashes backwards at them with his whip. i never saw a grown man do it before, and i should have supposed that it would be most uncomfortable. bland, however, seemed quite cheerful, and i admired the instinct which led him to attach himself to moyne's carriage. he made sure of being present at the outbreak of hostilities, since the meeting could neither be held nor stopped till moyne arrived; and he had hit upon far the easiest way of getting through the crowd which thronged donegal place. at a quarter to one bob power and his company arrived. instead of marching to the scene of the meeting bob halted and drew his men across the end of the street right underneath the club windows. crossan, with another company of volunteers, joined him. bob and crossan consulted together, and bob gave an order which i could not hear. two of his men laid down their rifles and ran along the street, one taking each side of the line of trams. they shouted to the people on the roofs of the trams as they passed them. the orders, if they were orders, were obeyed. there was a hurried stampede of women and children. they climbed down from the trams and ran along the street towards my end of it. bob's men opened their ranks and let them go through. one after another the shops in the streets were closed. roller blinds and shutters covered the windows. a telegraph boy on a red bicycle rode through bob's lines into the empty street. he stopped and dismounted, evidently puzzled by the deserted appearance of the street. two of the volunteers seized him and took the envelope from his wallet. they sent him back to the post-office. the poor boy was so frightened that he left his bicycle behind him. bob gave an order and one of his men took the bicycle and rode off in the direction of the meeting. a few minutes later one of the club waiters brought the telegram to me. it was from lady moyne. "saw the prime minister this morning. he is taking all possible measures to avoid bloodshed. has telegraphed instructions to the military authorities. tell moyne. am sending duplicate message to him. want to make sure of reaching him." i glanced at my watch. it was five minutes past one; evidently too late to tell moyne anything. whatever was happening at the scene of the meeting had begun to happen at one o'clock. i waited. ten minutes later a motor car, driven at a furious pace, dashed round the corner at the far end of the street, and sped towards us. a single passenger sat beside the driver. i recognized him at once. it was clithering. halfway down the street he suddenly caught sight of bob's volunteers. he clutched the driver by the arm. the car stopped abruptly, backed, turned round and sped back again. i lost sight of it as it swept round the corner. then followed another period of waiting in tense silence. the men beneath me--there must have been about five hundred of them--did not speak. they scarcely moved. bob and crossan stood in front of them, rigid, silent. bob's scout, the man who had mounted the telegraph boy's red bicycle, appeared in front of the town hall and came tearing along the street. he sprang to the ground in front of bob and crossan and spoke to them eagerly. they turned almost at once and gave an order. their men lay down. i heard the rattle of their rifles on the pavement. i could see their hands fiddling with the sights, slipping along the barrels and stocks, opening and snapping shut the magazines. the men were nervous, but, except for the movements of their hands, they showed no signs of great excitement. one man, near the end of the line, deliberately unbuttoned his collar and threw it away. another took off his coat, folded it up carefully, and laid it on the ground behind him. it struck me that it was his vest coat, a sunday garment which he was unwilling to soil. bob walked slowly along the line, speaking in low tones to the men. crossan stood rigidly still a few paces in front of the line, watching the far end of the street. another cyclist appeared and rode towards us. one of the men fired his rifle. crossan turned round, walked back to the man, and struck him on the head. then he wrenched the rifle from his hands, threw it into the street, and kicked the man savagely. the man made no resistance. he got up and slowly left the ranks, walking away shamefacedly with hanging head. i do not think that crossan had spoken to him, nor did he speak to any one else. his action explained itself. he turned his back on the men and once again stared down the empty street. discipline was evidently to be strictly preserved in the ranks of the volunteers. there was to be no shooting until the order was given. when crossan's proceedings ceased to be interesting i looked round to see what had become of the cyclist. i caught sight of him in the custody of two volunteers. he was shoved through the door of the club. i could only see the top of his head, and so failed to recognize him until he entered the room and came over to me. "bland," i said. "how did you get here?" "i spotted this window," said bland, "as i rode along, and i asked them to put me in here. is it a club?" "yes," i said. "what happened at the meeting?" "get me a whisky and soda," said bland, "if you're a member." i rang the bell. "what happened?" i said. "did they hold the meeting?" "they were holding it," said bland, "when i left. but it wasn't much of a meeting." i ordered a whisky and soda from a terrified waiter. "what about the police?" i asked. "they ran over the police," said bland. "i don't think they killed many. there wasn't any shooting. the whole thing was done with a rush. damned well done. you couldn't call it a charge. the police were drawn up in the middle of an open space where four or five roads met. the men kind of flowed over them. when the place was clear again, there weren't any police. that's all. ah! here's the whisky!" he was evidently thirsty for he drank the whole tumbler-full at a draught. "what about moyne?" i said. "what did he do?" "oh! he stood up on the back seat of a carriage and began to make a speech. but that didn't matter." "what did he say?" "i don't know. i didn't stay to listen. i expect he urged them not to kill any one. but it does not matter what he said. the men with rifles, the volunteers, began to march off at once, in good order, some in one direction, some in another. in five minutes there wasn't anybody left to listen to lord moyne except a few corner boys. i can tell you this, lord kilmore, there's a man with a head on his shoulders behind this insurrection. he has those men of his holding all the most important parts of the town. i got hold of a bicycle--" "how?" i said. "you're very wonderful, bland. how did you get a bicycle in the middle of a battlefield?" "stole it," said bland. "it belonged to a policeman, but he is probably dead, so he won't mind. i rode after two or three different parties of volunteers just to see where they were going. when i got back to the place of the meeting there was a body of cavalry trotting up. i had a sort of feeling that the battle would come this way. it ought to. this is the most important place in the town. all lines of communication meet here. your side has brains enough to see that. the question is, will the soldiers attack them here? i chanced it. if there's any good fighting to-day it ought to be here." i am not sure whether the general in command of the troops had the brains to recognize that the post which bob power held was the key to the whole situation. he did a good deal of desultory street fighting in other places, and though he made a strong show of attacking bob power in the end i think he was drawn into it by accident. bland lit a cigarette, and he and i stood at the window watching. a crowd of men appeared at the far end of the street, running in wild disorder. they ran quite silently with bent heads and outstretched hands. behind them, immediately behind them, came a squadron of dragoons galloping. as the fugitives turned into the street the soldiers overtook them and struck right and left with their swords. they were using the flats, not the edges of the blades. the fugitives staggered under the blows. some of them stumbled and fell; but i do not think that any one was seriously hurt. "lord moyne's audience," said bland. "the corner boys. there's not an armed man among them." i noticed that when he pointed it out to me. the flying men, wild with terror, rushed into the empty trams. for the moment they were safe enough. the dragoons could not get at them without dismounting. they pulled up their horses. bob power gave an order. rifles cracked all along his line. the men must have emptied their magazines before they stopped firing. the officer of the dragoons gave an order. his squadron wheeled and galloped back the way they came. five horses lay plunging on the ground. four men dragged themselves clear of their saddles and ran after their comrades. the other lay where he fell. six men detached themselves from bob's lines and ran forward. in a few minutes they were dragging the terrified fugitives from the trams and driving them along the street. they came towards us, wailing aloud in high shrill voices, like women. behind them came bob's volunteers, carrying the wounded dragoon, and supporting a couple of the fugitives who had been knocked down by the soldiers. the howling men were pushed through the ranks to the rear. the volunteers closed up again in silence. not even when the dragoons turned and galloped away did they break their silence. i have heard of soldiers going into battle with shouts and greeting moments of success with cheers. these men fired on their enemies without a shout and saw them fly without a cheer. five minutes later a company of infantry marched into the street, extended into open order, and fired. bob's men fired. more infantry came. they deployed along the front of the city hall. the rifle fire from both ends of the street was rapid and continuous. it was the first time in my life that i had ever been in danger of being killed by a bullet. i confess that for a few minutes i was so nervous that i was unable to give any attention to the fighting going on in front of me. so many rifles were going off at the far end of the street that it seemed certain that not only bland and i but every one of bob's men must necessarily die at once. to my very great surprise i was not hit. my nervousness began to disappear. i peered out of the window and noticed that none of bob's men were either killed or wounded. "i suppose," i said to bland, "that this is a regular battle. you've had some experience so you ought to know." "oh yes," said bland, "it's a battle right enough--of sorts." a bullet snicked through the window glass above my head and buried itself in the wall at the far end of the room. i looked at the volunteers again. they did not seem to be suffering. i took a glance at the soldiers at the far end of the street. the firing did not seem even to annoy them. "there seems to me," i said, "to be very little damage done. don't they usually kill each other in battles?" "the shooting's damned bad," said bland, "damned bad on both sides. i never saw worse. i wonder if they mean to shoot straight." bob's men, i think, were doing their best; but they were certainly making very bad practice. it did not seem to me that during the first twenty minutes they hit a single living thing except the four dragoon horses. the walls of the houses on both sides of the street were filled with bullet marks. a curious kind of shallow furrow appeared about halfway down the street. at first it seemed a mere line drawn on the ground. then it deepened into a little trench with a ridge of dust beyond it. "there must be a ton or two of good bullets buried there," said bland. "they haven't sighted for the distance." "i don't blame the volunteers," i said, "but the soldiers really ought to shoot better. a lot of money is spent on that army every year, and if they can't hit a single enemy at that distance--" "i rather think," said bland, "that the soldiers are firing up into the air on purpose. that bullet which came through our window is the only one which hit anything. it's shocking waste of ammunition." the door of the reading-room opened behind me. i turned and saw sir samuel clithering. he staggered into the room and looked deadly white. for a moment i thought he must be blind. he plunged straight into a table which stood in the middle of the room in front of him. "my god! my god!" he cried. then he was violently sick. he must have got into the club somehow from the back. i went over to him, intending to get him out of the room before he was sick again. he clutched my arm and held me tight. "stop it," he said. "stop it. promise them anything, anything at all; only get them to stop." i did not quite know what clithering wanted me to do. it seemed absurd to go down to bob power and offer, on behalf of the government, to introduce amendments into the home rule bill. yet something of the sort must have been in clithering's mind when he urged me to promise anything. he probably had some vague idea of consulting the wishes of the electorate. that is the sort of thing clithering would think of doing in an emergency. "it's horrible, too horrible," he said. "oh god! bloodshed! bloodshed!" "cheer up," i said, "i don't think a single man on either side has been hit yet." "i say," said bland from the window, "did the soldiers get orders to fire over the people's heads?" "yes," said clithering. "strict orders. the cabinet was unanimous. the prime minister telegraphed this morning." "rather rough on the peaceable inhabitants of the town," said bland, "the men who have kept out of the battle. i suppose you forgot that bullets come down again somewhere." "i was in one of the back streets," wailed clithering, "far away--" "exactly," said bland, "it's just in back streets that those things happen." "it was a woman," said clithering, "a girl with a baby in her arms. i did not know what had happened. i ran over to her. she and the baby--both of them. i shall never forget it. oh!" then he was sick again. clithering is a highly civilized man. i suppose one must be highly civilized if one is to keep pace with the changing fashions in stockings. it was out of what is called "fancy hosiery" that clithering made most of his money. i felt very sorry for him, but his performances were making me feel sick too. i joined bland again at the window. "they've got a machine gun," said bland. "things will get brisker now." i looked out anxiously and saw with a sense of relief that it was bob's side which had got the new gun. mcconkey and his assistants had turned up from somewhere and were dragging their weapon into position under the window of a large jeweller's shop on the left flank of bob's firing line. this was bad enough. in street fighting at close quarters a gun of this kind is very murderous and ought to do a terrible amount of destruction. but things would have been much worse if the soldiers had had it. they, i suppose, would have known how to use it. i doubted mcconkey's skill in spite of his practice on the slob lands below the shore road. "the soldiers will have to shoot in earnest now," said bland. "if that fellow can handle his gun he'll simply mow them down." it looked at first, i am bound to say, as if mcconkey had really mastered his new trade. he got his weapon into position and adjusted a belt of cartridges, working as coolly as if he were arranging the machinery of the green loaney scutching mill. he seemed to find a horrible satisfaction in what he was doing. twice i saw him pat the muzzle of the thing as if to give it encouragement. i dare say he talked to it. "he's damned cool," said bland. "i've seen fellows who'd been fighting for months not half so--" then mcconkey started his infernal machine. the effect was most surprising. two tramcars, which were standing close to the far end of the street, simply disappeared. there was a kind of eruption of splintered wood, shattered glass and small fragments of metal. when that subsided there was no sign of there ever having been tramcars in that particular spot. mcconkey evidently noticed that he had not aimed his pet quite straight. he stopped it at once. an officer--i think it was bob's friend henderson--sprang to his feet at the far end of the street and ran along the line of soldiers shouting an order. "they'll begin in earnest now," said bland. "why doesn't he rattle them again with the gun?" mcconkey had the best will in the world, but something had gone wrong with his gun; it was a complicated machine, and he had evidently jammed some part of it. i saw him working frenziedly with a large iron spanner in his hand; but nothing he could do produced the least effect. it would not go off. in the meantime henderson's soldiers stood up and stopped firing. the volunteers stopped firing too. the soldiers formed in a line. there was silence in the street for a moment, dead silence. i could hear mcconkey's spanner ringing against the iron of his gun. then bob power shouted. "they're going to charge us. up, boys, and come on! we'll meet them halfway." "they're all gone mad together," said bland. "you can't charge down magazine rifles. it's impossible." "it seems to me," i said, "that if this battle is ever to be finished at all they'll have to get at each other with their fists. so far weapons have been a total failure." clithering crawled across the room while we were speaking and clutched me by the legs. i do not think it was fear of the bullets which made him crawl. he had been so very sick that he was too weak to walk. "what's happening?" he said. "for god's sake tell me. are there many killed?" "no one yet on this side," i said. "there may be a few soldiers hit, but i don't suppose you mind about them. there's just going to be a charge. get up and you'll be able to see it." clithering caught the edge of the window-sash and dragged himself to his feet. he was just in time to see bob's men rush along the street. they did not charge in any sort of order. they simply spread out and ran as fast as they could, as fast as i ever saw men run. some of them took their rifles with them. others, evidently agreeing with me that they would do more destruction with their fists, left their rifles behind. they covered fifty or sixty yards, and were still going fast when they discovered that the soldiers were not waiting for them. henderson walked alongside the leading men of the column with his ridiculously long sword in his hand. two mounted officers brought up the rear. two men, with their rifles sloped over their shoulders, marched briskly across the end of the street. in the middle of the column were eight stretchers carried along. bob's men, in spite of their bad shooting, had wounded that number of their enemies. i found out afterwards that they had killed three others outright. the discipline of the british army must be remarkably good. in spite of this heavy loss the soldiers obeyed orders, and steadily refrained from trying to kill bob's men. their final disappearance was a crowning proof of their obedience. i watched this body of infantry march out of sight into the next street. they were not running away. they were not even retreating. they gave me the impression of having stopped the battle in a way that was quite customary because it was time for them to do something else--get some dinner perhaps. this performance produced, as might be expected, a most disconcerting effect upon bob's warriors. they stopped running and stared at their departing foes. then they turned round and gaped at each other. then they applied to bob power for information. they wanted to know, apparently, whether they had gained a great and glorious victory, or were to regard the departure of the enemy as some subtle kind of strategy. bob seemed as much puzzled as every one else. even bland, in spite of his experience of battles in two great wars, was taken aback. "well, i'm damned," he said. "thank god, thank god!" said clithering. then he crumpled up and fainted. he meant, i think, to express the relief he felt at the cessation of hostilities. he had not heard, or if he heard, had not heeded, bland's remark. clithering is not the type of man to thank god for any one's damnation, and he had no special dislike of bland. "i'm damned," said bland again. "i suppose," i said, "that it's rather unusual in battles to do that sort of thing--march off, i mean--without giving some sort of notice to the other side. it strikes me as rather bad form. there ought to be a rule against it." bob's men returned, sheepishly and dejectedly, to their original posts. crossan was arguing with mcconkey about the condition of the machine gun. the young man who had taken off his coat before the battle picked it up from the ground, brushed it carefully, and put it on. bob power walked along the street with a note-book in his hands. he appeared to be writing down the names of the shop-keepers whose windows were broken. he is a young man of active and energetic disposition. i suppose he felt that he must do something. bland stared through the window for some time. he hoped, i dare say, that the soldiers would come back, with reinforcements, perhaps with artillery. at last he gave up this idea. "let's have a drink," he said. "we want one." he turned abruptly and stumbled over clithering, who had fallen just beside him. i got hold of a waiter, the only one left in the club, and made him bring us a whisky and soda. bland squirted the syphon into clithering's face, and i poured small quantities of whisky into his mouth. clithering is a rigid teetotaller, and has for years been supporting every bill for the suppression of public houses which has been brought before parliament. the whisky which he swallowed revived him in the most amazing way. "have they gone?" he asked. "if you mean the soldiers," said bland, "they have. i can't imagine why, but they have." "i telegraphed to the prime minister," said clithering. "it was hours and hours ago. or was it yesterday? it was just before i saw the woman shot. i told him that--that the soldiers--they were only meant to overawe the people--not to kill them--i said the soldiers must be withdrawn to barracks--i said they must not be allowed--" i do not know whether it was exhaustion after nervous strain or the whisky which affected clithering. whisky--and he had swallowed nearly a glassful--does produce striking effects upon teetotallers; so it may have been the whisky. clithering turned slowly over on his side and went sound asleep. bland and i carried him upstairs to a bedroom on the top storey of the club. there were, bland said, three bullets buried in the mattress, so it was fortunate that we had not carried clithering up earlier in the day. "let's get the waiter," said bland, "if he hasn't gone away, and tell him to undress this fool!" "it's hardly necessary to undress him, is it?" "better to," said bland, "and take away his clothes. then he'll have to stay there, and won't be able to send any more telegrams." "it's rather a good thing he sent that last one," i said. "if he hadn't, somebody would certainly have been killed in the charge." "i suppose that telegram accounts for it," said bland. "i mean for the behaviour of the soldiers. orders sent straight from downing street. i say, what a frightful temper the commanding officer must be in this minute! i wonder if i could get an interview with him." he looked questioningly at me. i fancy he hoped that i would give him a letter of introduction to the general in command of the district. "his language," said bland, "would be a tremendous scoop for me. could you--?" "no," i said, "i couldn't. i don't know him, and even if i did--" "oh, well," said bland, "it can't be helped. and, any way, i dare say i shouldn't have been able to get my telegram through. the wires are sure to be blocked." chapter xxii i looked at my watch and found that it was three o'clock. the battle had lasted more than two hours. "i had no idea," i said to bland, "that fighting was such interesting work. the time has flown." "i'm uncommonly hungry," said bland. "let's try and find something to eat." when he mentioned the subject of eating i found that i too was very hungry. i felt, however, that it was scarcely right, certainly it was not suitable to sit down to luncheon in a club while a revolution was in full swing under the windows. people ought to be serious immediately after battles. "oughtn't we to be doing something?" i asked. "doing what?" "well, i don't know. seeing after the wounded, perhaps." attending to wounded men is properly speaking work for women; but both lady moyne and marion were in london. "there are sure to be a few somewhere," i said. "they've been fighting all over the town, and i don't suppose the soldiers were as careful everywhere else as they were here." "are you a surgeon as well as a lord?" asked bland. "oh no. i don't know anything about surgery. my idea--" "then i expect the wounded, if there are any, would rather you left them alone. besides, a town like this must have hundreds of doctors in it. they'll all be out after the wounded by this time as keen as vultures. it isn't every day that an ordinary practitioner gets the chance of gouging out bullets. they wouldn't let you interfere with their sport even if you paid them. there won't, as a matter of fact, be nearly enough wounded to go round the profession. they'd hate to have an amateur chipping in. let's forage about a bit and get some food." it was not very easy to find food in the club, and the only surviving waiter was still undressing clithering. but bland is a good forager. he found two dressed crabs somewhere, and then came upon a game pie. i let him have the dressed crabs all to himself. he is a much younger man than i am and is a war correspondent. he ought to be able to digest anything. i fully intended to eat three helpings of game pie, for i was very hungry; but before i had finished the first of them i was interrupted. crossan stalked into the room. he was the last man i wanted to see. his appearance and manner are, at the best of times, tragic. clithering had been with me, off and on, most of the day, so i had got rather tired of tragedy. "i think it right to inform your lordship," said crossan, "that mr. godfrey d'aubigny has just been arrested in the streets." "good!" i said. "i hope that whoever has him won't let him go." "he's to be tried by court martial," said crossan, "on suspicion of being a spy." godfrey actually haunts me. no sooner have i achieved a moment's peace and quietness--with the greatest difficulty in the middle of a rebellion--than godfrey breaks in on me. how he came to be in belfast i could only dimly guess. it seemed likely that, having heard that a battle was going on, he came to the scene of it in the hope of pillage. "i suppose," i said, "they won't actually hang him?" "it was him, as your lordship is aware," said crossan, "that gave the first information to the government." crossan, in spite of the fact that he was a victorious general, preserved his peculiar kind of respect for my title. he did not, indeed, take off his hat when he entered the room, but that was only because soldiers, while on duty, never take off their hats. "don't be absurd, crossan," i said. "you know perfectly well that he hasn't intelligence enough to give anything but wrong information to any government. what he told the chancellor of the exchequer when he wrote to him was that you were smuggling." "if your lordship doesn't care to interfere--," said crossan. "can i help in any way?" said bland. he had been eating steadily and had finished the two crabs. i had not eaten more than three or four mouthfuls of game pie. i felt i might accept his offer. "if you've any experience of courts martial," i said, "i haven't--and if you really don't mind trotting off--" "not a bit," said bland. "in fact a court martial would be rather a scoop for me. i'm sure the public would want to know how it's run." "i shall feel greatly obliged to you," i said. "the fact is that a nephew of mine is going to be hanged as a spy. you said you were going to hang him, didn't you, crossan?" "i think it likely, my lord," said crossan. "of course," i said, "he richly deserves it; and so far as my own personal feelings go i should be very glad if he were hanged. but, of course, he's my nephew and people might think i'd been unkind to him if i made no effort to save him. one must consider public opinion more or less. so if you could arrange to rescue him--" while i was speaking clithering shambled into the room. he was wearing a suit of pyjamas not nearly big enough for him. the waiter who put him to bed was quite a small man. the pyjamas must have been his. he asked us to find his clothes for him, and said that he wanted to go to the post-office. "i must send a telegram to the prime minister," he said. "i must send it at once." crossan eyed him very suspiciously. "it strikes me," said bland, "that if you're caught sending telegrams to the prime minister you'll be hanged too." "they're just going to hang a nephew of mine," i explained, "for writing a letter to the chancellor of the exchequer. you can see for yourself that a telegram to the prime minister is much worse. i really think you'd better stay where you are." but clithering was, unfortunately, in a mood of hysterical heroism. he said that he did not value his life, that lives were only given to men in order that they might lay them down, and that the noblest way of laying down a life was in the service of humanity. i could see that crossan was getting more and more suspicious every minute. "it is in order to save the lives of others," he said, "that i want to send my telegram to the prime minister." crossan actually scowled at clithering. i expected that he would arrest him at once. there might have been, for all i knew, a committee of public safety sitting in the town hall. i could imagine crossan hauling the unfortunate clithering before it on a charge of communicating with the prime minister. i could imagine clithering, heroic to the last, waving his incriminating telegram in the faces of his judges. bland saved the situation. "come along, colonel," he said. "show me where that court martial of yours is sitting. lord kilmore will restrain this lunatic till we get back." crossan may have been pleased at being addressed as colonel. or he may have trusted that i would prevent any telegram being sent to the prime minister. at all events, he stopped scowling at clithering and went off with bland. i offered clithering some of the game pie, but he refused to touch it. he sat down at a corner of the table and asked me to lend him a pencil and some paper. i did so, and he composed several long telegrams. the writing evidently soothed him. when he had finished he asked me quite calmly whether i thought he would really be hanged if he went to the post-office. i was not at all sure that he would not. clithering sighed when he heard my opinion. then he sat silent for a long time, evidently trying to make up his mind to the hanging. "if i could get the telegram through first," he said at last, "i shouldn't so much mind--" "but you wouldn't," i said; "and what is the good of throwing away your life without accomplishing anything?" "it's terrible," said clithering, "terrible." it was terrible, of course; but i was beginning to get tired of clithering. besides, he looked very ridiculous in pyjamas which only reached halfway down his legs and arms. "don't you think," i said, "that it would be better for you to go back to bed? you'll be safe there, and it won't really matter much whether your telegram goes to the prime minister or not. a little sleep will do you all the good in the world." "we have murdered sleep," said clithering. i never realized the full immensity of clithering's fatuousness until he uttered that mangled quotation from macbeth in the tone of an old-fashioned tragedian. i believe the man actually revelled in harrowing emotion. it would not have surprised me to hear him assure me that the "multitudinous seas" would not wash out the blood-stains from his hands. he might very well have asked for "some sweet oblivious antidote." if he had known the passages i am sure he would have quoted them. "do go to bed," i said. then bland came in leading godfrey with him. "i rescued him," said bland, "without very much difficulty." "i call it frightful cheek," said godfrey, "fellows like that who ought to be touching their hats to me and saying 'sir' when they speak to me--fancy them daring--" this view of the matter was very characteristic of godfrey. i really believe that he would dislike being hanged much less if the executioner were one of the small class of men whom he recognizes as his social equals. "they gave him quite a fair trial," said bland, "and had just condemned him when--" "that fellow crossan in particular," said godfrey. "the colonel ran round to tell you," said bland. "i rather fancy they wanted to get off carrying out the sentence if they could." "a lot of fellows," said godfrey sulkily, "who ought to be wheeling barrows! but it's very largely your fault, excellency. you always encouraged that class. if you'd kept them in their proper places--" "what on earth brought you to belfast?" i said. "why didn't you stay at home? nobody wants you here. why did you come?" godfrey looked uneasily at bland. he evidently did not want to make his reason for coming to belfast public property. godfrey is usually quite shameless. i could only imagine that he had done something of a peculiarly repulsive kind. "well," i said, "why did you come?" he looked at bland again, and then nodded sideways at me. "i suppose," i said, "that you thought there might be some assessment made by the government of the amount of damage done in the town, and that if you started valuing things at once on your own hook, you might possibly get a job out of it." "but is there?" said godfrey eagerly; "for if there is--" "so far as i know there isn't," i said. "anyhow it wasn't that which brought me to belfast. the fact is, excellency, i couldn't very well stay at home. you remember,"--here his voice sunk to a whisper--"what i told you about the pringles." "your bank account?" "no. not that. the girl, i mean. tottie pringle." "oh yes, i remember." "well, old pringle began to get offensive. he seemed to think that i ought to--you know." "marry her? i expect you ought." "excellency?" said godfrey in genuine horror and amazement. "by the way," said bland, "i forgot to mention that i promised the court martial to get your nephew out of belfast before to-morrow morning. i hope you don't mind. they wouldn't let him go on any other condition." "quite right," i said. "godfrey shall start to-night." "i don't see why i should," said godfrey. "i don't think it's at all nice of you, excellency, to--" "and while we're at it," i said, "we may as well ship off clithering. godfrey let me introduce you to--" i looked round and discovered that clithering was not in the room. "i hope to goodness," i said, "that he's not gone out to get himself hanged. he rather wanted to a few minutes ago." "it's all right," said bland. "i saw him going upstairs. i expect he's looking for his clothes." "godfrey," i said. "i'm going to offer you a great chance. sir samuel clithering is in every way a very big man. in the first place he's very rich. in the next place he's on intimate terms with the prime minister. in fact he's been sending him telegrams every hour or so for the last two days. you go upstairs and help him to find his clothes. then take him over to london. the fleetwood steamer is still running. if you can get him out of belfast and lay him down safe and sound on his own doorstep the government will be so grateful that they'll very likely make you a stipendiary magistrate." "but supposing he doesn't want to go?" "you'll have to make him," i said. "how?" said godfrey. "how can i?" "don't be a fool, godfrey," i said. "nag at him. you've got more than two hours before you, and nagging is a thing you're really good at." bland took godfrey by the arm and led him up to clithering's bedroom. he locked them in together, and did not open the door again until half an hour before the steamer started. then he took up clithering's clothes to him. godfrey had evidently spent the time as i advised. clithering deserved it, of course; but he certainly looked as if he had been through a bad time when bland let him out. there was a meeting of the ulster defence committee at seven o'clock. it was summoned, so the notice which i received informed me, in order to make arrangements for preserving the peace of the town. this, i thought, was very proper work for the committee. the cabinet was probably making other arrangements with the same object. between them the committee and the government had destroyed what little peace belfast ever had. the least they could do was to restore it. moyne took the chair as usual. he opened our proceedings by saying firmly and decisively, that he intended to surrender himself at once to the authorities. "we're the only authorities there are at present," said mcneice, "so if you want to surrender--" "we must resolve ourselves into a provisional government," said the dean, who always likes to do things constitutionally. "the police," said moyne feebly. "there aren't any," said mcneice. "wiped out," said malcolmson. "the general in command of the troops--" said moyne. "the troops are shut up in their barracks," said mcneice. "licked," said malcolmson. "say," said conroy, "are you dead sure you whipped them?" "they bolted," said malcolmson. "i don't reckon to be a military expert," said conroy, "but it kind of occurs to me that those troops weren't doing all they knew. i don't say but you're quite right to boost your men all you can; but we'll make a big mistake if we start figuring on having defeated the british army." "i happen to know," i said, "that mr. conroy is quite right. clithering--" "that spaniel!" said mcneice. "he told me," i said, "that the troops had orders to fire over our men's heads. the idea, i think, was not so much to injure as to overawe us." "it was a damned foolish idea," said mcneice sulkily. "you cannot," said the dean, "overawe the men of ulster." this is one of the dean's most cherished opinions. i have heard him express it a great many times. i do not know whether the dean had actually been fighting during the afternoon. i am sure he wanted to; but he may have considered it his duty to do no more than look on. our dean is particularly strong on old testament history. i am sure he recollected that moses sat on the top of an adjacent hill while joshua was fighting the amalekites. "if you want to surrender yourself," said conroy to moyne, "i reckon you'll have the chance of handing yourself over to a british admiral before long." "have you any reason to suppose that the fleet--?" said moyne. "we're ready for them," said malcolmson. "if the government thinks it can force home rule on ulster with the guns of the channel fleet, it's making a big mistake. it'll find that out before long." "if you like, lord moyne," said conroy, "we'll put you under arrest and then nobody will be able to hold you responsible afterwards for anything that happens. you'll be quite safe." whatever moyne's motives may have been in wishing to surrender himself, i am perfectly sure that a desire for his own safety was not one of them. i imagine that he hoped, in a confused and troubled way, to get himself somehow on the side of law and order again. moyne was never meant to be a rebel. conroy's words were insulting, intentionally so, i think. he wished to get rid of moyne before the committee discussed the defence of belfast against the fleet. he may have wished to get rid of me too. he succeeded. moyne is not nearly so thorough-going a patrician as his wife; but he has sufficient class pride to dislike being insulted by a millionaire. he got up and left the room. he looked so lonely in his dignified retirement that i felt i ought to give him such support as i could. i rose too, took his arm, and went out with him. chapter xxiii people who organize and carry through revolutions generally begin by cutting the telegraph wires, with a view to isolating the scene of action. i cannot help thinking that this is a mistake. we kept our telegraph offices open day and night, and i am strongly of opinion that we gained rather than lost by our departure from the established ritual of revolutions. the news which came to us from england was often encouraging, and generally of some value. nor do i think that the government gained any advantage over us by the messages which clithering as their agent, or bland and others in their capacity of public entertainers, sent from belfast to london. when moyne and i got back to our hotel we found two long telegrams and one short one waiting for us. the first we opened was from lady moyne. she had, it appeared, spent a very strenuous day. she caught the prime minister at breakfast in his own house, and probably spoiled his appetite. she ran other members of the cabinet to earth at various times during the day. one unfortunate man she found playing a mixed foursome on a suburban golf links. she impressed upon him, as she had upon all his colleagues the appalling wickedness of shooting the citizens of belfast. every one, it appeared, agreed with her on this point. the government's policy, so they told her and she told us, was to cow, not to kill, the misguided people who were rioting in belfast. she besought moyne to use all his influence to moderate the anti-home rule enthusiasm of malcolmson and the dean. moyne smiled in a sickly way when we came to this advice. the other long telegram was from babberly. i must say that babberly at this crisis displayed immense energy and something like political genius. having been all his life a strong conservative, and a supporter of force as a remedy for every kind of social unpleasantness, he turned a most effective somersault and appealed suddenly to the anti-militarist feelings of the labour party. he succeeded--i cannot even imagine how--in organizing a mass meeting in trafalgar square to protest against the murder of the working-men of belfast in the streets of their own city, by the hired mercenaries of the capitalist classes. the meeting was actually engaged in making its protest while moyne and i were reading the telegrams. babberly's case was really extraordinarily strong. soldiers were shooting off guns in belfast, and the people they fired at--or as we knew, fired over--were working-men. there was occasion for a strong and eloquent appeal to the sentiment of the solidarity of labour. babberly was just the man to make it with the utmost possible effectiveness. i pictured him perched on the head of one of the british lions which give its quite peculiar dignity to trafalgar square, beseeching a crowd of confused but very angry men not to allow the beast to open its mouth or show its teeth. i could easily imagine that the news of babberly's exertions, dribbling in during the day to the offices of harassed ministers, might have reinforced with grave political considerations the hysterical humanitarian telegrams which clithering was shooting off from the seat of war. a tory government might survive a little bloodshed. a liberal government convicted of having incited a soldier to shoot a working-man would be in a perilous position. "i must say," i said, "that babberly is infernally clever. i don't quite know where he'll find himself afterwards, but--" "what does it matter about afterwards?" said moyne, "if only we get out of the mess we're in, nothing that happens afterwards need trouble us in the least." "if this meeting of his is really a success," i said, "we may feel pretty confident that there'll be no more shooting anyhow." the next telegram, the short one, rather dashed our hopes of immediate peace. it was from lady moyne. "the channel fleet," she said, "has been ordered to belfast lough. expected to arrive to-morrow morning. advise unconditional surrender." moyne is very fond of his wife, and has a sincere admiration for her abilities; but on the receipt of this telegram he lost his temper. "what on earth," he said, "is the use of advising unconditional surrender when conroy and malcolmson are engaged at this moment in making plans for sinking the fleet with rifles?" "i quite agree with you," i said. "there's no kind of use our going to them again. but i don't expect they're relying entirely on rifles. malcolmson always said he understood explosives. he may be laying submarine mines opposite carrickfergus." lady moyne's telegram was not the only warning we received of the approaching visit of the channel fleet. our system of leaving the telegraph wires intact proved to be an excellent one. everybody in belfast learnt that the fleet was coming. everybody, so far as i could learn, received the news with joy. bland was tremendously excited. he called on me next morning, and invited me to go with him to see the british fleet in action. he had been up very early and found a place, so he said, from which we could have a capital view of the bombardment of the town. "i've got two pairs of field-glasses," he said, "zeiss prism binoculars. we'll see the whole show capitally." "was there much other looting last night?" i asked. "there was none," said bland. "i hired the glasses. i got them for five shillings. cheap, i call it; but the optician who owned them seemed to think they'd be safer if i had them than they would be in his shop. more out of the way of shells, i expect." moyne refused to come with us. he still cherished the hope of being able to surrender himself during the day to some one in recognizable authority. bland and i set out together. we hurried along high street, past the albert memorial and crossed the bridge to the south side of the river. the streets were full of volunteers, marching about, all in the highest spirits. the prospect of being shelled by the fleet did not frighten them in the least. having, as they believed, defeated the army the day before, it seemed quite a simple matter to deal with the battleships. we made our way along the quays, passed through a shipbuilding yard, deserted by its workers, and came to a long muddy embankment which stretched out on the south side of the channel leading into the harbour. on the end of this embankment was a small wooden lighthouse. "that's our spot," said bland. "i've got the key of the door." i will always say for bland that he has the true instinct of a war correspondent. from the top of our tower we saw the fleet far out in the offing. there were not nearly so many ships as i expected. i counted seven; disagreeable looking monsters with smoke pouring out of their funnels. they were too far off for us to see much of them even with the aid of our excellent glasses; but what i did see i did not like. fighting against men requires courage, no doubt, especially when they have magazine rifles. but men are after all flesh and blood. fighting against vast iron machines seems to me a much more terrifying thing. i wondered whether malcolmson were also watching the ships and whether he were any more inclined than he had been the night before to unconditional surrender. while i was gazing out to sea, bland tapped me on the arm and drew my attention to the fact that a company of volunteers was marching out along our muddy causeway. they were bob power's men and they came along whistling "the protestant boys," a tune which makes an excellent quick-step march. they had spades with them as well as rifles, and they set to work at once to entrench themselves. "they're going to dispute a landing," said bland, "but i don't see what use that is. the fleet can shell the whole place into ruins in two hours without coming within range of their rifles--and--however we'll see. the fellow who's running this revolution--conroy, isn't it?--may have something up his sleeve." one of the battleships detached herself from her fellows and steamed rapidly into the lough. opposite carrickfergus her engines were stopped, and she turned slowly in a half circle till she lay broadside on to us. i could see her distinctly, and i confess that the look of her terrified me. "cleared for action," said bland. a boat was lowered, a steam launch. in a minute or two she was speeding towards us, her white ensign trailing astern. bob power stood up outside his entrenchment and peered at her. as she drew closer we could see behind the shelter hood, the young officer who steered her. as she swerved this way and that, following the windings of the channel, we caught glimpses of a senior officer, seated in the stern sheets. pushing through the calm water at high speed she threw up great waves from her bows. her stern seemed curiously deep in the water. when she was almost abreast of our lighthouse bob hailed her. her engines were stopped at once. a sailor with a boathook in his hand sprang into her bow and stood there motionless while the boat glided on. i could see the young officer who steered gazing curiously at bob's entrenchments. then the senior officer stood up. "an admiral," said bland. he hailed bob. "are you in command here?" he said. as he spoke the launch stopped abreast of the entrenchments and lay motionless in the water. "i am in command of this detachment," said bob. "then," said the admiral, "you are to lay down your arms at once." "you'd better come ashore," said bob, "and see our commanding officer if you want to make terms with us." the admiral flushed. he was quite close to us and we could see his face distinctly. he looked as if he wanted to say something explosive. the idea of being invited to make terms with rebels was evidently very objectionable to him. i suppose he must have had strict and binding orders from somebody. he did not say any of the things he wanted to. the launch's propeller gave a few turns in the water. then the boat slipped up to the shore. the sailor with the boathook held her fast while the admiral stepped out of her. bob received him most courteously. the admiral glared at bob. the riflemen, crouched behind their mud bank, scowled at the admiral. the young officer in the launch gave an order and his boat was pushed off from the shore. bob and the admiral walked off together towards the town. for an hour and a half the launch lay opposite us in the middle of the channel. occasionally, as the ebbing tide carried her down, she steamed a little and regained her position opposite the entrenchments. bob's men, realizing that there would be no shooting till the admiral returned, rose from their trench. they strolled about the embankment, chatted, smoked, stared at the launch, stared at the battleship from which she came, and peered at the more distant fleet which lay hull down far out towards the entrance of the lough. "unless mr. conroy has some game on that we know nothing about," said bland, "he'd better climb down and make the best terms he can." i think that bland was nervous. he made that remark or others like it several times while we were waiting for the admiral's return. i candidly confess that i was more than nervous. i was desperately frightened. i am not, i hope, a coward. i believe that i was not afraid of being killed, but i could not take my eyes off the great iron ship which lay motionless, without a sign of life about her, a black, menacing monster on the calm water of the lough. i was seized, obsessed, with a sense of her immense power. she would destroy and slay with a horrible, unemotional, scientific deliberation. "conroy had better surrender," said bland. "he can't expect--" "he won't surrender," i said; "and if he wanted to, the men would not let him." "damn it," said bland. "he must. i've seen war, and i tell you he must." at last the admiral returned. bob was with him, and was evidently trying to make himself agreeable. he was chatting. occasionally he laughed. the admiral was entirely unresponsive. when he got close enough for us to see his face i saw that he looked perplexed and miserable. i was miserable and frightened, but the admiral looked worse. behind them there was an immense crowd of people; men, armed and unarmed, women, even children. it was a mere mob. there was no sign of discipline among them. some young girls, mill-workers with shawls over their heads, pressed close on the admiral's heels. bob gave an order to his men, and they drew up across the end of our embankment. bob and the admiral passed through the line. the crowd stopped. the launch drew to shore again. the admiral stepped on board her, and she steamed away. the crowd hung around the end of our embankment. some children began chasing each other in and out among the men and women. a few girls went down to the water's edge and threw in stones, laughing at the splashes they made. then a young man found an empty bottle and flung it far out into the channel. fifty or sixty men and women threw stones at it, laughing when shots went wide, cheering when some well-aimed stone set the bottle rocking. further back from the water's edge young men and girls were romping with each other, the girls crying shrilly and laughing boisterously, the men catching them round their waists or by their arms. it might have been a crowd out for enjoyment of a bank holiday. the launch reached the battleship, was hoisted and stowed on board. almost immediately a long line of signal flags fluttered from the squat mast. smoke began to pour from the funnels. the flags were hauled down and another festoon of them was hoisted in their place. i could see an answering stream of flags fluttering from one of the ships further out. then, very slowly, the great steamer began to move. she went at a snail's pace, as it seemed to me, across the lough to the county down coast. very slowly she swept round in a wide circle and steamed back again northward. there was something terrifying in the stately deliberation with which she moved. it was as if some great beast of prey paced as a sentinel in front of his victim, so conscious of his power to seize and kill that he could afford to wait before he sprang. the crowd behind us was silent now. the laughter and the play had ceased. children were crowding round the women seeking for hands to hold. some of the women, vaguely terror-stricken, looked into the faces of the men. others had drawn a little apart from the rest of the crowd and stood in a group by themselves, staring out at the battleship. there were middle-aged women and quite young women in this group. i raised my field-glasses and scanned their faces. there was one expression on them, and only one--not fear, but hatred. women fight sometimes in citizen armies when such things have been called into existence. but it is not their fighting power which makes them important. that is, probably, always quite inconsiderable. what makes them a force to be reckoned with in war is their faculty for hating. they hate with more concentration and intensity than men do. these women were mindful, perhaps, of the girl with the baby whom clithering had seen shot. they realized, perhaps, the menace for husbands, lovers, and sons which lay in the guns of the black ironclad parading sluggishly before their eyes. remembering and anticipating death, they hated the source of it with uncompromising bitterness. the men in the crowd seemed crushed into silence by mere wonder and expectation of some unknown thing. they were not, so far as i could judge, afraid. they were not excited. they simply waited to see what was to happen to them and their town. once more a string of flags fluttered from the ship's mast. once more the answer came from her consorts. then for the third time she swept round. we saw her foreshortened; then end on; then foreshortened again as her other side swung into view. at that moment--just before the whole length of her lay flat before our eyes she fired. at first i scarcely realized that she had fired. there was a small cloud of white smoke hanging over her near the bow. that was all for the moment. then came the horrible sound of the great projectile racing through the air. then it was past. some women in the crowd, a few, shrieked aloud. some girls ran wildly towards the town, driven, i suppose, to seek shelter of some kind. most of the crowd stood silent. then from some young men who stood together there came a kind of moaning sound. it gathered volume. it, as it were, took shape. voice after voice took it up. the whole crowd--many hundreds of men and women--sang together the hymn they had all been singing for months past, "o god, our help in ages past." i do not know how far back towards the town the singing spread, but it would not surprise me to hear that ten thousand voices joined in it. bland had his glasses raised. he was still gazing at the battleship. "a strange answer," i said, "to make to the first shell of a bombardment." "yes," said bland. "it reminds me of a profane rhyme which i used to hear: "'there was a young lady of zion who sang sunday-school songs to a lion.' "but hers, i should say, was the more sensible proceeding of the two." i was not sure. it is just conceivable--it seemed to me at that moment even likely--that a hymn, sung as that one was, may be the most effective answer to a big gun. there are only certain things which guns can do. when they have destroyed life and ruined buildings their power is spent. but the singing of hymns may, and sometimes does, render men for a time at least, indifferent to the loss of their lives and the ruin of their houses. against men in the frame of mind which hymn-singing induces the biggest guns are powerless. the original singers fall, perhaps, but the spirit of their singing survives. for each voice silenced by the bursting shells ten voices take up the song. the battleship, after firing the gun, swung round and once more slowly steamed across the lough. i waited, tense with excitement, for her to turn again. at the next turn, i felt sure, another shell would come. i was wrong. she turned, more slowly than ever as it seemed. no white smoke issued from her. again she steamed northwards. again, opposite carrickfergus, close to the northern shore, she turned. right in front of her bows the water was suddenly broken. it was as if some one had dropped a huge stone close to her. the spray of the splash must have fallen on her fore deck. "my god!" said bland, "they're firing at her. look! from the hill above the town." i could not look. my eyes were on the ship as she slowly turned. her side came gradually into view. then, quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, she staggered. i saw her list over heavily, right herself again, and steam on. "hit!" said bland. "hit! hit!" he danced beside me with excitement. two puffs of smoke hung over the ship's decks, one forward, one aft, and blew clear again. but this time we heard no shrieking shells. she was firing, not at the town, but at the guns on the hill which threatened and wounded her. then her signal flags ran up again. before the answer came from the other ships the sea was broken twice close to her. i looked to see her stagger from another blow, heel over, perhaps sink. her speed increased. in a minute she was rushing towards us, flinging white waves from her great bows. then she swept round once more. fire as well as smoke poured from her funnels. she steamed eastwards down the lough. we saw her join the other ships far out. she and they lay motionless together. the crowd behind us began to sing their hymn again. bland and i left our lighthouse and went back towards the town. we passed bob and his men in their trench but they scarcely noticed us. we pushed our way through the crowd. we passed the shipbuilding yard, now full of eager people, discussing the departure of the ship, canvassing the possibility of her coming back again. "what guns have they on the cave hill?" said bland. "i don't know," i said. "i did not know that they had any guns." "i wonder where they got them," said bland. "i wonder who has command of them." i could answer, or thought i could answer, both questions. as we struggled through the crowds which thronged the quay i told bland of the visits of the _finola_ to our bay and of the piles of huge packing-cases which godfrey had shown me in the sheds behind the store. "but who fired them?" said bland. "who have you got who understands them? those were big guns." "malcolmson," i said, "always said he understood guns." "he does," said bland. "if he'd shot just the least shade better he'd have sunk that ship." on the bridge we met mcconkey, sweating profusely, taking his favourite weapon along at a rapid trot. he stopped when he saw us and halted his breathless team. "i have her working again," he said, "and she'll shoot the now." "you're too late," said bland. "is she sunken?" said mcconkey. "man o' man but i'm sorry for it. i wanted sore to have a shot at her." "she's not sunk," said bland, "but she's gone. steamed clean out of range of your gun." "i'd have liked well to have got to her before she quit," said mcconkey. "did you hear tell what she did with that shell she fired into the town?" "no," i said. "did it kill many people?" "sorra the one," said mcconkey. "but i'll tell you what it did do." his voice sank to a hoarse but singularly impressive whisper. "it made flitters of the statue of the old queen that was sitting fornint the city hall. the like of thon is nice work for men that's wearing the king's uniform." bland burst into a sudden fit of boisterous laughter. "you may laugh if it pleases you," said mcconkey, "but i'm thinking it's time for loyal men to be getting guns of their own when the government is that thick with rebels and papishes that they'd go shooting at the ould queen who was always a decent woman, so she was, and too good for the like of them." mcconkey's story was perfectly true. the solitary shell which was fired into belfast fell just outside the city hall. it injured that building a good deal; and it entirely destroyed the statue of queen victoria. it is a curious evidence of the amazing loyalty of the people of belfast that many of them were more angry at this insult to majesty than they would have been if the shell had killed half a dozen volunteers. mcconkey was not by any means the only man who saw in the accident evidence of an unholy alliance between the liberal government and the men whom babberly was accustomed to describe as "steeped to the lips in treason." chapter xxiv bland and i stood together outside the city hall and surveyed the shattered fragments of the statue. the shell must have exploded quite close to it, and i was immensely impressed at first with the terrific power of modern artillery. then i began to think about the moral effects of the bombardment, and i saw my way to helping bland in his profession. he had been very kind to me and very helpful. i wanted to do him a good turn if i could. "this," i said, "is a magnificent opportunity for you. you'll be able to send off a telegram to your newspaper which will make your fortune as a correspondent." "i don't see that," said bland. "if there'd been a little slaughter i might have made something out of it. but a statue! hang it all! one statue is rather a poor bag for the british fleet. the people are proud of their navy. they've spent a lot of money on it, and they won't like being told that it has hit nothing but a statue, after a long morning's shooting." bland had not grasped my idea. for a moment i was inclined to keep it for my own use and work it up into an article when i got time. but bland deserved something from me. i resisted the temptation and gave him the idea. "i wish," i said, "that i were a special correspondent. i'd--" "well," said bland. "what would you say?" "i should take that new zealander who stood on the broken arch of westminster bridge and--" "macaulay's," said bland. "i don't think that the public would stand him again. he's played out." "not in the way i mean to use him. i should, so to speak, spiritualize him, and--" "hold on a minute," said bland. he got out a note-book and a pencil and prepared to write. "now," he said, "go on." bland's expectant attitude, and the fact that he was evidently going to take down what i said in shorthand, embarrassed me. when i write essays i like to work deliberately and to correct carefully. i aim at a polished elegance of style. i do not care for the kind of offhand composition bland asked for. "'interview with a revolutionary peer,'" said bland, "'lord kilmore on the ulster situation.' you were just going to say--" "oh, nothing much. only that the feelings of that new zealander--" "meditating on the ruins of a shattered civilization," said bland. "i can put in that part myself." "--are nothing to yours--" i said. "_yours_," said bland. "well, mine, if this must be an interview; but i'd rather you had the whole credit.--are nothing to mine when i survey the vacant pedestal of that statue. you catch the idea now?" "no," said bland. "i don't. is there one?" "yes, there is. these unrecognizable fragments of stone, the once majestic statue, ulster's loyalty." "good," said bland. "i have it now." he began to write rapidly. "'to the thoughtful mind there was something infinitely tragic in the shattered statue of the great queen, symbol of the destruction of an ideal. england bought the friendship of nationalist ireland at a heavy price when the guns of her fleet annihilated the loyalty of ulster.' that's your idea." "you've got it exactly," i said. "i'll send it off at once." "yes. you'd better hurry. it's almost certain to occur to babberly, and the moment it does he'll put it into a speech. if he does, the whole credit will go to him." this impressed bland. he hurried away towards the post-office. i felt that i was not likely to get anything more out of the statue. i put a small bit of it in my pocket to keep as a souvenir, and then strolled along donegal place. i met crossan, who saluted me gravely. "the provisional government," he said, "desires your lordship's presence in the city hall." "i'm glad there's a provisional government," i said. "we want something of the sort. do you happen to know if i'm a member of it?" "i've been looking for you, my lord," said crossan, severely, "for over an hour, and there's no time to waste." i hurried off. the government, after driving off the british fleet, was likely to be in a good temper, but i did not wish to keep it waiting for me too long. when i entered the room i found conroy, mcneice, malcolmson, cahoon and the dean seated at the table. moyne was not there. "i congratulate you, gentlemen," i said, "on the result of the naval engagement. malcolmson was perfectly magnificent. it was you, wasn't it, who--?" "i didn't see anything magnificent about it," said malcolmson, sulkily. "we're damned well sick of being played with," said mcneice. "if the english government means to fight us--" said the dean, speaking explosively. "do you mean to say," i said, "that you think the admiral was not in earnest in that bombardment?" "no more than the soldiers were yesterday," said mcneice. "they fired over our heads." "and we're not going to stand any more fooling," said malcolmson. "we're business men," said cahoon, "and this sort of play-acting won't do for belfast." "your boss politicians," said conroy, "have been flooding us out with telegrams." there was a large pile of telegrams in front of him and some forty or fifty loose sheets of flimsy yellow paper were scattered about the table. "their notion," said conroy, "is that we should send a man over to negotiate." "an ambassador," i said, "plenipotentiary?" "lord moyne won't go," said the dean. "he's the proper man," i said. "let's try to persuade him." "he's up at the barracks," said mcneice. "he's been there all morning trying to get the general to arrest him." "it would be far better," i said, "if he went to london and handed himself over to the prime minister." "european convention," said conroy, "makes it necessary, so i am informed, that this particular kind of job should be done by a member of your aristocracy." i was, i think, with the exception of moyne, the only member of the house of lords in belfast at the moment. the committee had evidently fixed on me as an ambassador. "there is," i said, "a tradition that the diplomatic service should be--but our circumstances are so very peculiar--i am not sure that we ought to feel bound--" "will you go?" said conroy. "of course, i'll go," i said. "there's nothing i should like better." "the _finola_ is lying off bangor," said conroy. "i'll run you and power down there in my motor. he'll land you wherever you like." "good," i said. "i suppose i'll go in my shirt with a rope round my neck, like the burghers of calais." "if that's the regular costume," said conroy. he spoke so severely that i thought i had better drop the subject of clothes. "now, as to the terms which you are prepared to offer the government," i said. "we will not have home rule," said the dean and malcolmson together. "of course not," i said. "that will be understood at once. shall i demand mr. redmond's head on a charger? i don't suppose you want it, but it's always well to ask for more than you mean to take. it gives the other side a chance of negotiating." "all we ask," said mcneice, "is that the english clear out of this country, bag and baggage, soldiers, policemen, tax collectors, the whole infernal crew, and leave us free hand to clean up the mess they've been making for the last hundred years." "either that," said malcolmson, "or fight us in earnest." "they'll clear out, of course," i said. "if it's a choice between that and fighting. but what about governing the country afterwards?" "we'll do that," said conroy, "and if we can't do it better than they did--" "oh, you will," i said. "anyhow, you can't do it worse. but--there's just one point more. what about the lord lieutenant?" "i don't know that he matters any," said conroy. "he doesn't," i said, "not a bit. but he's there at present, and some arrangement will have to be made about him." "if the dublin people like airing their best clothes before an imitation king," said cahoon, "let them. it won't matter to us." this showed me that cahoon, at least, has a statesman's mind. in unessential matters he is ready to yield to the sentiments of his inferiors. "i understand then," i said, "that the lord lieutenant with the purely ornamental part of the viceregal staff is to be allowed to remain on the condition that he gives--shall we say eight balls and eight dinner-parties every year?--and that every other englishman leaves the country at once. those are your terms." "and no more talk about home rule," said the dean firmly. "very well," i said, "i'll start at once." bob power was waiting for me in conroy's motor when i had packed my bag. the streets were very crowded as we drove through them, and the people cheered us tremendously. it was the first time i had ever been cheered, and i found the sensation agreeable. besides cheering, the crowd sang a great deal. some one had composed a song especially for the occasion, which had caught the fancy of the belfast people, and spread among them with wonderful rapidity. the tune, i am told, dates from the days of the eighteenth-century volunteer movement. "do you think i'm a fool to put up with home rule? for i'm not, as you'll quickly discover, discover. for soldier and rebel i'm equally able; i'll neither have one nor the t'other, the t'other." as poetry this is scarcely equal to dr. isaac watts' version of the ninetieth of david's psalms. the rhyme of "rebel" with "able" is defective, and "discover" and "other" jar rather badly; but poets of high reputation have done worse in times of patriotic excitement, and the thing expressed the feelings of the belfast people with perfect accuracy. a better poet might very well have failed to understand them. bob and i made the sea-passage as short as possible by steaming to port patrick. i spent an anxious half-hour while we passed through the squadron of warships. bob assured me that they would not do anything to us. when i complained that they had a truculent and angry look about them he said that that was nothing out of the common. all warships look truculent. i dare say they do. warfare has become much more civilized and scientific than it used to be; but we cannot any of us afford as yet to neglect the wisdom of the mediæval chinese. they wore masks in order to terrify their foes. our battleships are evidently designed with the same object. i reached london next morning, and at once sent word to the prime minister that i was ready to make a treaty with him. he sent sir samuel clithering to act as an intermediary. we met in the library of moyne house, which was neutral ground. lady moyne had been one of the original syndicate which, so to speak, placed our insurrection on the market. her house was therefore friendly soil for me. she had afterwards disassociated herself, more or less, from conroy and mcneice; while moyne had been trying for two days to surrender himself. the prime minister's ambassador could therefore go to moyne house without loss of dignity. clithering brought my nephew godfrey with him. "mr. d'aubigny," he said, "is acting for the present as one of my private secretaries." clithering is a man who accumulates private secretaries rapidly. it would not have surprised me to hear that he had a dozen. "i brought him," clithering went on, "to take notes of our conversation. i thought that you would prefer him to a stranger." i should very much have preferred the young man from toynbee hall who escorted marion to the cathedral. i should, in fact, have preferred any other private secretary. but i had not the heart to say so. the experience of the last few days had softened me, and godfrey looked immensely pleased with himself. he had on a new frock coat, beautifully cut, and a pair of trousers of an exquisite shade of grey. he also had a pale mauve tie with a pearl pin in it. clithering began rather pompously. i dare say he really thought that he was in a position to dictate terms. "i hope," he said, "i sincerely hope that you fully realize the extraordinary forbearance with which the government has treated this--this--" "don't say rebellion," i said; "we're thoroughly loyal men and always have been." clithering hesitated. he wanted to say rebellion, but he remembered that he was engaged in a game of diplomacy. "this _émeute_," he said at last. french is, after all, a greater language than english. i could not object to _émeute_. i should have objected to any english description of our rising. "we might," said clithering, "have shot the people down. we might have bombarded the town. i am sure that you realize that." "we realize it," i said, "but we don't altogether appreciate it. in fact, we feel that your way of conducting the war has been rather insulting to us." "you don't mean to say," said clithering, "that you really wanted us--to--to shoot in earnest?" "we did. in fact one of the alternatives which i am empowered to offer you--" "offer us! but we--we are--i mean to say that the terms of settlement must, of course, be dictated by us." "not at all," i said. "godfrey, you can't write shorthand, i know; but you must try and take down what i'm going to say now as accurately as possible. i'll speak quite slowly. the government--i mean, of course, so far as ulster is concerned, the late government--your government--must either conduct the war in a proper business-like way--have you got that down, godfrey?" "do you mean," said clithering, "that you want us--?" "i mean," i said, "that we have put our money into it. conroy, in particular, has spent huge sums on cannons. we are determined to have a show of some sort. your government must therefore either agree to fight properly and not keep running away every time we get a shot in, or--" "yes," said clithering, "go on." "i'm waiting," i said, "till godfrey gets that written down. have you finished, godfrey? very well. or--now take this down carefully--you english clear out of ireland altogether, every man of you, except--" "but--but--but--" said clithering. "and leave us to manage ireland ourselves. got that, godfrey?" "but," said clithering; "but--i thought you didn't want home rule." "we don't. we won't have it at any price." "but that is home rule of the most extreme kind." "there's no use splitting hairs," i said, "or discussing finicking points of political nomenclature. the point for you to grasp is that those are our terms." "will you excuse me?" said clithering. "this is all rather surprising. may i call up the prime minister on the telephone?" "certainly," i said. "i'm in no hurry. but be sure you put it to him distinctly. i don't want to have any misunderstanding." there was no telephone in the library of moyne house. clithering had to ring for a servant who led him off to another room. godfrey seized the opportunity of his absence to confide in me. "poor old clithering is a bit of a bounder," he said. "makes stockings, you know, excellency. and lady clithering is a fat vulgarian. it's all she can do to pick up her aitches. i shouldn't think of stopping in their house if--" "if any one else would give you food and pocket money." "there's that, of course," said godfrey. "but what i was thinking of is the daughter. there is a daughter and she ought to have a tidy little pile. now do you think it would be worth my while to marry into a family like that for forty thou.? clithering ought to run to forty thou., with the title in sight. i wonder if you would mind sounding him, excellency?" "at present," i said, "i'm arranging about the fate of belfast, which is rather an important matter in some ways. but--" godfrey did not seem to care much about the fate of belfast. "i suppose," he said, "that it really is settled about marion and that fellow power." "quite," i said; "they're to be married at once." "then i think, excellency, if you don't mind speaking to old clithering--i wouldn't like to commit myself until i was pretty sure of the money. there's only one daughter, so he can hardly offer less than forty thou." i fully intended to tell godfrey what i thought of him; but words were not easy to find. i was still searching for a noun to go along with "damnable" when clithering came back. he seemed greatly excited. "the prime minister," he blurted out, "is quite ready--he says he has no objection--in fact it's what we've been trying to do all along. our home rule bill was simply an attempt--" "do try to be coherent," i said. "what did the prime minister say?" "he said we'd leave ireland with the greatest pleasure," said clithering. "is that all?" something in the way clithering spoke made me think the prime minister must have said more than that. "he added," said clithering, "that--" then he paused nervously. "out with it," i said. "it's far better to have no secrets. godfrey, take down the prime minister's words." "he added," said clithering, "that there is only one thing which would please him better than to see the back of the last irishman leaving westminster, and that is--" "go on," i said. "to hear that at the end of three weeks you'd all torn each other to pieces, and that there was nothing but a lot of trouser buttons left to show that ireland had ever been an inhabited country. of course he didn't mean it. if there was the least chance of any internecine strife our conscience would not allow us--after all we have a duty, as englishmen--but there's no risk of bloodshed, is there, lord kilmore?" "not the slightest. i may take it then that your government agrees to our terms. you cart away your army and all your officials, except the lord lieutenant. we want him. he's to give parties for the dublin doctors and the smaller landed gentry." "but about his salary," said clithering. "is that to be an imperial charge, or are you--?" "i forgot to ask about that," i said, "but if there's any difficulty i expect conroy will agree to pay it. it's not much, is it?" "i'm not sure of the exact figure; but i know it's never supposed to be enough." "i've no actual authority for saying so," i said, "but i expect we'll want to do the thing decently if we do it at all. cahoon has the mind of a statesman, and in his opinion something will have to be done to soothe the dublin public. a first-rate viceregal establishment was his idea. however, we needn't go into details. the main thing is that we want a lord lieutenant. if your government undertakes to supply suitable men from time to time i think i may promise that we'll find the money. write that down, godfrey." "when you speak of the english clearing out of ireland," said clithering, "and leaving you the country to yourselves, you don't of course mean absolute fiscal independence." "we do," i said. "you can't mean that," said clithering. "it's costing us nearly two millions a year to run the country, and if that's withdrawn you will go bankrupt." "what mcneice said," i replied, "was that you were to clear out, bag, baggage, soldiers, police, tax-collectors, and the whole--" "tax-collectors!" said clithering. "i'm not sure--" "didn't your prime minister say he'd be glad to get rid of us? what's the use of your arguing on about every little point?" "but," said clithering, "the collection of the revenue! between ourselves now, lord kilmore, do you think there would be any risk of your imposing a tariff on--" "certain to," i said. "it will be one of the first things we do." "we can't agree to that," said clithering. "free trade is a principle, a sacred principle with us. you can't expect--we are a free trade government. our consciences--" "very well," i said. "go on with the war. bombard belfast. kill another woman. smash the albert memorial with a shell." "our consciences--" said clithering. "your consciences," i said, "will have to let you do one thing or the other." "now take my own case," said clithering. "i am interested, deeply interested, in hosiery. we do a big business in stockings." godfrey winced. i do not wonder. the future lady kilmore must, of course, wear stockings, but it is not pleasant for godfrey to think of her supply coming straight from the paternal factory. "the irish trade," said clithering, "is not among the most remunerative, but--" "we can only afford to wear the cheaper sorts," i said; "and a great many of us can't buy any at all. i don't think you need bother about the irish trade." "still, it is substantial. now, a hostile tariff--or a bounty on balbriggan--" "you'll have to establish a factory in ireland," i said, "and dodge the tariff. tipperary now. labour is comparatively cheap, and--after all, it's a choice between that and letting the fleet loose at belfast again." clithering thought this over. i think the idea of cheap labour in tipperary cheered him up. when he next spoke it was in a most friendly tone. "i hope," he said, "that the shells which were fired--" "there was only one," i said. "i heard that no lives were lost," said clithering. "i hope that the damage done to property was not serious." "one statue," i said, "was smashed to bits." "i'm very sorry, very sorry indeed. now i wonder if you would allow me--i mean if the people of belfast would allow me--as a personal expression of the warm feeling of friendliness i've always felt for the irish people, _all_ the irish people--i wonder if i might offer to replace the statue. i should esteem it an honour." "it was a very large statue," i said, "and must have cost--" "oh, i should not allow considerations of money to stand in my way." this was handsome. i looked at godfrey to see how he liked to hear his future wife's dowry being frittered away on statues. i could see that he was anything but pleased. "i shall convey your offer," i said, "to the people of belfast. they may not want that exact statue again. we're not quite as keen on kings and queens as we were. but i feel quite sure something symbolic would appeal to us strongly. what would you think now of ulster as an infant hercules strangling a snake representing home rule? any good sculptor would knock off something of that sort for you; about twelve feet by nine feet, not counting the pedestal. by the way, did we do much damage to your ship? the one malcolmson hit with his cannon ball?" "i don't know," said clithering. "i did not hear any details." "because," i said, "if she is injured in any way--but perhaps she was insured?" "i don't think men-of-war are insured." "well, they ought to be. but if that one wasn't i'm sure we'd like to make good any damage we did. conroy has lots of money, and he'd be sorry if the english people were put to any expense in repairing a battleship we injured." i am not a practised ambassador, but i have always understood that diplomacy is a trade in which politeness pays. i was not going to be outdone by clithering. when he offered belfast a new statue i could hardly do less than promise that conroy would mend the ship. i was very glad afterwards that i thought of it. clithering was tremendously pleased, and made me quite a long speech. he said that he looked upon my offer as a kind of first-fruit of the new spirit of amity which was coming into existence between england and ireland. this ended our negotiations to the satisfaction of every one concerned. lady moyne returned at once to castle affey and spent the summer in planning new ways of keeping the insurgent industrial democracy from invading the rights and privileges of the propertied classes. last time i dined there she explained to me a scheme for developing the boy scout movement, which would, she thought, distract the attention of the public and push social questions into the background. babberly escaped having to address a labour meeting in newcastle-on-tyne. he had promised to do this, but there was no necessity for him to keep his promise once the troops were withdrawn from belfast. he returned to his duties in parliament, and, as i gathered from the papers, harassed the government successfully all through the autumn session. the dean and crossan played their hymn tune on our church bells every day for a fortnight. they still--and i am writing several months after the new irish government has been firmly established--congratulate each other on the way in which the third home rule bill was defeated by the unfaltering attitude of the ulster loyalists. godfrey, i regret to say, failed to marry miss clithering. she took a violent dislike to him after he had spent three weeks in her father's house. not even the prospect of becoming lady kilmore would reconcile her to the marriage. i am therefore still responsible for his maintenance. i have, unfortunately, been obliged to give up writing my "history of irish rebellions." i do not understand marion's system of filing, and i cannot find any of the papers i want. i cannot get marion to explain things to me, or to take any trouble to help me. since she married bob power she has lost all interest in my literary work. the end transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. ulster's stand for union by ronald mcneill with frontispiece london john murray, albemarle street, w. 1922 dedicated to the memory of the unionist party preface the term "ulster," except when the context proves the contrary, is used in this book not in the geographical, but the political meaning of the word, which is quite as well understood. the aim of the book is to present an account of what i have occasionally in its pages referred to as "the ulster movement." the phrase is perhaps somewhat paradoxical when applied to a political ideal which was the maintenance of the _status quo_; but, on the other hand, the steps taken during a period of years to organise an effective opposition to interference with the established constitution in ireland did involve a movement, and it is with these measures, rather than with the policy behind them, that the book is concerned. indeed, except for a brief introductory outline of the historical background of the ulster standpoint, i have taken for granted, or only referred incidentally to the reasons for the unconquerable hostility of the ulster protestants to the idea of allowing the government of ireland, and especially of themselves, to pass into the control of a parliament in dublin. those reasons were many and substantial, based upon considerations both of a practical and a sentimental nature; but i have not attempted an exposition of them, having limited myself to a narrative of the events to which they gave rise. having been myself, during the most important part of the period reviewed, a member of the standing committee of the ulster unionist council, and closely associated with the leaders of the movement, i have had personal knowledge of practically everything i have had to record. i have not, however, trusted to unaided memory for any statement of fact. it is not, of course, a matter where anything that could be called research was required; but, in addition to the _parliamentary reports_, the _annual register_, and similar easily accessible books of reference, there was a considerable mass of private papers bearing on the subject, for the use of some of which i am indebted to friends. i was permitted to consult the minute-books of the ulster unionist council and its standing committee, and also verbatim reports made for the council of unpublished speeches delivered at private meetings of those bodies. a large collection of miscellaneous documents accumulated by the late lord londonderry was kindly lent to me by the present marquis; and i also have to thank lord carson of duncairn for the use of letters and other papers in his possession. colonel f.h. crawford, c.b.e., was good enough to place at my disposal a very detailed account written by himself of the voyage of the _fanny_, and the log kept by captain agnew. my friend mr. thomas moles, m.p., took full shorthand notes of the proceedings of the irish convention and the principal speeches made in it, and he kindly allowed me to use his transcript. and i should not like to pass over without acknowledgment the help given me on several occasions by miss omash, of the union defence league, in tracing references. r. mcn. february 1922. contents chapter i. introduction: the ulster standpoint ii. the electorate and home rule iii. organisation and leadership iv. the parliament act: craigavon v. the craigavon policy and the u.f.v. vi. mr. churchill in belfast vii. "what answer from the north?" viii. the exclusion of ulster ix. the eve of the covenant x. the solemn league and covenant xi. passing the bill xii. was resistance justifiable? xiii. provisional government and propaganda xiv. lord loreburn's letter xv. preparations and proposals xvi. the curragh incident xvii. arming the u.v.f. xviii. a voyage of adventure xix. on the brink of civil war xx. ulster in the war xxi. negotiations for settlement xxii. the irish convention xxiii. nationalists and conscription xxiv. the ulster parliament appendix a. nationalist letter to president wilson b. unionist letter to president wilson index ulster's stand for union chapter i introduction: the ulster standpoint like all other movements in human affairs, the opposition of the northern protestants of ireland to the agitation of their nationalist fellow-countrymen for home rule can only be properly understood by those who take some pains to get at the true motives, and to appreciate the spirit, of those who engaged in it. and as it is nowhere more true than in ireland that the events of to-day are the outcome of events that occurred longer ago than yesterday, and that the motives of to-day have consequently their roots buried somewhat deeply in the past, it is no easy task for the outside observer to gain the insight requisite for understanding fairly the conduct of the persons concerned. it was mr. asquith who very truly said that the irish question, of which one of the principal factors is the opposition of ulster to home rule, "springs from sources that are historic, economic, social, racial, and religious." it would be a hopeless undertaking to attempt here to probe to the bottom an origin so complex; but, whether the sympathies of the reader be for or against the standpoint of the irish loyalists, the actual events which make up what may be called the ulster movement would be wholly unintelligible without some introductory retrospect. indeed, to those who set out to judge irish political conditions without troubling themselves about anything more ancient than their own memory can recall, the most fundamental factor of all--the line of cleavage between ulster and the rest of the island--is more than unintelligible. in the eyes of many it presents itself as an example of perversity, of "cussedness" on the part of men who insist on magnifying mere differences of opinion, which would be easily composed by reasonable people, into obstacles to co-operation which have no reality behind them. writers and speakers on the nationalist side deride the idea of "two nations" in ireland, calling in evidence many obvious identities of interest, of sentiment, or of temperament between the inhabitants of the north and of the south. the ulsterman no more denies these identities than the greek, the bulgar, and the serb would deny that there are features common to all dwellers in the balkan peninsula; but he is more deeply conscious of the difference than of the likeness between himself and the man from munster or connaught. his reply to those who denounced the irish government act of 1920 on the ground that it set up a "partition of ireland," is that the act did not "set up," but only recognised, the partition which history made long ago, and which wrecked all attempts to solve the problem of irish government that neglected to take it into account. if there be any force in renan's saying that the root of nationality is "the will to live together," the nationalist cry of "ireland a nation" harmonises ill with the actual conditions of ireland north and south of the boyne. this dividing gulf between the two populations in ireland is the result of the same causes as the political dissension that springs from it, as described by mr. asquith in words quoted above. the tendencies of social and racial origin operate for the most part subconsciously--though not perhaps less powerfully on that account; those connected with economic considerations, with religious creeds, and with events in political history enter directly and consciously into the formation of convictions which in turn become the motives for actions. in the mind of the average ulster unionist the particular point of contrast between himself and the nationalist of which he is more forcibly conscious than of any other, and in which all other distinguishing traits are merged, is that he is loyal to the british crown and the british flag, whereas the other man is loyal to neither. religious intolerance, so far as the protestants are concerned, of which so much is heard, is in actual fact mainly traceable to the same sentiment. it is unfortunately true that the lines of political and of religious division coincide; but religious dissensions seldom flare up except at times of political excitement; and, while it is undeniable that the temper of the creeds more resembles what prevailed in england in the seventeenth than in the twentieth century, yet when overt hostility breaks out it is because the creed is taken--and usually taken rightly--as _prima facie_ evidence of political opinion--political opinion meaning "loyalty" or "disloyalty," as the case may be. the label of "loyalist" is that which the ulsterman cherishes above all others. it means something definite to him; its special significance is reinforced by the consciousness of its wearers that they are a minority; it sustains the feeling that the division between parties is something deeper and more fundamental than anything that in england is called difference of opinion. this feeling accounts for much that sometimes perplexes even the sympathetic english observer, and moves the hostile partisan to scornful criticism. the ordinary protestant farmer or artisan of ulster is by nature as far as possible removed from the being who is derisively nicknamed the "noisy patriot" or the "flag-wagging jingo." if the national anthem has become a "party tune" in ireland, it is not because the loyalist sings it, but because the dis-loyalist shuns it; and its avoidance at gatherings both political and social where nationalists predominate, naturally makes those who value loyalty the more punctilious in its use. if there is a profuse display of the union jack, it is because it is in ulster not merely "bunting" for decorative purposes as in england, but the symbol of a cherished faith. there may, perhaps, be some persons, unfamiliar with the ulster cast of mind, who find it hard to reconcile this profession of passionate loyalty with the methods embarked upon in 1912 by the ulster people. it is a question upon which there will be something to be said when the narrative reaches the events of that date. here it need only be stated that, in the eyes of ulstermen at all events, constitutional orthodoxy is quite a different thing from loyalty, and that true allegiance to the sovereign is by them sharply differentiated from passive obedience to an act of parliament. the sincerity with which this loyalist creed is held by practically the entire protestant population of ulster cannot be questioned by anyone who knows the people, however much he may criticise it on other grounds. and equally sincere is the conviction held by the same people that disloyalty is, and always has been, the essential characteristic of nationalism. the conviction is founded on close personal contact continued through many generations with the adherents of that political party, and the tradition thus formed draws more support from authentic history than many englishmen are willing to believe. consequently, when the general election of 1918 revealed that the whole of nationalist ireland had gone over with foot, horse, and artillery, with bag and baggage, from the camp of so-called constitutional home rule, to the sinn feiners who made no pretence that their aim was anything short of complete independent sovereignty for ireland, no surprise was felt in ulster. it was there realised that nothing had happened beyond the throwing off of the mask which had been used as a matter of political tactics to disguise what had always been the real underlying aim, if not of the parliamentary leaders, at all events of the great mass of nationalist opinion throughout the three southern provinces. the whole population had not with one consent changed their views in the course of a night; they had merely rallied to support the first leaders whom they had found prepared to proclaim the true objective. curiously enough, this truth was realised by an english politician who was in other respects conspicuously deficient in insight regarding ireland. the easter insurrection of 1916 in dublin was only rendered possible by the negligence or the incompetence of the chief secretary; but, in giving evidence before the commission appointed to inquire into it, mr. birrell said: "the spirit of what to-day is called sinn feinism is mainly composed of the old hatred and distrust of the british connection ... always there as the background of irish politics and character"; and, after recalling that cardinal newman had observed the same state of feeling in dublin more than half a century before, mr. birrell added quite truly that "this dislike, hatred, disloyalty (so unintelligible to many englishmen) is hard to define but easy to discern, though incapable of exact measurement from year to year." this disloyal spirit, which struck newman, and which mr. birrell found easy to discern, was of course always familiar to ulstermen as characteristic of "the south and west," and was their justification for the badge of "loyalist," their assumption of which english liberals, knowing nothing of ireland, held to be an unjust slur on the irish majority. if this belief in the inherent disloyalty of nationalist ireland to the british empire did any injustice to individual nationalist politicians, they had nobody but themselves to blame for it. their pronouncements in america, as well as at home, were scrutinised in ulster with a care that englishmen seldom took the trouble to give them. nor must it be forgotten that, up to the date when mr. gladstone made home rule a plank in an english party's programme--which, whatever else it did, could not alter the facts of the case--the same conviction, held in ulster so tenaciously, had prevailed almost universally in great britain also; and had been proclaimed by no one so vehemently as by mr. gladstone himself, whose famous declarations that the nationalists of that day were "steeped to the lips in treason," and were "marching through rapine to the dismemberment of the empire," were not so quickly forgotten in ulster as in england, nor so easily passed over as either meaningless or untrue as soon as they became inconvenient for a political party to remember. english supporters of home rule, when reminded of such utterances, dismissed with a shrug the "unedifying pastime of unearthing buried speeches"; and showed equal determination to see nothing in speeches delivered by nationalist leaders in america inconsistent with the purely constitutional demand for "extended self-government." ulster never would consent to bandage her own eyes in similar fashion, or to plug her ears with wool. the "two voices" of nationalist leaders, from mr. parnell to mr. dillon, were equally audible to her; and, of the two, she was certain that the true aim of nationalist policy was expressed by the one whose tone was disloyal to the british empire. look-out was kept for any change in the direction of moderation, for any real indication that those who professed to be "constitutional nationalists" were any less determined than "the physical force party" to reach the goal described by parnell in the famous sentence, "none of us will be ... satisfied until we have destroyed the last link which keeps ireland bound to england." no such indication was ever discernible. on the contrary, parnell's phrase became a refrain to be heard in many later pronouncements of his successors, and the policy he thus described was again and again propounded in after-years on innumerable nationalist platforms, in speeches constantly quoted to prove, as was the contention of ulster from the first, that home rule as understood by english liberals was no more than an instalment of the real demand of nationalists, who, if they once obtained the "comparative freedom" of an irish legislature--to quote the words used by mr. devlin at a later date--would then, with that leverage, "operate by whatever means they should think best to achieve the great and desirable end" of complete independence of great britain. this was an end that could not by any juggling be reconciled with the ulsterman's notion of "loyalty." moreover, whatever knowledge he possessed of his country's history--and he knows a good deal more, man for man, than the englishman--confirmed his deep distrust of those whom, following the example of john bright, he always bluntly described as "the rebel party." he knew something of the rebellions in ireland in the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, and was under no illusion as to the design for which arms had been taken up in the past. he knew that that design had not changed with the passing of generations, although gentler methods of accomplishing it might sometimes find favour. indeed, one nationalist leader himself took pains, at a comparatively recent date, to remove any excuse there may ever have been for doubt on this point. mr. john redmond was an orator who selected his words with care, and his appeals to historical analogies were not made haphazard. when he declared (in a speech in 1901) that, "in its essence, the national movement to-day is the same as it was in the days of hugh o'neill, of owen roe, of emmet, or of wolfe tone," those names, which would have had but a shadowy significance for a popular audience in england, carried very definite meaning to the ears of irishmen, whether nationalist or unionist. mr. gladstone, in the fervour of his conversion to home rule, was fond of allusions to the work of molyneux and swift, flood and grattan; but these were men whose irish patriotism never betrayed them into disloyalty to the british crown or hostility to the british connection. they were reformers, not rebels. but it was not with the political ideals of such men that mr. redmond claimed his own to be identical, nor even with that of o'connell, the apostle of repeal of the union, but with the aims of men who, animated solely by hatred of england, sought to establish the complete independence of ireland by force of arms, and in some cases by calling in (like roger casement in our own day) the aid of england's foreign enemies. in the face of appeals like this to the historic imagination of an impressionable people, it is not surprising that by neither mr. redmond's followers nor by his opponents was much account taken of his own personal disapproval of extremes both of means and ends. his opponents in ulster simply accepted such utterances as confirmation of what they had known all along from other sources to be the actual facts, namely, that the home rule agitation was "in its essence" a separatist movement; that its adherents were, as mr. redmond himself said on another occasion, "as much rebels as their fathers were in 1798"; and that the men of ulster were, together with some scattered sympathisers in the other provinces, the depositaries of the "loyal" tradition. the latter could boast of a pedigree as long as that of the rebels. if mr. redmond's followers were to trace their political ancestry, as he told them, to the great earl of tyrone who essayed to overthrow england with the help of the spaniard and the pope, the ulster protestants could claim descent from the men of the plantation, through generation after generation of loyalists who had kept the british flag flying in ireland in times of stress and danger, when mr. redmond's historical heroes were making england's difficulty ireland's opportunity. there have been, and are, many individual nationalists, no doubt, especially among the more educated and thoughtful, to whom it would be unjust to impute bad faith when they professed that their political aspirations for ireland were really limited to obtaining local control of local affairs, and who resented being called "separatists," since their desire was not for separation from great britain but for the "union of hearts," which they believed would grow out of extended self-government. but the answer of irish unionists, especially in ulster, has always been that, whatever such "moderate," or "constitutional" nationalists might dream, it would be found in practice, if the experiment were made, that no halting-place could be found between legislative union and complete separation. moreover, the same view was held by men as far as possible removed from the standpoint of the ulster protestant. cardinal manning, for example, although an intimate personal friend of gladstone, in a letter to leo xiii, wrote: "as for myself, holy father, allow me to say that i consider a parliament in dublin and a separation to be equivalent to the same thing. ireland is not a colony like canada, but it is an integral and vital part of one country."[1] it is improbable that identical lines of reasoning led the roman catholic cardinal and the belfast orangeman and presbyterian to this identical conclusion; but a position reached by convergent paths from such distant points of departure is defensible presumably on grounds more solid than prejudice or passion. it is unnecessary here to examine those grounds at length, for the present purpose is not to argue the ulster case, but to let the reader know what was, as a matter of fact, the ulster point of view, whether that point of view was well or ill founded. but, while the opinion that a dublin parliament meant separation was shared by many who had little else in common with the ulster protestants, the latter stood alone in the intensity of their conviction that "home rule meant rome rule." it has already been mentioned that it is the "disloyalty" attributed rightly or wrongly to the roman catholics as a body that has been, in recent times at all events, the mainspring of protestant distrust. but sectarian feeling, everywhere common between rival creeds, is, of course, by no means absent. englishmen find it hard to understand what seems to them the bigoted and senseless animosity of the rival faiths in ireland. this is due to the astonishing shortness of their memory in regard to their own history, and their very limited outlook on the world outside their own island. if, without looking further back in their history, they reflected that the "no popery" feeling in england in mid-victorian days was scarcely less intense than it is in ulster to-day; or if they realised the extent to which gambetta's "le clã©ricalisme, voilã  l'ennemi" continues still to influence public life in france, they might be less ready to censure the irish protestant's dislike of priestly interference in affairs outside the domain of faith and morals. it is indeed remarkable that nonconformists, especially in wales, who within living memory have displayed their own horror of the much milder form of sacerdotalism to be found in the anglican church, have no sympathy apparently with the presbyterian and the methodist in ulster when the latter kick against the encompassing pressure of the roman catholic priesthood, not in educational matters alone, but in all the petty activities of every-day life. whenever this aspect of the home rule controversy was emphasised englishmen asked what sort of persecution irish protestants had to fear from a parliament in dublin, and appeared to think all such fear illusory unless evidence could be adduced that the holy office was to be set up at maynooth, equipped with faggot and thumb-screw. of persecution of that sort there never has been, of course, any apprehension in modern times. individual catholics and protestants live side by side in ireland with fully as much amity as elsewhere, but whereas the catholic instinctively, and by upbringing, looks to the parish priest as his director in all affairs of life, the protestant dislikes and resists clerical influence as strongly as does the nonconformist in england and wales--and with much better reason. for the latter has never known clericalism as it exists in a roman catholic country where the church is wholly unrestrained by the civil power. he has resented what he regards as anglican arrogance in regard to educational management or the use of burying-grounds, but he has never experienced a much more aggressive clerical temper exercised in all the incidents of daily life--in the market, the political meeting, the disposition of property, the amusements of the people, the polling booth, the farm, and the home. this involves no condemnation of the irish priest as an individual or as a minister of his church. he is kind-hearted, charitable, and conscientious; and, except that it does not encourage self-reliance and enterprise, his influence with his own people is no more open to criticism than that of any other body of religious ministers. but the roman catholic church has always made a larger claim than any other on the obedience of its adherents, and it has always enforced that obedience whenever it has had the power by methods which, in protestant opinion, are extremely objectionable. in theory the claim may be limited to affairs concerned with faith and morals; but the definition of such affairs is a very elastic one. cardinal logue not many years ago said: "when political action trenches upon faith or morals or affects religion, the vicar of christ, as the supreme teacher and guardian of faith and morals, and as the custodian of the immunities of religion, has, by divine right, authority to interfere and to enforce his decisions." how far this principle is in practice carried beyond the limits so denned was proved in the famous meath election petition in 1892, in which the judge who tried it, himself a devout catholic, declared: "the church became converted for the time being into a vast political agency, a great moral machine moving with resistless influence, united action, and a single will. every priest who was examined was a canvasser; the canvas was everywhere--on the altar, in the vestry, on the roads, in the houses." and while an election was in progress in county tyrone in 1911 a parish priest announced that any catholic who should vote for the unionist candidate "would be held responsible at the day of judgment." a still more notorious example of clericalism in secular affairs, within the recollection of englishmen, was the veto on the military service act proclaimed from the altars of the catholic churches, which, during the great war, defeated the application to ireland of the compulsory service which england, scotland, and wales accepted as the only alternative to national defeat and humiliation. but these were only conspicuous examples of what the irish protestant sees around him every day of his life. the promulgation in 1908 of the vatican decree, _nec temere_, a papal reassertion of the canonical invalidity of mixed marriages, followed as it was by notorious cases of the victimisation of protestant women by the application of its principles, did not encourage the protestants to welcome the prospect of a catholic parliament that would have control of the marriage law; nor did they any more readily welcome the prospect of national education on purely ecclesiastical lines. another vatican decree that was equally alarming to protestants was that entitled _motu proprio_, by which any catholic layman was _ipso facto_ excommunicated who should have the temerity to bring a priest into a civil court either as defendant or witness. medievalism like this was felt by ulster protestants to be irreconcilable with modern ideas of democratic freedom, and to indicate a temper that boded ill for any regime which would be subject to its inspiration. these were matters, it is true,--and there were perhaps some others of a similar nature--on which it is possible to conceive more or less satisfactory legislative safeguards being provided; but as regards the indefinable but innumerable minutiae in which the prevailing ecclesiastical standpoint creates an atmosphere in which daily life has to be carried on, no safeguards could be devised, and it was the realisation of this truth in the light of their own experience that made the ulstermen continually close their ears to allurements of that sort. the roman church is quite consistent, and from its own point of view praiseworthy, in its assertion of its right, and its duty, to control the lives and thoughts of men; but this assertion has produced a clash with the non-ecclesiastical mind in almost every country, where catholicism is the dominant religious faith. but in ireland, unlike continental countries, there is no catholic lay opinion--or almost none--able to make its voice heard against clerical dictation, and consequently the protestants felt convinced, with good reason, that any legislature in ireland must take its tone from this pervading mental and moral atmosphere, and that all its proceedings would necessarily be tainted by it. prior to 1885 the political complexion of ulster was in the main liberal. the presbyterians, who formed the majority of the protestant population, collateral descendants of the men who emigrated in the eighteenth century and formed the backbone of washington's army, and direct descendants of those who joined the united irishmen in 1798, were of a pronounced liberal type, and their frequently strong disapproval of orangeism made any united political action an improbable occurrence. but the crisis brought about by gladstone's declaration in favour of home rule instantly swept all sections of loyalists into a single camp. there was practically not a liberal left who did not become unionist, and, although a separate organisation of liberal unionists was maintained, the co-operation with conservatives was so whole-hearted and complete as almost to amount to fusion from the outset. the immediate cessation of class friction was still more remarkable. for more than a decade the perennial quarrel between landlord and tenant had been increasing in intensity, and the recent land legislation had disposed the latter to look upon gladstone as a deliverer. their gratitude was wiped out the moment he hoisted the green flag, while the labourers enfranchised by the act of 1884 eagerly enrolled themselves as the bitterest enemies of his new irish policy. the unanimity of the country-side was matched in the towns, and especially in belfast, where, with the single exception of a definitely catholic quarter, employer and artisan were as whole-heartedly united as were landlord and tenant in passionate resentment at what they regarded as the betrayal by england's foremost statesman of england's only friends in ireland. the defeat of the home rule bill of 1886 brought relief from the immediate strain of anxiety. but it was at once realised that the encouragement and support given to irish disloyalty for the first time by one of the great political parties in great britain was a step that could never be recalled. henceforth the vigilance required to prevent being taken unawares, and the untiring organisation necessary for making effective defence against an attack which, although it had signally failed at the first onslaught, was certain to be renewed, welded all the previously diverse social and political elements in ulster into a single compact mass, tempered to the maximum power of resistance. there was room for no other thought in the minds of men who felt as if living in a beleaguered citadel, whose flag they were bound in honour to keep flying to the last. the "loyalist" tradition acquired fresh meaning and strength, and its historical setting took a more conscious hold on the public mind of ulster, as men studied afresh the story of the relief of derry or the horrors of 1641. visits of encouragement from the leaders of unionism across the channel, men like lord salisbury, mr. balfour, mr. chamberlain, lord randolph churchill, fortified the resolution of a populace that came more and more to regard themselves as a bulwark of the empire, on whom destiny, while conferring on them the honour of upholding the flag, had imposed the duty of putting into actual practice the familiar motto of the orange lodges--"no surrender." from a psychology so bred and nourished sprang a political temper which, as it hardened with the passing years, appeared to english home rulers to be "stiff-necked," "bigoted," and "intractable." it certainly was a state of mind very different from those shifting gusts of transient impression which in england go by the name of public opinion; and, if these epithets in the mouths of opponents be taken as no more than synonyms for "uncompromising," they were not undeserved. at a memorable meeting at the albert hall in london on the 22nd of april, 1893, dr. alexander, bishop of derry, poet, orator, and divine, declared in an eloquent passage that was felt to be the exact expression of ulster conviction, that the people of ulster, when exhorted to show confidence in their southern fellow-countrymen, "could no more be confiding about its liberty than a pure woman can be confiding about her honour." here was the irreconcilable division. the nationalist talked of centuries of "oppression," and demanded the dissolution of the union in the name of liberty. the ulsterman, while far from denying the misgovernment of former times, knew that it was the fruit of false ideas which had passed away, and that the ireland in which he lived enjoyed as much liberty as any land on earth; and he feared the loss of the true liberty he had gained if put back under a regime of nationalist and utramontane domination. and so for more than thirty years the people of ulster for whom bishop alexander spoke made good his words. if in the end compromise was forced upon them it was not because their standpoint had changed, and it was only in circumstances which involved no dishonour, and which preserved them from what they chiefly dreaded, subjection to a dublin parliament inspired by clericalism and disloyalty to the empire. the development which brought about the change from ulster's resolute stand for unimpaired union with great britain to her reluctant acceptance of a separate local constitution for the predominantly protestant portion of the province, presents a deeply interesting illustration of the truth of a pregnant dictum of maine's on the working of democratic institutions. "democracies," he says, "are quite paralysed by the plea of nationality. there is no more effective way of attacking them than by admitting the right of the majority to govern, but denying that the majority so entitled is the particular majority which claims the right."[2] this is precisely what occurred in regard to ulster's relation to great britain and to the rest of ireland respectively. the will of the majority must prevail, certainly. but what majority? unionists maintained that only the majority in the united kingdom could decide, and that it had never in fact decided in favour of repealing the act of union; lord rosebery at one time held that a majority in great britain alone, as the "predominant partner," must first give its consent; irish nationalists argued that the majority in ireland, as a distinct unit, was the only one that should count. ulster, whilst agreeing with the general unionist position, contended ultimately that her own majority was as well entitled to be heard in regard to her own fate as the majority in ireland as a whole. to the nationalist claim that ireland was a nation she replied that it was either two nations or none, and that if one of the two had a right to "self-determination," the other had it equally. thus the axiom of democracy that government is by the majority was, as maine said, "paralysed by the plea of nationality," since the contending parties appealed to the same principle without having any common ground as to how it should be applied to the case in dispute. if the union with great britain was to be abrogated, which pitt had only established when "a full measure of home rule" had produced a bloody insurrection and irish collusion with england's external enemies, ulster could at all events in the last resort take her stand on abraham lincoln's famous proposition which created west virginia: "a minority of a large community who make certain claims for self-government cannot, in logic or in substance, refuse the same claims to a much larger proportionate minority among themselves." the loyalists of ulster were successful in holding this second line, when the first was no longer tenable; but they only retired from the first line--the maintenance of the legislative union--after a long and obstinate defence which it is the purpose of the following pages to relate. footnotes: [1] _henry edward manning_, by shane leslie, p. 406. [2] sir s.h. maine, _popular government_, p. 28. chapter ii the electorate and home rule we profess to be a democratic country in which the "will of the people" is the ultimate authority in determining questions of policy, and the liberal party has been accustomed to regard itself as the most zealous guardian of democratic principles. yet there is this curious paradox in relation to the problem which more than any other taxed british statesmanship during the thirty-five years immediately following the enfranchisement of the rural democracy in 1884, that the solution propounded by the liberal party, and inscribed by that party on the statute-book in 1914, was more than once emphatically rejected, and has never been explicitly accepted by the electorate. no policy ever submitted to the country was more decisively condemned at the polls than mr. gladstone's home rule proposals in the general election of 1886. the issue then for the first time submitted to the people was isolated from all others with a completeness scarcely ever practicable--a circumstance which rendered the "mandate" to parliament to maintain the legislative union exceptionally free from ambiguity. the party which had brought forward the defeated proposal, although led by a statesman of unrivalled popularity, authority, and power, was shattered in the attempt to carry it, and lost the support of numbers of its most conspicuous adherents, including chamberlain, hartington, goschen, and john bright, besides a multitude of its rank and file, who entered into political partnership with their former opponents in order to withstand the new departure of their old chief. the years that followed were a period of preparation by both sides for the next battle. the improvement in the state of ireland, largely the result of legislation carried by lord salisbury's government, especially that which promoted land purchase, encouraged the confidence felt by unionists that the british voter would remain staunch to the union. the downfall of parnell in 1890, followed by the break-up of his party, and by his death in the following year, seemed to make the danger of home rule still more remote. the only disquieting factor was the personality of mr. gladstone, which, the older he grew, exercised a more and more incalculable influence on the public mind. and there can be no doubt that it was this personal influence that made him, in spite of his policy, and not because of it, prime minister for the fourth time in 1892. in great britain the electors in that year pronounced against home rule again by a considerable majority, and it was only by coalition with the eighty-three irish nationalist members that gladstone and his party were able to scrape up a majority of forty in support of his second home rule bill. whether there was any ground for gladstone's belief that but for the o'shea divorce he would have had a three-figure majority in 1892 is of little consequence, but the fall of his own majority in midlothian from 4,000 to below 700, which caused him "intense chagrin,"[3] does not lend it support. lord morley says gladstone was blamed by some of his friends for accepting office "depending on a majority not large enough to coerce the house of lords"[4]; but a more valid ground of censure was that he was willing to break up the constitution of the united kingdom, although a majority of british electors had just refused to sanction such a thing being done. that gladstone's colleagues realised full well the true state of public opinion on the subject, if he himself did not, was shown by their conduct when the home rule bill, after being carried through the house of commons by diminutive majorities, was rejected on second reading by the peers. even their great leader's entreaty could not persuade them to consent to an appeal to the people[5]; and when they were tripped up over the cordite vote in 1895, after gladstone had disappeared from public life, none of them probably were surprised at the overwhelming vote by which the constituencies endorsed the action of the house of lords, and pronounced for the second time in ten years against granting home rule to ireland. if anything except the personal ascendancy of gladstone contributed to his small coalition majority in 1892 it was no doubt the confidence of the electors that the house of lords could be relied upon to prevent the passage of a home rule bill. it is worth noting that nearly twenty years later lord crewe acknowledged that the home rule bill of 1893 could not have stood the test of a general election or of a referendum.[6] during the ten years of unionist government from 1895 to 1905 the question of home rule slipped into the background. other issues, such as those raised by the south african war and mr. chamberlain's tariff policy, engrossed the public mind. english home rulers showed a disposition to hide away, if not to repudiate altogether, the legacy they had inherited from gladstone. lord rosebery acknowledged the necessity to convert "the predominant partner," a mission which every passing year made appear a more hopeless undertaking. at by-elections home rule was scarcely mentioned. in the eyes of average englishmen the question was dead and buried, and most people were heartily thankful to hear no more about it. mr. t.m. healy's caustic wit remarked that "home rule was put into cold storage."[7] then came the great overthrow of the unionists in 1906. home rule, except by its absence from liberal election addresses, contributed nothing at all to that resounding liberal victory. the battle of "terminological inexactitudes" rang with cries of chinese "slavery," tariff reform, church schools, labour dispute bills, and so forth; but on ireland silence reigned on the platforms of the victors. the event was to give the successors of mr. gladstone a house of commons in complete subjection to them. for the first time since 1885 they had a majority independent of the nationalists, a majority, if ever there was one, "large enough to coerce the house of lords," as they would have done in 1893, according to lord morley, if they had had the power. but to do that would involve the danger of having again to appeal to the country, which even at this high tide of liberal triumph they could not face with home rule as an election cry. so, with the tame acquiescence of mr. redmond and his followers, they spent four years of unparalleled power without laying a finger on irish government, a course which was rendered easy for them by the fact that, on their own admission, they had found ireland in a more peaceful, prosperous, and contented condition than it had enjoyed for several generations. occasionally, indeed, as was necessary to prevent a rupture with the nationalists, some perfunctory mention of home rule as a _desideratum_ of the future was made on ministerial platforms--by mr. churchill, for example, at manchester in may 1909. but by that date even the contest over tariff reform--which had raged without intermission for six years, and by rending the unionist party had grievously damaged it as an effective instrument of opposition--had become merged in the more immediately exciting battle of the budget, provoked by mr. lloyd george's financial proposals for the current year, and by the possibility that they might be rejected by the house of lords. this the house of lords did, on the 30th of november, 1909, and the prime minister at once announced that he would appeal to the country without delay. such a turn of events was a wonderful windfall for the irish nationalists, beyond what the most sanguine of them can ever have hoped for. the rejection of a money bill by the house of lords raised a democratic blizzard, the full force of which was directed against the constitutional power of veto possessed by the hereditary chamber in relation not merely to money bills, but to general legislation. for a long time the liberal party had been threatening that part of the constitution without much effect. sixteen years had passed since mr. gladstone in his last speech in the house of commons declared that issue must be joined with the peers; but the emphatic endorsement by the constituencies in 1895 of the lords' action which he had denounced, followed by ten years of unionist government, damped down the ardour of attack so effectually that, during the four years in which the liberals enjoyed unchallengeable power, from 1906 to 1910, they did nothing to carry out gladstone's parting injunction. had they done so at any time when home rule was a living issue in the country an attack on the lords would in all probability have proved disastrous to themselves. for there was not a particle of evidence that the electors of great britain had changed their minds on this subject, and there were great numbers of voters in the country--those voters, unattached to party, who constitute "the swing of the pendulum," and decide the issue at general elections--who felt free to vote liberal in 1906 because they believed home rule was practically dead, and if revived would be again given its _quietus_, as in 1893, by the house of lords. but the defeat of the budget in november 1909 immediately opened a line of attack wholly unconnected with ireland, and over the most favourable ground that could have been selected for the assault. nothing could have been more skilful than the tactics employed by the liberal leaders. concentrating on the constitutional question raised by the alleged encroachment of the lords on the exclusive privilege of the commons to grant supply, they tried to excite a hurricane of popular fury by calling on the electorate to decide between "peers and people." the rejected finance bill was dubbed "the people's budget." a "budget league" was formed to expatiate through the constituencies on the democratic character of its provisions, and on the personal and class selfishness of the peers in throwing it out. as little as possible was said about ireland, and probably not one voter in ten thousand who went to the poll in january 1910 ever gave a thought to the subject, or dreamed that he was taking part in reversing the popular verdict of 1886 and 1895. afterwards, when it was complained that an election so conducted had provided no "mandate" for home rule, it was found that in the course of a long speech delivered by mr. asquith at the albert hall on the 10th of december there was a sentence in which the prime minister had declared that "the irish problem could only be solved by a policy which, while explicitly safeguarding the supreme authority of the imperial parliament, would set up self-government in ireland in regard to irish affairs." the rest of the speech dealt with tariff reform and with the constitutional question of the house of lords, on which the public mind was focused throughout the election. in the unprecedented deluge of oratory that flooded the country in the month preceding the elections the prime minister's sentence on ireland at the albert hall passed almost unnoticed in english and scottish constituencies, or was quickly lost sight of, like a coin in a cornstack, under sheaves of rhetoric about the dear loaf and the intolerable arrogance of hereditary legislators. here and there a unionist candidate did his best to warn a constituency that every liberal vote was a vote for home rule. he was invariably met with an impatient retort that he was attempting to raise a bogey to divert attention from the iniquity of the lords and the tariff reformers. home rule, he was told, was dead and buried. on the 19th of january, 1910, when the elections were over in the boroughs, mr. asquith claimed that "the great industrial centres had mainly declared for free trade," and the impartial chronicler of the _annual register_ stated that "the liberals had fought on free trade and the constitutional issue." the twice-repeated decision of the country against home rule for ireland was therefore in no sense reversed by the general election of january 1910. but from the very beginning of the agitation over the budget and the action of the house of lords in relation to it, in the summer of 1909, the gravity of the situation so created was fully appreciated by both political parties in ireland itself. only the most languid interest was there taken in the questions which stirred the constituencies across the channel. neither nationalist nor unionist cared anything whatever for free trade; neither of them shed a tear over the rejected budget. indeed, mr. lloyd george's new taxes were so unpopular in ireland that mr. redmond was violently attacked by mr. william o'brien and mr. healy for his neglect of obvious irish interests in supporting the government. mr. redmond, for his part, made no pretence that his support was given because he approved of the proposals for which he and his followers gave their votes in every division. the clauses of the finance bill were trifles in his eyes that did not matter. his gaze was steadily fixed on the house of peers, which he saw before him as a huntsman views a fox with bedraggled brush, reduced to a trot a field or two ahead of the hounds. that house was, as he described it, "the last obstacle to home rule," and he was determined to do all he could to remove the obstacle. lord rosebery said at glasgow in september 1909 that he believed ministers wanted the house of lords to reject the budget. whether they did or not, there can be no doubt that mr. redmond did, for he knew that, in that event, the whole strength of the liberal party would be directed to the task of beating down the "last obstacle," and that then it would be possible to carry home rule without the british constituencies being consulted. it was with this end in view that he took his party into the lobby in support of a budget that was detested in ireland, and threw the whole weight of his influence in british constituencies on to the liberal side in the elections of january 1910. but, notwithstanding the torrent of class prejudice and democratic passion that was stirred up by six weeks of liberal oratory, the result of the elections was a serious loss of strength to the government. the commanding liberal majority of 1906 over all parties in the house of commons disappeared, and mr. asquith and his cabinet were once more dependent on a coalition of labour members and nationalists. the liberals by themselves had a majority of two only over the unionists, who had won over one hundred seats, so that the nationalists were easily in a position to enforce their leader's threat to make mr. asquith "toe the line." when the parliament elected in january 1910 assembled disputes arose between the government and the nationalists as to whether priority was to be given to passing the budget rejected in the previous session, or to the parliament bill which was to deprive the house of lords of its constitutional power to reject legislation passed by the commons; and mr. redmond expressed his displeasure that "guarantees" had not yet been obtained from the king, or, in plain language, that a promise had not been extorted from the sovereign that he would be prepared to create a sufficient number of peers to secure the acceptance of the parliament bill by the upper house. the whole situation was suddenly changed by the death of king edward in may 1910. consideration for the new and inexperienced sovereign led to the temporary abandonment of coercion of the crown, and resort was had to a conference of party leaders, with a view to settlement of the dispute by agreement. but no agreement was arrived at, and the conference broke up on the 10th of november. parliament was again dissolved in december, "on the assumption," as lord crewe stated, "that the house of lords would reject the parliament bill." during the agitation of this troubled autumn preceding the general election, the question of home rule was not quite so successfully concealed from view as in the previous year. the liberals, indeed, maintained the same tactical reserve on the subject, alike in their writings and their speeches. the liberal press of the period may be searched in vain for any clear indication that the electors were about to be asked to decide once more this momentous constitutional question. such mention of it as was occasionally to be found in ministerial speeches seemed designed to convey the idea that, while the door leading to home rule was still formally open, there was no immediate prospect of its being brought into use. the prime minister in particular did everything in his power to direct the attention of the country to the same issues as in the preceding january, among which ireland had had no place. in presenting the government's case at hull on the 25th of november, he reminded the country that in the january elections the veto of the peers was "the dominant issue"; in the intervening months the government, he said, had brought forward proposals for dealing with the veto, and had given the lords an opportunity to make proposals of their own; a defeat of the liberals in the coming elections would bring in "protection disguised as tariff reform"; but he (mr. asquith) preferred to concentrate his criticism on lord lansdowne's "crude and complex scheme" for second chamber reform; he made a passing mention of "self-government for ireland" as a policy that would have the sympathy of the dominions, but added that "the immediate task was to secure fair play for liberal legislation and popular government." and in his election address mr. asquith declared that "the appeal to the country was almost narrowed to a single issue, and on its determination hung the whole future of democratic government." this zeal for "popular," or "democratic" government was, however, not inconsistent apparently with a determination to avoid at all hazards consulting the will of the people, before doing what the people had hitherto always refused to sanction. the suggestion had been made earlier in the autumn that a referendum, or "poll of the people" might be taken on the question of home rule. the very idea filled the liberals with dismay. speaking at edinburgh on the 2nd of december, mr. lloyd george, the chancellor of the exchequer, made the curiously naive admission, for a "democratic" politician, that the referendum would amount to "a prohibitive tariff against liberalism." a few days earlier at reading (november 29th) his chief sought to turn the edge of this disconcerting proposal by asking whether the unionists, if returned to power, would allow tariff reform to be settled by the same mode of appeal to the country; and when mr. balfour promptly accepted the challenge by promising that he would do so mr. asquith retreated under cover of the excuse that no bargain had been intended. while the liberal leaders were thus doing all they could to hold down the lid of the home rule jack-in-the-box, the unionists were warning the country that as soon as mr. asquith secured a majority his thumb would release the spring. speakers from ulster carried the warning into many constituencies, but it was noticed that they were constantly met with the same retort as in january--that home rule was a "bogey," or a "red herring" dragged across the trail of tariff reform and the peers' veto; and it is a significant indication of the straits to which the government afterwards felt themselves driven to find justification for dealing with so fundamental a question as the repeal of the union without the explicit approval of the electorate, that they devised the strange doctrine that speeches by their opponents provided them with a mandate for a policy about which they had themselves kept silence, even although those speeches had been disbelieved and derided on the very ground that it would be impossible for ministers to bring forward a policy they had not laid before the country during the election. the extent to which this ministerial reserve was carried was shown by a question put to mr. asquith in his own constituency in east fife on the 6th of december. scottish "hecklers" are intelligent and well informed on current politics, and no one who knows them can imagine one of them asking the prime minister whether he intended to introduce a home rule bill if home rule had been proclaimed as one of the chief items in the policy of the government. mr. asquith gave an affirmative reply; but the elections were by this time half over, and in the following week mr. balfour laid stress on the fact that five hundred contests had been decided before any minister had mentioned home rule. even after giving this memorable answer in east fife mr. asquith, speaking at bury st. edmunds on the 12th of december, declared that "the sole issue at that moment was the supremacy of the people," and he added, in deprecation of all the talk about ireland, that "it was sought to confuse this issue by catechising ministers on the details of the next home rule bill." even if this had been, as it was not, a true description of the attempts that had been made to extract a frank declaration from the government as to their intentions in regard to this vitally important matter--far more important to hundreds of thousands of people than any question of tariff, or of limiting the functions of the second chamber --it was surely a curious doctrine to be propounded by a statesman zealous to preserve "popular government "! there had been two home rule bills in the past, differing one from the other in not a few important respects; discussion had shown that many even of those who supported the principle of home rule objected strongly to this or that proposal for embodying it in legislation language had been used by mr. asquith himself, as well as by some of his principal colleagues, which implied that any future home rule bill would be part of a general scheme of "devolution," or federation, or "home rule all round"--a solution of the question favoured by many who hotly opposed separate treatment for ireland yet here was the responsible minister, in the middle of a general election, complaining that the issue was being "confused" by presumptuous persons who wanted to know what sort of home rule, if any, he had in contemplation in the event of obtaining a majority sufficient to keep him in power. under such circumstances it would have been a straining of constitutional principles, and a flagrant violation of the canons of that "democratic government" of which mr asquith had constituted himself the champion, to pass a home rule bill by means of a majority so obtained, even if the majority had been one that pointed to a sweeping turnover of public opinion to the side of the government the elections of december 1910, in point of fact, gave no such indication. the government gained nothing whatever by the appeal to the country. liberals and unionists came back in almost precisely the same strength as in the previous parliament. they balanced each other within a couple of votes in the new house of commons, and the ministry could not have remained twenty-four hours in office except in coalition with labour and the irish nationalists. the parliament so elected and so constituted was destined not merely to destroy the effective power of the house of lords, and to place on the statute-book a measure setting up an irish parliament in dublin, but to be an assembly longer in duration and more memorable in achievement than any in english history since the long parliament. during the eight years of its reign the great war was fought and won; the "rebel party" in ireland once more, as in the napoleonic wars, broke into armed insurrection in league with the enemies of england; and before it was dissolved the political parties in great britain, heartily supported by the loyalists of ulster, composed the party differences which had raged with such passion over home rule and other domestic issues, and joined forces in patriotic resistance to the foreign enemy. but before this transformation took place nearly four years of agitation and contest had to run their course. in the first session of the parliament, by a violent use of the royal prerogative, the parliament bill became law, the peers accepting the measure under duress of the threat that some four or five hundred peerages would, if necessary, be created to form a majority to carry it. it was then no longer possible for the upper house to force an appeal to the country on home rule, as it had done in 1893. all that was necessary was for a bill to be carried in three successive sessions through the house of commons, to become law. "the last obstacle to home rule," as mr. redmond called it, had been removed. the liberal government had taken a hint from the procedure of the careful burglar, who poisons the dog before breaking into the house. the significance of the manner in which the irish question had been kept out of view of the electorate by the government and their supporters was not lost upon the people of ulster. in january 1911, within a month of the elections, a meeting of the ulster unionist council was held at which a comprehensive resolution dealing with the situation that had arisen was adopted, and published as a manifesto. one of its clauses was: "the council has observed with much surprise the singular reticence as regards home rule maintained by a large number of radical candidates in england and scotland during the recent elections, and especially by the prime minister himself, who barely referred to the subject till almost the close of his own contest. in view of the consequent fact that home rule was not at the late appeal to the country placed as a clear issue before the electors, it is the judgment of the council that the country has given no mandate for home rule, and that any attempt in such circumstances to force through parliament a measure enacting it would be for his majesty's ministers a grave, if not criminal, breach of constitutional duty." the great importance, in relation to the policy subsequently pursued by ulster, of the historical fact here made clear--namely, that the "will of the people" constitutionally expressed in parliamentary elections has never declared itself in favour of granting home rule to ireland, lies, first, in the justification it afforded to the preparations for active resistance to a measure so enacted; and, secondly, in the influence it had in procuring for ulster not merely the sympathy but the open support of the whole unionist party in great britain. lord londonderry, one of ulster's most trusted leaders, who afterwards gave the whole weight of his support to the policy of forcible resistance, admitted in the house of lords in 1911, in the debates on the parliament bill, that the verdict of the country, if appealed to, would have to be accepted. the leader of the unionist party, mr. bonar law, made it clear in february 1914, as he had more than once stated before, that the support he and his party were pledging themselves to give to ulster in the struggle then approaching a climax, was entirely due to the fact that the electorate had never sanctioned the policy of the government against which ulster's resistance was threatened. the chance of success in that resistance "depended," he said, "upon the sympathy of the british people, and an election would undoubtedly make a great difference in that respect"; he denied that mr. asquith had a "right to pass any form of home rule without a mandate from the people of this country, which he has never received"; and he categorically announced that "if you get the decision of the people we shall obey it." and if, as then appeared likely, the unconstitutional conduct of the government should lead to bloodshed in ireland, the responsibility, said mr. bonar law, would be theirs, "because you preferred to face civil war rather than face the people."[8] footnotes: [3] morley's _life of gladstone_, in, 492. [4] ibid., 493. [5] ibid., 505. [6] _annual register_, 1910, p. 240. [7] see _letters to isabel_, by lord shaw of dunfermline, p. 130. [8] _parliamentary debates_ (5th series), vol. i viii, pp. 279-84. chapter iii organisation and leadership from the day when gladstone first made home rule for ireland the leading issue in british politics, the loyalists of ulster--who, as already explained, included practically all the protestant population of the province both conservative and liberal, besides a small number of catholics who had no separatist sympathies--set to work to organise themselves for effective opposition to the new policy. in the hour of their dismay over gladstone's surrender lord randolph churchill, hurrying from london to encourage and inspirit them, told them in the ulster hall on the 22nd of february, 1886, that "the loyalists in ulster should wait and watch--organise and prepare."[9] they followed his advice. propaganda among themselves was indeed unnecessary, for no one required conversion except those who were known to be inconvertible. the chief work to be done was to send speakers to british constituencies; and in the decade from 1885 to 1895 ulster speakers, many of whom were ministers of the different protestant churches, were in request on english and scottish platforms. a number of organisations were formed for this purpose, some of which, like the irish unionist alliance, represented unionist opinion throughout ireland, and not in ulster alone. others were exclusively concerned with the northern province, where from the first the opposition was naturally more concentrated than elsewhere. in the early days, the ulster loyalist and patriotic union, organised by lord ranfurly and mr. w.r. young, carried on an active and sustained campaign in great britain, and the unionist clubs initiated by lord templetown provided a useful organisation in the smaller country towns, which still exists as an effective force. the loyal orange institution, founded at the end of the eighteenth century to commemorate, and to keep alive the principles of, the whig revolution of 1688, had fallen into not unmerited disrepute prior to 1886. few men of education or standing belonged to it, and the lodge meetings and anniversary celebrations had become little better than occasions for conviviality wholly inconsistent with the irreproachable formularies of the order. but its system of local lodges, affiliated to a grand lodge in each county, supplied the ready-made framework of an effective organisation. immediately after the introduction of gladstone's first bill in 1886 it received an immense accession of strength. large numbers of country gentlemen, clergymen of all protestant denominations, business and professional men, farmers, and the better class of artisans in belfast and other towns, joined the local lodges, the management of which passed into capable hands; the character of the society was thereby completely and rapidly transformed, and, instead of being a somewhat disreputable and obsolete survival, it became a highly respectable as well as an exceedingly powerful political organisation, the whole weight of whose influence has been on the side of the union. a rallying cry was given to the ulster loyalists in the famous phrase contained in a letter from lord randolph churchill to a correspondent in may 1886: "ulster will fight, and ulster will be right." from this time forward the idea that resort to physical resistance would be preferable to submission to a parliament in dublin controlled by the "rebel party" took hold of the popular mind in ulster, although after the elections of 1886 there was no serious apprehension that the necessity would arise, until the return to power of mr. gladstone at the head of a small majority in 1892 brought about a fresh crisis. the work of organisation was then undertaken with greater energy and thoroughness than before. it was now that lord templetown founded the unionist clubs, which spread in an affiliated network through ulster, and proved so valuable that, after falling into neglect during the ten years of conservative government, they were revived at the special request of the ulster unionist council in december 1910. nothing, however, did so much to stimulate organisation and concentration of effort as the great convention held in belfast on the 19th of june 1892, representing on a democratic basis all the constituencies in ulster. numerous preliminary meetings were arranged for the purpose of electing the delegates; and of these the special correspondent of _the times_ wrote: "nothing has struck me more in the present movement than the perfect order and regularity with which the preliminary meetings for the election of delegates has been conducted. from city and town and village come reports of crowded and enthusiastic gatherings, all animated by an equal ardour, all marked by the same spirit of quiet determination. there has been no 'tall talk,' no over-statement; the speeches have been dignified, sensible, and practical. one of the most marked features in the meetings has been the appearance of men who have never before taken part in public life, who have never till now stood on a public platform. now for the first time they have broken with the tranquil traditions of a lifetime, and have come forward to take their share and their responsibility in the grave danger which threatens their country."[10] there being no building large enough to hold the delegates, numbering nearly twelve thousand, every one of whom was a registered voter appointed by the polling districts to attend the convention, a pavilion, the largest ever used for a political meeting in the kingdom, was specially constructed close to the botanical gardens in belfast. it covered 33,000 square feet, and, owing to the enthusiasm of the workmen employed on the building, it was erected (at a cost of over â£3,000) within three weeks. it provided seating accommodation for 13,000 people, but the number who actually gained admittance to the convention was nearly 21,000, while outside an assemblage, estimated by the correspondent of _the times_ at 300,000, was also addressed by the principal speakers. the commencement of the proceedings with prayer, conducted by the primate of all ireland and the moderator of the presbyterian church, set a precedent which was extensively followed in later years throughout ulster, marking the spirit of seriousness which struck numerous observers as characteristic of the ulster movement. the speakers were men representative of all the varied interests of the province--religious, agricultural, commercial, and industrial--and among them were two men, mr. thomas sinclair and mr. thomas andrews, who had been life-long liberals, but who from this time forward were distinguished and trusted leaders of unionist opinion in ulster. it was mr. andrews who touched a chord that vibrated through the vast audience, making them leap to their feet, cheering for several minutes. "as a last resource," he cried, "we will be prepared to defend ourselves." but the climax of this memorable assembly was reached when the chairman, the duke of abercorn, with upraised arm, and calling on the audience solemnly to repeat the words one by one after him, gave out what became for the future the motto and watchword of ulster loyalty: "we will not have home rule." it was felt that this simple negation constituted a solemn vow taken by the delegates, both for themselves and for those they represented--an act of self-dedication to which every loyal man and woman in ulster was committed, and from which there could be no turning back. the principal resolution, adopted unanimously by the convention, formulated the grounds on which the people of the province based their hostility to the separatist policy of home rule; and as frequent reference was made to it in after-years as an authoritative definition of ulster policy, it may be worth while to recall its terms: "that this convention, consisting of 11,879 delegates representing the unionists of every creed, class, and party throughout ulster, appointed at public meetings held in every electoral division of the province, hereby solemnly resolves and declares: 'that we express the devoted loyalty of ulster unionists to the crown and constitution of the united kingdom; that we avow our fixed resolve to retain unchanged our present position as an integral portion of the united kingdom, and protest in the most unequivocal manner against the passage of any measure that would rob us of our inheritance in the imperial parliament, under the protection of which our capital has been invested and our homes and rights safeguarded; that we record our determination to have nothing to do with a parliament certain to be controlled by men responsible for the crime and outrages of the land league, the dishonesty of the plan of campaign, and the cruelties of boycotting, many of whom have shown themselves the ready instruments of clerical domination; that we declare to the people of great britain our conviction that the attempt to set up such a parliament in ireland will inevitably result in disorder, violence, and bloodshed, such as have not been experienced in this century, and announce our resolve to take no part in the election or proceedings of such a parliament, the authority of which, should it ever be constituted, we shall be forced to repudiate; that we protest against this great question, which involves our lives, property, and civil rights, being treated as a mere side-issue in the impending electoral struggle; that we appeal to those of our fellow countrymen who have hitherto been in favour of a separate parliament to abandon a demand which hopelessly divides irishmen, and to unite with us under the imperial legislature in developing the resources and furthering the best interests of our common country.'" there can be no doubt that the ulster convention of 1892, and the numerous less imposing demonstrations which followed on both sides of the channel and took their tone from it, of which the most notable was the great meeting at the albert hall in london on the 22nd of april, 1893, had much effect in impressing and instructing public opinion, and thus preparing the way for the smashing defeat of the liberal home rule party in the general election of 1895. after that event vigilance again relaxed during the ten years of unionist predominance which followed. but the organisation was kept intact, and its democratic method of appointing delegates in every polling district provided a permanent electoral machinery for the unionist party in the constituencies, as well as the framework for the ulster unionist council, which was brought into existence in 1905, largely through the efforts of mr. william moore, m.p. for north armagh. this council, with its executive standing committee, was thenceforward the acknowledged authority for determining all questions of unionist policy in ulster. its first meeting was held on the 3rd of march, 1905, under the presidency of colonel james mccalmont, m.p. for east antrim. the first ten members of the standing committee were nominated by colonel saunderson, m.p., as chairman of the ulster parliamentary party. they were, in addition to the chairman himself, the duke of abercorn, the marquis of londonderry, the earl of erne, the earl of ranfurly, colonel james mccalmont, m.p., the hon. r.t. o'neill, m.p., mr. g. wolff, m.p., mr. j.b. lonsdale, m.p., and mr. william moore, k.c., m.p. these nominations were confirmed by a ballot of the members of the council, and twenty other members were elected forthwith to form the standing committee. this first executive committee of the organisation which for the next fifteen years directed the policy of ulster unionism included several names that were from this time forward among the most prominent in the movement. there were the two eminent liberals, mr. thomas sinclair and mr. thomas andrews, and mr. john young, all three of whom were members of the irish privy council; colonel r.h. wallace, c.b., mr. w.h.h. lyons, and sir james stronge, leaders of the orangemen; colonel sharman-crawford, mr. e.m. archdale, mr. w.j. allen, mr. r.h. reade, and sir william ewart. among several "unionist candidates for ulster constituencies" who were at the same meeting co-opted to the council, we find the names of captain james craig and mr. denis henry, k.c. the duke of abercorn accepted the position of president of the council, and mr. e.m. archdale was elected chairman of the standing committee. mr. t.h. gibson was appointed secretary. in october 1906 the latter resigned his post owing to failing health, and, on the motion of mr. william moore, m.p., mr. richard dawson bates, a solicitor practising in belfast, was "temporarily" appointed to fill the vacancy. this temporary appointment was never formally made permanent, but no question in regard to the secretaryship was ever raised, for mr. bates performed the duties year after year to the complete satisfaction of everyone connected with the organisation, and in a manner that earned the gratitude of all ulster unionists. the funds at the disposal of the council in 1906 only enabled a salary of â£100 a year to be paid to the secretary--a salary that was purely nominal in the case of a professional gentleman of mr. bates's standing; but the spirit in which he took up his duties was seen two years later, when it was found that out of this salary he had himself been paying for clerical assistance; and then, of course, this matter was properly adjusted, which the improved financial position of the council happily rendered possible. the declared purpose of the ulster unionist council was to form a union of all local unionist associations in ulster; to keep the latter in constant touch with their parliamentary representatives; and "to be the medium of expressing ulster unionist opinion as current events may from time to time require." it consisted at first of not more than 200 members, of whom 100 represented local associations, and 50 represented the orange lodges, the remaining 50 being made up of ulster members of both houses of parliament and of certain "distinguished residents in or natives of ulster" to be co-opted by the council. as time went on the council was considerably enlarged, and its representative character improved. in 1911 the elected membership was raised to 370, and included representatives of local associations, orange lodges, unionist clubs, and the derry apprentice boys. in 1918 representatives of the women's associations were added, and the total elected membership was increased to 432. the delegates elected by the various constituent bodies were in the fullest sense representative men; they were drawn from all classes of the population; and, by the regularity with which they attended meetings of the council whenever business of any importance was to be transacted, they made it the most effective political organisation in the united kingdom. a campaign of public meetings in england and scotland conducted jointly by the ulster unionist council and the irish unionist alliance in 1908 led to a scheme of co-operation between the two bodies, the one representing unionists in the north and the other those in the southern provinces, which worked smoothly and effectively. a joint committee of the unionist associations of ireland was therefore formed in the same year, the organisations represented on it being the two already named and the ulster loyalist anti-repeal union. the latter, which in earlier years had done excellent spade-work under the fostering zeal of lord ranfurly and mr. william robert young, was before 1911 amalgamated with the unionist council, so that all rivalry and overlapping was thenceforward eliminated from the organisation of unionism in ulster. the council in the north and the irish unionist alliance in dublin worked in complete harmony both with each other and with the union defence league in london, whose operations were carried on under the direction of its founder, mr. walter long. the women of ulster were scarcely less active than the men in the matter of organisation. although, of course, as yet unenfranchised, they took as a rule a keener interest in political matters--meaning thereby the one absorbing question of the union--than their sex in other parts of the united kingdom. when critical times for the union arrived there was, therefore, no apathy to be overcome by the protestant women in ulster. early in 1911 the "ulster women's unionist council" was formed under the presidency of the duchess of abercorn, and very quickly became a most effective organisation side by side with that of the men. the leading spirit was the marchioness of londonderry, but that it was no aristocratic affair of titled ladies may be inferred from the fact that within twelve months of its formation between forty and fifty thousand members were enrolled. a branch in mr. devlin's constituency of west belfast, which over four thousand women joined in its first month of existence, of whom over 80 per cent, were mill-workers and shop-girls in the district, held a very effective demonstration on the 11th of january, 1912, at which mr. thomas sinclair, the most universally respected of belfast's business men, made one of his many telling speeches which familiarised the people with the commercial and financial aspects of home rule, as it would be felt in ulster. the central women's council followed this up with a more imposing gathering in the ulster hall on the 18th, which adopted with intense enthusiasm the declaration: "we will stand by our husbands, our brothers, and our sons, in whatever steps they may be forced to take in defending our liberties against the tyranny of home rule." thus before the end of 1911 men and women alike were firmly organised in ulster for the support of their loyalist principles. but the most effective organisation is impotent without leadership. among the declared "objects" of the ulster unionist council was that of acting "as a connecting link between ulster unionists and their parliamentary representatives." in the house of commons the ulster unionist members, although they recognised colonel edward saunderson, m.p., as their leader until his death in 1906, did not during his lifetime, or for some years afterwards, constitute a separate party or group. when colonel saunderson died the right hon. walter long, who had held the office of chief secretary in the last year of the unionist administration, and who had been elected for south dublin in 1906, became leader of the irish unionists--with whom those representing ulster constituencies were included. but in the elections of january 1910 mr. long was returned for a london seat, and it therefore became necessary for irish unionists to select another leader. by this time the home rule question had, as the people of ulster perceived, become once more a matter of vital urgency, although, as explained in the preceding chapter, the electors of great britain were too engrossed by other matters to give it a thought, and the liberal ministers were doing everything in their power to keep it in the background. the ulster members of the house of commons realised, therefore, the grave importance of finding a leader of the calibre necessary for dealing on equal terms with such orators and parliamentarians as mr. asquith and mr. john redmond. they did not deceive themselves into thinking that such a leader was to be found among their own number. they could produce several capable speakers, and men of judgment and good sense; but something more was needed for the critical times they saw ahead. after careful consideration, they took a step which in the event proved to be of momentous importance, and of extreme good fortune, for the enterprise that the immediate future had in store for them. mr. j.b. lonsdale, member for mid armagh, hon. secretary of the irish unionist parliamentary party, was deputed to request sir edward carson, k.c., to accept the leadership of the irish unionist party in the house of commons. several days elapsed before they received an answer; but when it came it was, happily for ulster, an acceptance. it is easy to understand sir edward carson's hesitation before consenting to assume the leadership. after carrying all before him in the irish courts, where he had been law officer of the crown, he had migrated to london, where he had been solicitor-general during the last six years of the unionist administration, and by 1910 had attained a position of supremacy at the english bar, with the certain prospect of the highest legal advancement, and with an extremely lucrative practice, which his family circumstances made it no light matter for him to sacrifice, but which he knew it would be impossible for him to retain in conjunction with the political duties he was now urged to undertake. although only in his fifty-seventh year, he was never one of those who feel younger than their age; nor did he minimise in his own mind the disability caused by his too frequent physical ailments, which inclined him to shrink from embarking upon fresh work the extent and nature of which could not be exactly foreseen. as to ambition, there are few men who ever were less moved by it, but he could not leave altogether out of consideration his firm conviction--which ultimately proved to have been ill-founded--that acceptance of the ulster leadership would cut him off from all promotion, whether political or legal.[11] moreover, although for the moment it was the leadership of a parliamentary group to which he was formally invited, it was obvious that much more was really involved; the people in ulster itself needed guidance in the crisis that was visibly approaching. ever since lord randolph churchill, with the concurrence of lord salisbury, first inspired them in 1886 with the spirit of resistance in the last resort to being placed under a dublin parliament, and assured them of british sympathy and support if driven to that extremity, the determination of ulster in this respect was known to all who had any familiarity with the temper of her people. any man who undertook to lead them at such a juncture as had been reached in 1910 must make that determination the starting-point of his policy. it was a task that would require not only statesmanship, but political courage of a high order. lord randolph churchill, in his famous ulster hall speech, had said that "no portentous change such as the repeal of the union, no change so gigantic, could be accomplished by the mere passing of a law; the history of the united states will teach us a different lesson." ulster always took her stand on the american precedent, though the exemplar was lincoln rather than washington. but although the scale of operations was, of course, infinitely smaller, the ulster leader would, if it came to the worst, be confronted by certain difficulties from which abraham lincoln was free. he might have to follow the example of the latter in forcibly resisting secession, but his legal position would be very different. he might be called upon to resist technically legal authority, whereas lincoln had it at his back. to guide and control a headstrong people, smarting under a sense of betrayal, when entering on a movement pregnant with these issues, and at the same time to stand up against a powerful government on the floor of the house of commons, was an enterprise upon which any far-seeing man might well hesitate to embark. pondering over the invitation conveyed to him in his chambers in the temple, carson may, therefore, well have asked himself what inducement there was for him to accept it. he was not an ulsterman. as a southerner he was not familiar with the psychology of the northern irish; the sectarian narrowness popularly attributed to them outside their province was wholly alien to his character; he was as far removed by nature from a fire-eater as it was possible for man to be; he was not fond of unnecessary exertion; he preferred the law to politics, and disliked addressing political assemblies. in parliament he represented, not a popular constituency, but the university of dublin. but, on the other hand, he was to the innermost core of his nature an irish loyalist. his youthful political sympathies had, indeed, been with the liberal party, but he instantly severed his connection with it when gladstone joined hands with parnell. he had made his name at the irish bar as crown prosecutor in the troubled period of mr. balfour's chief secretaryship, and this experience had bred in him a hearty detestation of the whining sentimentality, the tawdry and exaggerated rhetoric, and the manufactured discontent that found vent in nationalist politics. a sincere lover of ireland, he had too much sound sense to credit the notion that either the freedom or the prosperity of the country would be increased by loosening the tie with great britain. although he as yet knew little of ulster, he admired her resolute stand for the union, her passionate loyalty to the crown; he watched with disgust the way in which her defences were being sapped by the liberal party in england; and the thought that such a people were perhaps on the eve of being driven into subjection to the men whose character he had had so much opportunity to gauge in the days of the land league filled him with indignation. if, therefore, he could be of service in helping to avert so great a wrong sir edward carson came to the conclusion that it would be shirking a call of duty were he to decline the leadership that had been offered him. realising to the full all that it meant for himself--inevitable sacrifice of income, of ease, of chances of promotion, a burden of responsibility, a probability of danger--he gave his consent; and the day he gave it--the 21st of february, 1910--should be marked for all time as a red-letter day in the ulster calendar. footnotes: [9] _lord randolph churchill_, by the right hon. w.s. churchill, vol. ii, p. 62. [10] _the times_, june 16th, 1892. [11] he expressed this conviction to the author in 1911. chapter iv the parliament act: craigavon a good many months were to elapse before the unionist rank and file in ulster were brought into close personal touch with the new leader of the irish unionist parliamentary party. the work to be done in 1910 lay chiefly in london, where the constitutional struggle arising out of the rejection of the "people's budget" was raging. but shortly before the general election of december a demonstration was held in the ulster hall in belfast, in the hope of opening the eyes of the english and scottish electors to the danger of home rule. mr. walter long was the principal speaker, and sir edward carson, in supporting the resolution, ended his speech by quoting lord randolph churchill's famous jingling phrase, "ulster will fight, and ulster will be right." on the 31st of january, 1911, when the elections were over, he went over from london to preside at an important meeting of the ulster unionist council. the annual report of the standing committee, in welcoming his succession to mr. long in the leadership, spoke of his requiring no introduction to ulstermen; and it is true that he had occasionally spoken at meetings in belfast, and that his recent speech in the ulster hall had made an excellent impression. but he was not yet a really familiar figure even in belfast, while outside the city he was practically unknown, except of course by repute. that a man of his sagacity would quickly make his weight felt was never in doubt; but few at that time can have anticipated the extent to which a stranger--with an accent proclaiming an origin south of the boyne--was in a short time to captivate the hearts, and become literally the idolised leader, of the ulster democracy. for the latter are a people who certainly do not wear their hearts on their sleeves for daws to peck at. in the eyes of the more volatile southern celts they seem a "dour" people. they are naturally reserved, laconic of speech, without "gush," far from lavish in compliment, slow to commit themselves or to give their confidence without good and proved reason. opportunity for the populace to get into closer touch with the leader did not, however, come till the autumn. he was unable to attend the orange celebration on the 12th of july, when the anniversary, which preceded by less than a month the "removal of the last obstacle to home rule" by the passing of the parliament act, was kept with more than the usual fervour, and the speeches proved that the gravity of the situation was fully appreciated. the marquis of londonderry, addressing an immense concourse of belfast lodges, stated that it was the first time an ex-viceroy had been present at an orange gathering, but that he had deliberately created the precedent owing to his sense of the danger threatening the loyalist cause. it was the first of innumerable similar actions by which lord londonderry identified himself whole-heartedly with the popular movement, throwing aside all the conventional restraints of rank and wealth, and thereby endearing himself to every man and woman in protestant ulster. there was no more familiar figure in the streets of belfast. barefooted street urchins, catching sight of him on the steps of the ulster club, would gather round and, with free-and-easy familiarity, shout "three cheers for londonderry." he knew everybody and was everybody's friend. there was no aristocratic hauteur or aloofness about his genial personality. he was in the habit of entertaining the whole unionist council, some five hundred strong, at luncheon or dinner as the occasion required, when important meetings of the delegates took place. distinguished political visitors from england could always be invited over without thought for their entertainment, since a welcome at mount stewart was never wanting. his financial support of the political movement was equally open-handed. but, helpful as were his hospitality and his subscriptions, it was the countenance and support of a man who had held high cabinet office, and especially the great position of viceroy of ireland, that made lord londonderry's full participation an asset of incalculable value to the cause he espoused. moreover, while he was always ready to cross the channel, even if for a few hours only, when wanted for any conference or public meeting, never pleading his innumerable social and political engagements in london or the north of england as an excuse for absence, his natural modesty of character made it easy for him to act under the leadership of another. indeed, he underrated his own abilities; but there are probably not many men of his prominence and antecedents who, if similarly placed, would have been able to give, without a trace of _amour-propre,_ to a leader who had in former years been his own official subordinate, the consistently loyal backing that lord londonderry gave to sir edward carson. but, although there never was the slightest friction between the two men, a difference of opinion between them on an important point showed itself within a few months of carson's acceptance of the leadership. in july 1911 the excitement over the parliament bill reached its climax. when the government announced that the king had given his assent to the creation of whatever number of peerages might be required for carrying the measure through the upper house, the party known as "die hards" were for rejecting it and taking the consequences; while against this policy were ranged lord lansdowne, lord curzon, and other unionist leaders, who advocated the acceptance of the bill under protest. on the 20th of july carson told lansdowne that in his judgment "the disgrace and ignominy of surrender on the question far outweighed any temporary advantage" to be gained by the two years' delay of home rule which the parliament bill would secure.[12] lord londonderry, on the other hand, supported the view taken by lord lansdowne, and he voted with the majority who carried the bill on the 10th of august. this step temporarily clouded his popularity in ulster, but not many weeks passed before he completely regained the confidence and affection of the people, and the difference of opinion never in the smallest degree interrupted the harmony of his relations with sir edward carson. the true position of affairs in relation to home rule had not yet been grasped by the british public. as explained in a former chapter, it had not been in any real sense an issue in the two general elections of the previous year, and throughout the spring and summer of 1911 popular interest in england and scotland was still wholly occupied with the fight between "peers and people" and the impending blow to the power of the second chamber; and the coronation festivities also helped to divert attention from the political consequences to which the authors of the parliament bill intended it to lead. the first real awakening was brought about by an immense demonstration held at craigavon, on the outskirts of belfast, on the 23rd of september. the main purpose of this historic gathering was to bring the populace of ulster face to face with their new leader, and to give him an opportunity of making a definite pronouncement of a policy for ulster, in view of the entirely novel situation resulting from the passing of the parliament act. for that act made it possible for the first time for the liberal home rule party to repeal the act of union without an appeal to the country. it enacted that any bill which in three successive sessions was passed without substantial alteration through the house of commons might be presented for the royal assent without the consent of the lords; and an amendment to exclude a home rule bill from its operation had been successfully resisted by the government. it also reduced the maximum legal duration of a parliament from seven to five years; but the existing parliament was still in its first session, and there was therefore ample time, under the provisions of the new constitution, to pass a home rule bill before the next general election, as the coalition of parties in favour of home rule constituted a substantial majority in the house of commons. the question, therefore, which the ulster people had now to decide was no longer simply how they could bring about the rejection of a home rule bill by propaganda in the british constituencies, as they had hitherto done with unfailing success, although that object was still kept in view, but what course they should adopt if a home rule act should be placed on the statute-book without those constituencies being consulted. was the day at last approaching when lord randolph churchill's exhortation must be obeyed? or were they to be compelled, because the cabinet had coerced the sovereign and tricked the people by straining the royal prerogative in a manner described by mr. balfour as "a gross violation of constitutional liberty," to submit with resignation to the government of their country by the "rebel party "--the party controlled by clerical influence, and boasting of the identity of its aims with those of wolfe tone and robert emmet? this was the real problem in the minds of those who flocked to craigavon on saturday, the 23rd of september, 1911, to hear what proposals sir edward carson had to lay before his followers. craigavon was the residence of captain james craig, member of parliament for east down. it is a spacious country house standing on a hill above the road leading from belfast to holywood, with a fine view of belfast lough and the distant antrim coast beyond the estuary. the lawn in front of the house, sloping steeply to the shore road, forms a sort of natural amphitheatre offering ideal conditions for out-of-door oratory to an unlimited audience. at the meeting on the 23rd of september the platform was erected near the crest of the hill, enabling the vast audience to spread out fan-wise over the lower levels, where even the most distant had the speakers clearly in view, even if many of them, owing to the size of the gathering, were unable to hear the spoken word. it was on this occasion that captain craig, by the care with which every minute detail of the arrangements was thought out and provided for, first gave evidence of his remarkable gift for organisation that was to prove so invaluable to the ulster cause in the next few years. the greater part of the audience arrived in procession, which, starting from the centre of the city of belfast, took over two hours to pass a given point, at the quick march in fours. all the belfast orange lodges, and representative detachments from the county grand lodges, together with lord templetown's unionist clubs, and other organisations, including the women's association, took part in the procession. but immense numbers of people attended the meeting independently; it was calculated that not less than a hundred thousand were present during the delivery of sir edward carson's speech, and although there must have been very many of them who could hear nothing, the complete silence maintained by all was a remarkable proof--or so it appeared to men experienced in out-door political demonstrations--of the earnestness of spirit that prevailed. to some it may appear still more remarkable that, with such a concourse of people within a couple of miles of belfast, not a single policeman was present, and that none was required; no disturbance of any sort occurred during the day, nor was a single case of drunkenness observed. it had been intended that the duke of abercorn, whose inspiring exhortation as chairman of the ulster convention in 1892 had never been forgotten, should preside over the meeting; but, as he was prevented by a family bereavement from being present, his place was taken by the earl of erne, grand master of the orange order. the scene, when he rose to open the proceedings, was indescribable in its impressiveness. some members of the eighty club happened to be in ireland at the time, for the purpose of "seeing for themselves" in the familiar fashion of such political tourists; but they did not think it worth while to witness what ulster was doing at craigavon. if they had, they could have made a report to their political leaders which, had it been truthful, might have averted some irreparable blunders; for they could hardly have looked upon that sea of eager faces, or have observed the enthusiasm that possessed such a host of earnest and resolute men, without revising the opinion, which they had accepted from mr. redmond, that there was "no ulster question." the meeting took the form of according a welcome to sir edward carson as the new leader of irish loyalism, and of ulster in particular. but before he rose to speak a significant note had already been sounded. lord erne struck it when he quoted words which were to become very familiar in ulster--the letter from gustavus hamilton, governor of enniskillen in 1689, to "divers of the nobility and gentry in the north-east part of ulster," in which he declared: "we stand upon our guard, and do resolve by the blessing of god to meet our danger rather than to await it." and the veteran liberal, mr. thomas andrews, in moving the resolution of welcome to the leader, expressed the universal sentiment of the multitude when he exclaimed, "we will never, never bow the knee to the disloyal factions led by mr. john redmond. we will never submit to be governed by rebels who acknowledge no law but the laws of the land league and illegal societies." a great number of addresses from representative organisations were then presented to sir edward carson, in many of which the determination to resist the jurisdiction of a dublin parliament was plainly declared. but such declarations, although they undoubtedly expressed the mind of the people, were after all in quite general terms. for a quarter of a century innumerable variations on the theme "ulster will fight, and ulster will be right," had been fiddled on ulster platforms, so that there was some excuse for the belief of those who were wholly ignorant of north irish character that these utterances were no more than the commonplaces of ulster rhetoric. the time had only now come, however, when their reality could be put to the test. carson's speech at craigavon crystallised them into practical politics. sir edward carson's public speaking has always been entirely free from rhetorical artifice. he seldom made use of metaphor or imagery, or elaborate periods, or variety of gesture. his language was extremely simple and straightforward; but his mobile expression--so variable that his enemies saw in it a suggestion of mephistopheles, and his friends a resemblance to dante--his measured diction, and his skilful use of a deep-toned voice, gave a remarkable impressiveness to all he said--even, indeed, to utterances which, if spoken by another, would sometimes have sounded commonplace or obvious. sarcasm he could use with effect, and a telling point was often made by an epigrammatic phrase which delighted his hearers. and, more than all else, his meaning was never in doubt. in lucidity of statement he excelled many much greater orators, and was surpassed by none; and these qualities, added to his unmistakable sincerity and candour, made him one of the most persuasive of speakers on the platform, as he was also, of course, in the law courts. the moment he began to speak at craigavon the immense multitude who had come to welcome him felt instinctively the grip of his power. the contrast to all the previous scene--the cheering, the enthusiasm, the marching, the singing, the waving of handkerchiefs and flags--was deeply impressive, when, after a hushed pause of some length, he called attention without preface to the realities of the situation in a few simple sentences of slow and almost solemn utterance: "i know full well what the resolution you have just passed means; i know what all these addresses mean; i know the responsibility you are putting upon me to-day. in your presence i cheerfully accept it, grave as it is, and i now enter into a compact with you, and every one of you, and with the help of god you and i joined together--giving you the best i can, and you giving me all your strength behind me--we will yet defeat the most nefarious conspiracy that has ever been hatched against a free people. but i know full well that this resolution has a still wider meaning. it shows me that you realise the gravity of the situation that is before us, and it shows me that you are here to express your determination to see this fight out to a finish." he went on to expose the hollowness of the allegation, then current in liberal circles, that ulster's repugnance to home rule was less uncompromising than it formerly had been. on the contrary, he believed that "there never was a moment at which men were more resolved than at the present, with all the force and strength that god has given them, to maintain the british connection and their rights as citizens of the united kingdom." apart from principle or sentiment, that was an attitude, he maintained, dictated by practical good sense. he showed how ireland had been "advancing in prosperity in an unparalleled measure," for which he could quote the authority of mr. redmond himself, although the nationalist leader had omitted to notice that this advance had taken place under the legislative union, and, as carson contended, in consequence of it. he laid special emphasis on the point, never forgotten, that the danger in which they stood was due to the hoodwinking of the british constituencies by mr. asquith's ministry. "make no mistake; we are going to fight with men who are prepared to play with loaded dice. they are prepared to destroy their own constitution, so that they may pass home rule, and they are prepared to destroy the very elements of constitutional government by withdrawing the question from the electorate, who on two previous occasions refused to be a party to it." he ridiculed the "paper safeguards" which liberal ministers tried to persuade them would amply protect ulster protestants under a dublin parliament, giving a vivid picture of the plight they would be in under a nationalist administration, which, he declared, meant "a tyranny to which we never can and never will submit"; and then, in a pregnant passage, he summarised the ulster case: "our demand is a very simple one. we ask for no privileges, but we are determined that no one shall have privileges over us. we ask for no special rights, but we claim the same rights from the same government as every other part of the united kingdom. we ask for nothing more; we will take nothing less. it is our inalienable right as citizens of the british empire, and heaven help the men who try to take it from us." it was all no doubt a mere restatement--though an admirably lucid and forcible restatement--of doctrine with which his hearers had long been familiar. the great question still awaited an answer--how was effect to be given to this resolve, now that there was no longer hope of salvation through the sympathy and support of public opinion in great britain? this was what the eager listeners at craigavon hoped in hushed expectancy to hear from their new leader. he did not disappoint them: "mr. asquith, the prime minister, says that we are not to be allowed to put our case before the british electorate. very well. by that determination he drives you in the ultimate result to rely upon your own strength, and we must follow all that out to its logical conclusion.... that involves something more than that we do not accept home rule. we must be prepared, in the event of a home rule bill passing, with such measures as will carry on for ourselves the government of those districts of which we have control. we must be prepared--and time is precious in these things--the morning home rule passes, ourselves to become responsible for the government of the protestant province of ulster. we ask your leave at the meeting of the ulster unionist council, to be held on monday, there to discuss the matter, and to set to work, to take care that at no time and at no intervening interval shall we lack a government in ulster, which shall be a government either by the imperial parliament, or by ourselves." here, then, was the first authoritative declaration of a definite policy to be pursued by ulster in the circumstances then existing or foreseen, and it was a policy that was followed with undeviating consistency under carson's leadership for the next nine years. to be left under the government of the imperial parliament was the alternative to be preferred, and was asserted to be an inalienable right; but, if all their efforts to that end should be defeated, then "a government by ourselves" was the only change that could be tolerated. rather than submit to the jurisdiction of a nationalist legislature and administration, they would themselves set up a government "_in those districts of which they had control_." it was because, when the first of these alternatives had to be sorrowfully abandoned, the second was offered in the government of ireland act of 1920 that ulster did not actively oppose the passing of that statute. footnotes: [12] _annual register_, 1911, p. 175. chapter v the craigavon policy and the u.f.v. no time was lost in giving practical shape to the policy outlined at craigavon, and in taking steps to give effect to it. on the 25th of september a meeting of four hundred delegates representing the ulster unionist council, the county grand orange lodges, and the unionist clubs, was held in belfast, and, after lengthy discussion in private, when the only differences of opinion were as to the most effective methods of proceeding, two resolutions were unanimously adopted and published. it is noteworthy that, at this early stage in the movement, out of nearly four hundred popularly elected delegates, numbers of whom were men holding responsible positions or engaged in commercial business, not one raised an objection to the policy itself, although its grave possibilities were thoroughly appreciated by all present. both lord londonderry, who presided, and sir edward carson left no room for doubt in that respect; the developments they might be called upon to face were thoroughly searched and explained, and the fullest opportunity to draw back was offered to any present who might shrink from going on. the first resolution registered a "call upon our leaders to take any steps they may consider necessary to resist the establishment of home rule in ireland, solemnly pledging ourselves that under no conditions shall we acknowledge any such government"; and it gave an assurance that those whom the delegates represented would give the leaders "their unwavering support in any danger they may be called upon to face." the second decided that "the time has now come when we consider it our imperative duty to make arrangements for the provisional government of ulster," and for that purpose it went on to appoint a commission of five leading local men, namely, captain james craig, m.p., colonel sharman crawford, m.p., the right hon. thomas sinclair, colonel r.h. wallace, c.b., and mr. edward sclater, secretary of the unionist clubs, whose duties were _(a)_ "to keep sir edward carson in constant and close touch with the feeling of unionist ulster," and _(b)_ "to take immediate steps, in consultation with sir edward carson, to frame and submit a constitution for a provisional government of ulster, having due regard to the interests of the loyalists in other parts of ireland: the powers and duration of such provisional government to come into operation on the day of the passage of any home rule bill, to remain in force until ulster shall again resume unimpaired her citizenship in the united kingdom." at the luncheon given by lord londonderry after this business conference, carson took occasion to refer to a particularly contemptible slander to which currency had been given some days previously by sir john benn, one of the eighty club strolling seekers after truth. it was perhaps hardly worth while to notice a statement so silly as that the ulster leader had been ready a few weeks previously to betray ulster in order to save the house of lords, but carson did not yet realise the degree to which he had already won the confidence of his followers; moreover, the incident proved useful as an opportunity of emphasising the uninterrupted mutual confidence between lord londonderry and himself, in spite of their divergence of opinion over the parliament bill. it also gave those present a glimpse of their leader's power of shrivelling meanness with a few caustic drops of scorn. the proceedings at craigavon and at the conference naturally created a sensation on both sides of the channel. they brought the question of ireland once more, for the first time since 1895, into the forefront of british politics. the house of commons might spend the autumn ploughing its way through the intricacies of the national insurance bill, but everyone knew that the last and bitterest battle against home rule was now approaching. and, now that the parliament act was safely on the statute-book, ministers had no further interest in concealment. during the elections, from which alone they could procure authority for legislation of so fundamental a character, mr. asquith, as we have seen, regarded any inquiry as to his intentions as "confusing the issue." but now that he had the constituencies in his pocket for five years and nothing further was to be feared from that quarter, his cards were placed on the table. on the 3rd of october mr. winston churchill told his followers at dundee that the government would introduce a home rule bill next session "and press it forward with all their strength," and he added the characteristic injunction that "they must not take sir edward carson too seriously." but that advice did not prevent mr. herbert samuel, another member of the cabinet, from putting in an appearance in belfast four days later, where he threw himself into a ludicrously unequal combat with carson, exerting himself to calm the fears of business men as to the effect of home rule on their prosperity; while, in the same week, carson himself, at a great unionist demonstration in dublin, described the growth of irish prosperity in the last twenty years as "almost a fairy tale," which would be cut short by home rule. on the 19th of the same month mr. birrell, the chief secretary for ireland, in a speech at ilfracombe, gave some scraps of meagre information in regard to the provisions that would be included in the coming home rule bill; and on the 21st mr. redmond announced that the drafting of the bill was almost completed, and that the measure would be "satisfactory to nationalists both in principle and detail."[13] so the autumn of 1911 wore through--ministers doling out snippets of information; members of parliament and the press urging them to give more. the people of ulster, on the other hand, were not worrying over details. they did not require to be told that the principle would be "satisfactory to nationalists," for they knew that the government had to "toe the line"; nor were they in doubt that what was satisfactory to nationalists must be unsatisfactory to themselves. what they were thinking about was not what the bill would or would not contain, but the preparations they were making to resist its operation. a day or two after craigavon the leader spoke at a great meeting in portrush, after receiving, at every important station he passed _en route_ from belfast, enthusiastic addresses expressing confidence in himself and approval of the craigavon declaration; and in this speech he considerably amplified what he had said at craigavon. after explaining how the whole outlook had been changed by the parliament act, which cut them off from appeal to the sympathies of englishmen, he pointed out to his hearers the only course now open to them, namely, that resolved upon at craigavon. "some people," he continued, "say that i am preaching disorder. no, in the course i am advising i am preaching order, because i believe that, unless we are in a position ourselves to take over the government of those places we are able to control, the people of ulster, if let loose without that organisation, and without that organised determination, might in a foolish moment find themselves in a condition of antagonism and grips with their foes which i believe even the present government would lament. and therefore i say that the course we recommend--and it has been solemnly adopted by your four hundred representatives, after mature discussion in which every man understood what it was he was voting about--is the only course that i know of that is possible under the circumstances of this province which is consistent with the maintenance of law and order and the prevention of bloodshed." superficially, these words may appear boldly paradoxical; but in fact they were prophetic, for the closest observers of the events of the next three years, familiar with irish character and conditions, were in no doubt whatever that it was the disciplined organisation of the ulster unionists alone that prevented the outbreak of serious disorders in the north. there was, on the contrary, a diminution even of ordinary crime, accompanied by a marked improvement in the general demeanour, and especially in the sobriety, of the people. the speaker then touched upon a question which naturally arose out of the craigavon policy of resistance to home rule. he had been asked, he said, whether ulster proposed to fight against the forces of the crown. he had already contrasted their own methods with those of the nationalists, saying that ulstermen would never descend to action "from behind hedges or by maiming cattle, or by boycotting of individuals"; he now added that they were "not going to fight the army and the navy ... god forbid that any loyal irishman should ever shoot or think of shooting the british soldier or sailor. but, believe me, any government will ponder long before it dares to shoot a loyal ulster protestant, devoted to his country and loyal to his king." in newspaper reports of public meetings, sayings of pith and moment are often attributed to "a voice" from the audience. on this occasion, when sir edward carson referred to the army and the navy, "a voice" cried "they are on our side." it was the truth, as subsequent events were to show. it would indeed have been strange had it been otherwise. men wearing his majesty's uniform, who had been quartered at one time in belfast or carrickfergus and at another in cork or limerick, could be under no illusion as to where that uniform was held in respect and where it was scorned. the certainty that the reality of their own loyalty was understood by the men who served the king was a sustaining thought to ulstermen through these years of trial. this portrush speech cleared the air. it made known the _modus operandi_, as craigavon had made known the policy. henceforward ulster unionists had a definite idea of what was before them, and they had already unbounded confidence both in the sagacity and in the courage of the man who had become their leader. the craigavon meeting led, almost by accident as it were, to a development the importance of which was hardly foreseen at the time. among the processionists who passed through captain craig's grounds there was a contingent of orangemen from county tyrone who attracted general attention by their smart appearance and the orderly precision of their marching. on inquiry it was learnt that these men had of their own accord been learning military drill. the spirit of emulation naturally suggested to others to follow the example of the tyrone lodges. it was soon followed, not by orangemen alone, but by members of the unionist clubs, very many of whom belonged to no orange lodge. within a few months drilling--of an elementary kind, it is true--had become popular in many parts of the country. colonel r.h. wallace, c.b., who had served with distinction in the south african war, where he commanded the 5th royal irish rifles, was a prominent member of the orange institution, in which he was in 1911 grand master of the belfast lodges, and grand secretary of the provincial grand orange lodge of ulster; and, being a man of marked ability and widespread popularity, his influence was powerful and extensive. he was a devoted adherent of carson, and there was no keener spirit among the ulster loyalist leaders. colonel wallace was among the first to perceive the importance of this military drilling that was taking place throughout ulster, and through his leading position in the orange institution his encouragement did much to extend the practice. having been a lawyer by profession before south africa called him to serve his country in arms, wallace was careful to ascertain how the law stood with regard to the drilling that was going on. he consulted mr. james campbell (afterwards lord chancellor of ireland), who advised that any two justices of the peace had power to authorise drill and other military exercises within the area of their jurisdiction on certain conditions. the terms of the application made by colonel wallace himself to two belfast magistrates show what the conditions were, and, under the circumstances of the time, are not without a flavour of humour. the request stated that wallace and another officer of the belfast grand lodge were-"authorised on behalf of the members thereof to apply for lawful authority to them to hold meetings of the members of the said lodge and the lodges under its jurisdiction for the purpose of training and drilling themselves and of being trained and drilled to the use of arms, and for the purpose of practising military exercises, movements, and evolutions. and we are authorised, on their behalf, to give their assurance that they desire this authority as faithful subjects of his majesty the king, and their undertaking that such authority is sought and will be used by them only to make them more efficient citizens for the purpose of maintaining the constitution of the united kingdom as now established and protecting their rights and liberties thereunder." the _bona fides_ of an application couched in these terms, which followed well-established precedent, could not be questioned by any loyal subject of his majesty. the purpose for which the licence was requested was stated with literal exactness and without subterfuge. there was nothing seditious or revolutionary in it, and the desire of men to make themselves more efficient citizens for maintaining the established government of their country, and their rights and liberties under it, was surely not merely innocent of offence, but praiseworthy. such, at all events, was the view taken by numbers of strictly conscientious holders of the commission of the peace throughout ulster, with the result that the ulster volunteer force sprang into existence within a few months without the smallest violation of the law. originating in the orange lodges and the unionist clubs, it soon enrolled large numbers of men outside both those organisations. men with military experience interested themselves in training the volunteers in their districts; the local bodies were before long drawn into a single coherent organisation on a territorial basis, which soon gave rise to an _esprit de corps_ leading to friendly rivalry in efficiency between the local battalions. this ulster volunteer force had as yet no arms in their hands, but, as the first act of the liberal government on coming into power in 1906 had been to drop the "coercion" act which prohibited the importation of firearms into ireland, there was no reason why, in the course of time, the u.v.f. should not be fully armed with as complete an avoidance of illegality as that with which in the meantime they were acquiring some knowledge of military duties. but for the present they had to be content with wooden "dummy" rifles with which to learn their drill, an expedient which, as will be seen later on, excited the derisive mirth of the english radical press. the application to the belfast justices for leave to drill the orange lodges was dated the 5th of january, 1912. for some months both before and after that date the formation of new battalions proceeded rapidly, so that by the summer of 1912 the force was of considerable strength and decent efficiency; but already in the autumn of 1911 it soon became apparent that the existence of such a force would give a backing to the craigavon policy which nothing else could provide. at craigavon the leader of the movement had foreshadowed the possibility of having to take charge of the government of those districts which the loyalists could control. the u.v.f. made such control a practical proposition, and the consciousness of this throughout ulster gave a solid reality to the movement which it must otherwise have lacked. the special commission of five set to work immediately after the craigavon meeting to carry out the task entrusted to them by the council. but, as more than two years must elapse before the home rule bill could become law under the parliament act, there was no immediate urgency in making arrangements for setting up the provisional government resolved upon by the council on the 25th of september, 1911, and the outside public heard nothing about what was being done in the matter for many months to come. meantime the ulster loyalists watched with something akin to dismay the dissensions in the unionist party in england over the question of tariff reform, which made impossible a united front against the revived attack on the union, and woefully weakened the effective force of the opposition both in parliament and the country. public opinion was diverted from the one thing that really mattered--had englishmen been able to realise it--from an imperial standpoint, no less than from the standpoint of irish loyalists. on the 8th of november, 1911, mainly in consequence of these dissensions, mr. balfour resigned the leadership of the unionist party. this event was regarded in ulster as a calamity. mr. balfour was the ablest and most zealous living defender of the union, and the great services he had rendered to the country during his memorable chief secretaryship were not forgotten. ulstermen, in whose eyes the tariff question was of very subordinate importance, feared that no one could be found to take command of the unionist forces comparable with the achilles who, as they supposed, was now retiring to his tent. what happened in regard to the vacant leadership is well known--how mr. walter long and mr. austen chamberlain, after presenting themselves for a day or two as rival candidates, patriotically agreed to stand aside and give united support to mr. bonar law in order to avoid a division in the ranks of the party. it is less generally known that mr. bonar law, before consenting to his name being proposed, wrote and asked sir edward carson if he would accept the leadership, and that it was only when he received an emphatic reply in the negative that he assumed the responsibility himself. if this had been known at the time in ulster there can be little doubt that consternation would have been caused by the refusal of their own leader to place himself at the head of the whole unionist party. it is quite certain that sir edward carson would have been acceptable to the party meeting at the carlton club, for he was then much better known to the party both in the house of commons and in the country than was mr. bonar law, whose great qualities as parliamentarian and statesman had not yet been revealed; but it is not less certain that, if his first thought was to be of service to ulster, carson acted wisely in maintaining a position of independence, in which all his powers could continue to be concentrated on a single aim of statecraft. at all events, the new leader of the unionist party was not long in proving that the ulster cause had suffered no set-back by the change, and his constant and courageous backing of the ulster leader won him the unstinted admiration and affection of every irish loyalist. mr. balfour also soon showed that he was no sulking achilles; his loyalty to the unionist cause was undimmed; he never for a moment acted, as a meaner man might, as if his successor were a supplanter; and within the next few months he many times rose from beside mr. bonar law in the house of commons to deliver some of the best speeches he ever made on the question of irish government, full of cogent and crushing criticism of the home rule proposals of mr. asquith. footnotes: [13] _annual register_, 1911, p. 228. chapter vi mr. churchill in belfast at the women's meeting at the ulster hall on the 18th of january, 1912,[14] lord londonderry took occasion to recall once more to the memory of his audience the celebrated speech delivered by lord randolph churchill in the same building twenty-six years before. that clarion was, indeed, in no danger of being forgotten; but there happened at that particular moment to be a very special reason for ulstermen to remember it, and the incident which was present in londonderry's mind--a resolution passed by the standing committee of the ulster unionist council two days earlier--proved to be so distinct a turning-point in the history of ulster's stand for the union that it claims more than a passing mention. "diligence and vigilance should be your watchword, so that the blow, if it is coming, may not come upon you as a thief in the night, and may not find you unready and taken by surprise." such had been lord randolph's warning. it was now learnt, with feelings in which disgust and indignation were equally mingled, that lord randolph's son was bent on coming to belfast, not indeed as a thief in the night, but with challenging audacity, to give his countenance, encouragement, and support to the adherents of disloyalty whom lord randolph had told ulster to resist to the death. and not only was he coming to belfast; he was coming to the ulster hall--to the very building which his father's oration had, as it were, consecrated to the unionist cause, and which had come to be regarded as almost a loyalist shrine. it is no doubt difficult for those who are unfamiliar with the psychology of the north of ireland to understand the anger which this projected visit of mr. winston churchill aroused in belfast. his change of political allegiance from the party which his father had so brilliantly served and led, to the party which his father had so pitilessly chastised, was of course displeasing to conservatives everywhere. politicians who leave their friends to join their opponents are never popular with those they abandon, and mr. winston churchill was certainly no exception. but such desertions, after the first burst of wrath has evaporated, are generally accepted with a philosophic shrug in what journalists call "political circles" in london, where plenty of precedents for lapses from party virtue can be quoted. in the provinces, even in england, resentment dies down less easily, and forgiveness is of slow growth; but in ulster, where a political creed is held with a religious fervour, or, as a hostile critic might put it, with an intolerance unknown in england, and where the dividing line between "loyalty" and "disloyalty" is regarded almost as a matter of faith, the man who passes from the one to the other arouses the same bitterness of anger and contempt which soldiers feel for a deserter in face of the enemy. to such sentiments there was added, in the case of mr. winston churchill, a shocked feeling that his appearance in the ulster hall as an emissary of home rule would be an act not only of political apostasy but of filial impiety. the prevailing sentiment in belfast at the time was expressed somewhat brutally, perhaps, in the local press--"he is coming to dance on his father's coffin." it was an outrage on their feelings which the people of belfast could not and would not tolerate. if mr. churchill was determined to flaunt the green flag let him find a more suitable site than the very citadel in which they had been exhorted by his father to keep the union jack flying to the last. if anything could have added to the anger excited by this announcement it would have been the fact that the cabinet minister was to be accompanied on the platform of the ulster hall by mr. redmond and mr. devlin, and that lord pirrie was to be his chairman. there was no more unpopular citizen of belfast than lord pirrie; and the reason was neatly explained to english readers by the special correspondent of _the times_. "lord pirrie," he wrote, "deserted unionism about the time the liberals acceded to power, and soon afterwards was made a peer; whether _propter hoc_ or only _post hoc_ i am quite unable to say, though no ulster unionist has any doubts on the subject."[15] but that was not quite the whole reason. that lord pirrie was an example of apostasy "just for a riband to stick in his coat," was the general belief; but it was also resented that a man who had amassed, not "a handful of silver," but an enormous fortune, through a trade created by an eminent unionist firm, and under conditions brought about in belfast by the union with great britain, should have kicked away the ladder by which he had climbed from obscurity to wealth and rank. an additional cause of offence, moreover, was that he was at that time trying to persuade credulous people in england that there was in ulster a party of liberals and protestant home rulers, of which he posed as leader, although everyone on the spot knew that the "party" would not fill a tramcar. of this party the same correspondent of _the times_ very truly said: "nearly every prominent man in it has received an office or a decoration--and the fact that, with all the power of patronage in their hands for the last six years, the government had been able to make so small an inroad into the solid square of ulster unionism is a remarkable testimony to the strength of the sentiment which gives it cohesion." but a score of individuals in possession of an office equipped with stamped stationery, and with a titled chairman of fabulous wealth, have no difficulty in deluding strangers at a distance into the belief that they are an influential and representative body of men. it was in furtherance of the scheme for creating this false impression across the channel that lord pirrie and his so-called "ulster liberal association" invited mr. winston churchill and the two nationalist leaders to speak in the ulster hall on the 8th of february, 1912, and that the announcement of the fixture was made in the press some three weeks earlier. the unionist leaders were not long left in ignorance of the public excitement which this news created in the city. a specially summoned meeting of the standing committee, with londonderry in the chair, was held on the 16th of january to consider what action, if any, should be taken; but it was no simple matter they had to decide, especially in the absence of their leader, sir edward carson, who was kept in england by great unionist meetings which he was addressing in lancashire. the reasons, on the one hand, for doing nothing were obvious enough. no one, of course, suggested the possibility of preventing mr. churchill coming to belfast; but could even the ulster hall itself, the loyalist sanctuary, be preserved from the threatened desecration? it was the property of the corporation, and the unionist political organisation had no exclusive title to its use. the meeting could only be frustrated by force in some form, or by a combination of force and stratagem. the standing committee, all men of solid sense and judgment, several of whom were privy councillors, were very fully alive to the objections to any resort to force in such a matter. they valued freedom of speech as highly as any englishman, and they realised the odium that interference with it might bring both on themselves and their cause; and the last thing they desired at the present crisis was to alienate public sympathy in great britain. the force of such considerations was felt strongly by several members, indeed by all, of the committee, and not least by lord londonderry himself, whose counsel naturally carried great weight. but, on the other hand, the danger of a passive attitude was also fully recognised. it was perfectly well understood that one of the chief desires of the liberal government and its followers at this time was to make the world believe that ulster's opposition to home rule had declined in strength in recent years; that there really was a considerable body of protestant opinion in agreement with lord pirrie, and prepared to support home rule on "liberal," if not on avowedly "nationalist" principles, and that the policy for which carson, londonderry, and the unionist council stood was a gigantic piece of bluff which only required to be exposed to disappear in general derision. from this point of view the churchill meeting could only be regarded as a deliberate challenge and provocation to ulster. it seemed probable that the first lord of the admiralty had been selected for the mission in preference to any other minister precisely because he was lord randolph's son. all this bluster about "fight and be right" was traceable, so liberal ministers doubtless reasoned, to that unhappy speech of "winston's father"; let winston go over to the same place and explain his father away. if he obtained a hearing in the ulster hall in the company of redmond, devlin, and pirrie the legend of ulster as an impregnable loyalist stronghold would be wiped out, and randolph's rant could be made to appear a foolish joke in comparison with the more mature and discriminating wisdom of winston. it cannot, of course, be definitely asserted that the situation was thus weighed deliberately by the cabinet, or by mr. churchill himself. but, if it was not, they must have been deficient in foresight; for there can be no doubt, as several writers in the press perceived, that the transaction would so have presented itself to the mind of the public; the psychological result would inure to the benefit of the home rulers. but there was also another consideration which could not be ignored by the standing committee--namely, the attitude of that important individual, the "man in the street." among the innumerable misrepresentations levelled at the ulster movement none was more common than that it was confined to a handful of lords, landlords, and wealthy employers of labour; and, as a corollary, that all the trouble was caused by the perversity of a few individuals, of whom the most guilty was sir edward carson. the truth was very different. even at the zenith of his influence and popularity sir edward himself would have been instantly disowned by the ulster democracy if he had given away anything fundamental to the unionist cause. more than to anything else he owed his power to his pledge, never violated, that he would never commit his followers to any irretraceable step without the consent of the council, in which they were fully represented on a democratic basis. at the particular crisis now reached popular feeling could not be safely disregarded, and it was clearly understood by the standing committee that public excitement over the coming visit of mr. churchill was only being kept within bounds by the belief of the public that their leaders would not "let them down." all these considerations were most carefully balanced at the meeting on the 16th of january, and there were prolonged deliberations before the decision was arrived at that some action must be taken to prevent the churchill meeting being held in the ulster hall, but that no obstacle could, of course, be made to his speaking in any other building in belfast. the further question as to what this action should be was under discussion when colonel r.h. wallace, c.b., grand master of the belfast orangemen, and a man of great influence with all classes in the city as well as in the neighbouring counties, entered the room and told the committee that people outside were expecting the unionist council to devise means for stopping the ulster hall meeting; that they were quite resolved to take matters into their own hands if the council remained passive; and that, in his judgment, the result in that event would probably be very serious disorder and bloodshed, and the loss of all control over the unionist rank and file by their leaders. this information arrived too late to influence the decision on the main question, but it confirmed its wisdom and set at rest the doubts which some of the committee had at first entertained. it was reported at the time that there had been a dissenting minority consisting of lord londonderry, mr. sinclair, and mr. john young, the last-mentioned being a privy councillor, a trusted leader of the presbyterians, and a man of moderate views whose great influence throughout the north-eastern counties was due to his high character and the soundness of his judgment. there was, however, no truth in this report, which londonderry publicly contradicted; but it is probable that the concurrence of the men mentioned, and perhaps of others, was owing to their well-founded conviction that the course decided upon, however high-handed it might appear to onlookers at a distance, was in reality the only means of averting much more deplorable consequences. on the following day, january 17th, an immense sensation was created by the publication of the resolution which had been unanimously adopted on the motion of captain james craig, m.p. it was: "that the standing committee of the ulster unionist council observes with astonishment the deliberate challenge thrown down by mr. winston churchill, mr. john redmond, mr. joseph devlin, and lord pirrie in announcing their intention to hold a home rule meeting in the centre of the loyal city of belfast, and resolves to take steps to prevent its being held." there was an immediate outpouring of vituperation by the ministerial press in england, as had been anticipated by the standing committee. special correspondents trooped over to belfast, whence they filled their papers with telegrams, articles, and interviews, ringing the changes on the audacity of this unwarranted interference with freedom of speech, and speculating as to the manner in which the threat, was likely to be carried out. scribes of "open letters" had a fine opportunity to display their gift of insolent invective. cartoonists and caricaturists had a time of rare enjoyment, and let their pencils run riot. writers in the liberal press for the most part assumed that mr. churchill would bid defiance to the ulster unionist council; others urged him to do so and to fulfil his engagement; some, with more prudence, suggested that he might be extricated from the difficulty without loss of dignity if the chief secretary would prohibit the meeting, as likely to produce a breach of peace, and it was pointed out that dublin castle would certainly forbid a meeting in tipperary organised by the ulster unionist council, with sir edward carson as principal speaker. however, on the 25th of january mr. churchill addressed a letter, dated from the admiralty, to lord londonderry at mount stewart, in which he said he was prepared to give up the idea of speaking in the ulster hall, and would arrange for his meeting to be held elsewhere in the city, as "it was not a point of any importance to him where he spoke in belfast." he did not explain why, if that were the case, he had ever made a plan that so obviously constituted a direct premeditated challenge to ulster. lord londonderry, in his reply, said that the ulster unionist council had no intention of interfering with any meeting mr. churchill might arrange "outside the districts which passionately resent your action," but that, "having regard to the intense state of feeling" which had been aroused, the council could accept no responsibility for anything that might occur during the visit. mr. churchill's prudent change of plan relieved the extreme tension of the situation, and there was much speculation as to what influence had produced a result so satisfactory to the ulster unionist council. the truth seems to be that the council's resolution had impaled the government on the horns of a very awkward dilemma, completely turning the tables on ministers, whose design had been to compel the belfast unionists either to adopt, on the one hand, an attitude of apparent intolerance which would put them in the wrong in the eyes of the british public, or, on the other, to submit to the flagrant misrepresentation of their whole position which would be the outcome of a nationalist meeting in the ulster hall presided over by the president of the illusory "ulster liberal association," and with lord randolph churchill's son as the protagonist of home rule. the threat to stop the meeting forced the government to consider how the first lord of the admiralty and his friends were to be protected and enabled to fulfil their programme. the irish executive, according to the dublin correspondent of _the times_, objected to the employment of troops for this purpose; because- "if the belfast unionists decided to resist the soldiers, bloodshed and disorder on a large scale must have ensued. if, on the other hand, they yielded to the _force majeure_ of british bayonets, and mr. churchill was enabled to speak in the ulster hall, they would still have carried their point; they would have proved to the english people that home rule could only be thrust upon ulster by an overwhelming employment of military force. the executive preferred to depend on the services of a large police force. and this meant that mr. churchill could not speak in the ulster hall; for the belfast democracy, though it might yield to soldiers, would certainly offer a fierce resistance to the police. it seemed, therefore, that the government's only safe and prudent course was to prevent mr. churchill from trying to speak in that hall."[16] the government, in fact, had been completely out-manoeuvred. they had given the ulster unionist council an opportunity to show its own constituents and the outside world that, where the occasion demanded action, it could act with decision; and they had failed utterly to drive a wedge between ulster and the unionist party in england and in the south of ireland, as they hoped to do by goading belfast into illegality. on the other hand, they had aroused some misgiving in the ranks of their own supporters. a political observer in london reported that the incident had- "caused a feeling of considerable apprehension in radical circles. the pretence that ulster does not mean to fight is now almost abandoned even by the most fanatical home rulers."[17] unionist journals in great britain, almost without exception, applauded the conduct of the council, and proved by their comments that they understood its motive, and sympathised with the feelings of ulster. _the saturday review_ expressed the general view when it wrote: "with the indignation of the loyal ulstermen at this proposal we are in complete sympathy. where there is a question of home rule, the ulster hall is sacred ground, and to the ulster mind and, indeed, to the mind of any calm outsider, there is something both impudent and impious in the proposal that this temple of unionism should be profaned by the son of a man who assisted at its consecration."[18] the southern unionists of ireland thoroughly appreciated the difficulty that had confronted their friends in the north, and approved the way it had been met. this was natural enough, since, as the dublin correspondent of _the times_ pointed out- "they understand ulster's position better than it can be understood in england. they realise that the provocation has been extreme. there has been a deliberate conspiracy to persuade the english people, first, that ulster is weakening in its opposition to home rule; and, next, that its declared refusal to accept home rule in any form is mere bluff. it became necessary for ulster to defeat this conspiracy, and the ulster council's resolution has defeated it."[19] a few days later a still more valuable token of sympathy and support from across the channel gave fresh encouragement to ulster. on the 26th of january mr. bonar law made his first public speech as leader of the unionist party, when he addressed an audience of ten thousand people in the albert hall in london. in the course of a masterly analysis of the dangers inseparable from home rule, he once more drew attention to "the dishonesty with which the government hid home rule before the election, and now propose to carry it after the election"; but the passage which gave the greatest satisfaction in ulster was that in which, speaking for the whole unionist party--which meant at least half, and probably more than half, the british nation--mr. bonar law, in reference to the recent occurrence in belfast, said: "we hear a great deal about the intolerance of ulster. it is easy to be tolerant for other people. we who represent the unionist party in england and scotland have supported, and we mean to support to the end, the loyal minority. we support them not because we are intolerant, but because their claims are just." meanwhile, mr. churchill's friends were seeking a building in belfast where the baffled minister could hold his meeting on the 8th of february, and in the course of the search the director of the belfast opera-house was offered a knighthood as well as a large sum of money for the use of his theatre,[20] a fact that possibly explains the statement made by the london correspondent of _the freeman's journal_ on the 28th of january, that the government's chief whip and patronage secretary was busying himself with the arrangement.[21] captain frederick guest, m.p., one of the junior whips, arrived in belfast on the 25th to give assistance on the spot; but no suitable hall with an auspicious _genius loci_ could apparently be found, for eventually a marquee was imported from scotland and erected on the celtic football ground, in the nationalist quarter of the city. the question of maintaining order on the day of the meeting was at the same time engaging the attention both of the government in dublin and the unionist council in belfast. the former decided to strengthen the garrison of belfast by five battalions of infantry and two squadrons of cavalry, while at the old town hall anxious consultations were held as to the best means of securing that the soldiers should have nothing to do. the unionist leaders had not yet gained the full influence they were able to exercise later, nor were their followers as disciplined as they afterwards became. the orange lodges were the only section of the population in any sense under discipline; and this section was a much smaller proportion of the unionist rank and file than english liberals supposed, who were in the habit of speaking as if "orangemen" were a correct cognomen of the whole protestant population of ulster. it was, however, only through the lodges and the unionist clubs that the standing committee could hope to exert influence in keeping the peace. that committee, accordingly, passed a resolution on the 5th of february, moved by colonel wallace, the most influential of the belfast orangemen, which "strongly urged all unionists," in view of the ulster hall victory, "to abstain from any interference with the meeting at the celtic football ground, and to do everything in their power to avoid any action that might lead to any disturbance." the resolution was circulated to all the orange lodges and unionist clubs in belfast and the neighbouring districts--for it was expected that some 30,000 or 40,000 people might come into the city from outside on the day of the meeting--with urgent injunctions to the officers to bring it to the notice of all members; it was also extensively placarded on all the hoardings of belfast. of even greater importance perhaps, in the interests of peace, was the decision that carson and londonderry should themselves remain in belfast on the 8th. this, as _the times_ correspondent in belfast had the insight to observe, was "the strongest guarantee of order" that could be given, and there is no doubt that their appearance, together with captain craig, m.p., and lord templetown, on the balcony of the ulster club had a calming effect on the excited crowd that surged round mr. churchill's hotel, and served as a reminder throughout the day of the advice which these leaders had issued to their adherents. the first lord of the admiralty was accompanied to belfast by mrs. churchill, his secretary, and two liberal members of parliament, mr. fiennes and mr. hamar greenwood--for the last-mentioned of whom fate was reserving a more intimate connection with irish trouble than could be got from a fleeting flirtation with disloyalty in west belfast. they were greeted at larne by a large crowd vociferously cheering carson, and singing the national anthem. a still larger concourse of people, though it could not be more hostile, awaited mr. churchill at the midland station in belfast and along the route to the grand central hotel. when he started from the hotel early in the afternoon for the football field the crowd in royal avenue was densely packed and actively demonstrating its unfavourable opinion of the distinguished visitor; on whom, however, none desired or attempted to inflict any physical injury, although the involuntary swaying of so great a mass of men was in danger for a moment of overturning the motor-car in which he and his wife were seated. the way to the meeting took the minister from the unionist to the nationalist district and afforded him a practical demonstration of the gulf between the "two nations" which he and his colleagues were bent upon treating as one. the moment he crossed the boundary, the booing and groaning of one area was succeeded by enthusiastic cheers in the other; grotesque effigies of redmond and of himself in one street were replaced by equally unflattering effigies of londonderry and carson in the next; in royal avenue both men and women looked like tearing him in pieces, in falls road they thronged so close to shake his hand that "mr. hamar greenwood found it necessary" (so the _times_ correspondent reported) "to stand on the footboard outside the car and relieve the pressure." it was expected that mr. churchill would return to his hotel after the meeting, and there had been no shrinkage in the crowd in the interval, nor any change in its sentiments. the police decided that it would be wiser for him to depart by another route. he was therefore taken by back streets to the midland terminus, and without waiting for the ordinary train by which he had arranged to travel, was as hastily as possible despatched to larne by a special train before it was generally known that royal avenue and york street were to see him no more. mr. churchill tells us in his brilliant biography of his father that when lord randolph arrived at larne in 1886 "he was welcomed like a king." his own arrival at the same port was anything but regal, and his departure more resembled that of the "thief in the night," of whom lord randolph had bidden ulster beware. so this memorable pilgrimage ended. of the speech itself which mr. churchill delivered to some thousands of nationalists, many of whom were brought by special train from dublin, it is unnecessary here to say more than that sir edward carson described it a few days later as a "speech full of eloquent platitudes," and that it certainly did little to satisfy the demand for information about the home rule bill which was to be produced in the coming session of parliament. the undoubted importance which this visit of mr. churchill to belfast and its attendant circumstances had in the development of the ulster movement is the justification for treating it in what may appear to be disproportionate detail. from it dates the first clear realisation even by hostile critics in england, and probably by ministers themselves, that the policy of ulster as laid down at craigavon could not be dismissed with a sneer, although it is true that there were many home rulers who never openly abandoned the pretence that it could. not less important was the effect in ulster itself. the unionist council had proved itself in earnest; it could, and was prepared to, do more than organise imposing political demonstrations; and so the rank and file gained confidence in leaders who could act as well as make speeches, and who had shown themselves in an emergency to be in thorough accord with popular sentiment; the belief grew that the men who met in the old town hall would know how to handle any crisis that might arise, would not timidly shrink from acting as occasion might require, and were quite able to hold their own with the government in tactical manoeuvres. this confidence improved discipline. the lodges and the clubs and the general body of shipyard and other workers had less temptation to take matters into their own hands; they were content to wait for instructions from headquarters now that they could trust their leaders to give the necessary instructions at the proper time. the net result, therefore, of an expedition which was designed to expose the hollowness and the weakness of the ulster case was to augment the prestige of the ulster leaders and the self-confidence of the ulster people, and to make both leaders and followers understand better than before the strength of the position in which they were entrenched. footnotes: [14] see _ante_, p. 38. [15] _the times_, january 18th, 1912. [16] _the times_, january 26th, 1912. [17] _the standard_, january 18th, 1912. [18] _the saturday review_, january 27th, 1912. [19] _the times_, january 20th, 1912. [20] see interview with mr. f.w. warden in _the standard_, february 8th, 1912. [21] see dublin correspondent's telegram in _the times_, january 29th, 1912. chapter vii "what answer from the north?" public curiosity as to the proposals that the coming home rule bill might contain was not set at rest by mr. churchill's oration in belfast. the constitution-mongers were hard at work with suggestions. attempts were made to conciliate hesitating opinion by representing irish home rule as a step in the direction of a general federal system for the united kingdom, and by tracing an analogy with the constitutions already granted to the self-governing dominions. closely connected with the federal idea was the question of finance. there was lively speculation as to what measure of control over taxation the bill would confer on the irish parliament, and especially whether it would be given the power to impose duties of customs and excise. home rulers themselves were sharply divided on the question. at a conference held at the london school of economics on the 10th of january, 1912, professor t.m. kettle, mr. erskine childers, and mr. thomas lough, m.p., declared themselves in favour of irish fiscal autonomy, while lord macdonnell opposed the idea as irreconcilable with the fiscal policy of great britain.[22] the latter opinion was very forcibly maintained a few weeks later by a member of the government with some reputation as an economist. speaking to a branch of the united irish league in london, mr. j.m. robertson, parliamentary secretary to the board of trade, summarily rejected fiscal autonomy for ireland, which, he said, "really meant a claim for separation." "to give fiscal autonomy," he added, "would mean disintegration of the united kingdom. fiscal autonomy for ireland put an end altogether to all talk of federal home rule, and he could see no hope for a home rule bill if it included fiscal autonomy."[23] although the secretary to the board of trade was probably not in the confidence of the cabinet, many people took mr. robertson's speech as an indication of the limits of financial control that the bill would give to ireland. on the same day that it was delivered the dublin correspondent of _the times_ reported that the demand of the nationalists for control of customs and excise was rapidly growing, and that any bill which withheld it, even if it could scrape through a national convention, "would never survive the two succeeding years of agitation and criticism"; and he agreed with mr. robertson that if, on the other hand, fiscal autonomy should be conceded, it would destroy all prospect of a settlement on federal lines, and would "establish virtual separation between ireland and great britain." he predicted that "ulster, of course, would resist to the bitter end."[24] ulster, in point of fact, took but a secondary interest in the question. her people were indeed opposed to anything that would enlarge the separation from england, or emphasise it, and, as they realised, like the secretary to the board of trade, that fiscal autonomy would have this effect, they opposed fiscal autonomy; but they cared little about the thing in itself one way or the other. nor did they greatly concern themselves whether home rule proceeded on federal lines or any other lines; nor whether some apt analogy could or could not be found between ireland and the dominions of the crown thousands of miles oversea. having made up their minds that no dublin parliament should exercise jurisdiction over themselves, they did not worry themselves much about the powers with which such a parliament might be endowed. it is noteworthy, however, in view of the importance which the question afterwards attained, that so early as january 1912 sir edward carson, speaking in manchester, maintained that without fiscal autonomy home rule was impossible,[25] and that some months later mr. bonar law, in a speech at glasgow on the 21st of may, said that if the unionist party were in a position where they had to concede home rule to ireland they would include fiscal autonomy in the grant.[26] these leaders, who, unlike the liberal ministers, had some knowledge of the irish temperament, realised from the first the absurdity of mr. asquith's attempt to satisfy the demands of "the rebel party" by offering something very different from what that party demanded. the ulster leader and the leader of the unionist party knew as well as anybody that fiscal autonomy meant "virtual separation between ireland and great britain," but they also knew that separation was the ultimate aim of nationalist policy, and that there could be no finality in the liberal compromise; and they no doubt agreed with the forcible language used by mr. balfour in the previous autumn, when he said that "the rotten hybrid system of a parliament with municipal duties and a national feeling seemed to be the dream of political idiots." the ferment of speculation as to the government's intentions continued during the early weeks of the parliamentary session, which opened on the 14th of february, but all inquiries by members of the house of commons were met by variations on the theme "wait and see." unionists, however, realised that it was not in parliament, but outside, that the only effective work could be done, in the hope of forcing a dissolution of parliament before the bill could become law. a vigorous campaign was conducted throughout the country, especially in lancashire, and arrangements were made for a monster demonstration in belfast, which should serve both as a counter-blast to the churchill fiasco, and for enabling english and scottish unionists to test for themselves the temper of the ulster resistance. in the belief that the home rule bill would be introduced before easter, it was decided to hold this meeting in the recess, as mr. bonar law had promised to speak, and a number of english members of parliament wished to be present. at the last moment the government announced that the bill would not be presented till the 11th of april, after parliament reassembled, and its provisions were therefore still unknown when the demonstration took place on the 9th in the show ground of the royal agricultural society at balmoral, a suburb of belfast. feeling ran high as the date of the double event approached, and the indignant sense of wrong that prevailed in ulster was finely voiced in a poem, entitled "ulster 1912," written by mr. kipling for the occasion which appeared in _the morning post_ on the day of the balmoral demonstration, of which the first and last stanzas were: "the dark eleventh hour draws on, and sees us sold to every evil power we fought against of old. rebellion, rapine, hate, oppression, wrong, and greed are loosed to rule our fate, by england's act and deed. "believe, we dare not boast, believe, we do not fear- we stand to pay the cost in all that men hold dear. what answer from the north? one law, one land, one throne. if england drive us forth we shall not fall alone!" the preparations for the unionist leader's coming visit to belfast had excited the keenest interest throughout england and scotland. coinciding as it did with the introduction of the government's bill, it was recognised to be the formal countersigning by the whole unionist party of great britain of ulster's proclamation of her determination to resist her forcible degradation in constitutional status. the same note of mingled reproach and defiance which sounded in kipling's verses was heard in the grave warning addressed by _the times_ to the country in a leading article on the morning of the meeting: "nobody of common judgment and common knowledge of political movements can honestly doubt the exceptional gravity of the occasion, and least of all can any such doubt be felt by any who know the men of ulster. to make light of the deep-rooted convictions which fill the minds of those who will listen to mr. bonar law to-day is a shallow and an idle affectation, or a token of levity and of ignorance. enlightened liberalism may smile at the beliefs and the passions of the ulster protestants, but it was those same beliefs and passions, in the forefathers of the men who will gather in belfast to-day, which saved ireland for the british crown, and freed the cause of civil and religious liberty in these islands from its last dangerous foes.... it is useless to argue that they are mistaken. they have reasons, never answered yet, for believing that they are not mistaken.... their temper is an ultimate fact which british statesmen and british citizens have to face. these men cannot be persuaded to submit to home rule. are englishmen and scotchmen prepared to fasten it upon them by military force? that is the real ulster question." other great english newspapers wrote in similar strain, and the support thus given was of the greatest possible encouragement to the ulster people, who were thereby assured that their standpoint was not misunderstood and that the justice of their "loyalist" claims was appreciated across the channel. among the numberless popular demonstrations which marked the history of ulster's stand against home rule, four stand out pre-eminent in the impressiveness of their size and character. those who attended the ulster convention of 1892 were persuaded that no political meeting could ever be more inspiring; but many of them lived to acknowledge that it was far surpassed at craigavon in 1911. the craigavon meeting, though in some respects as important as any of the series, was, from a spectacular point of view, much less imposing than the assemblage which listened to mr. bonar law at balmoral on easter tuesday, 1912; and the latter occasion, though never surpassed in splendour and magnitude by any single gathering, was in significance but a prelude to the magnificent climax reached in the following september on the day when the covenant was signed throughout ulster. the balmoral demonstration had, however, one distinctive feature. at it the unionist party of great britain met and grasped the hand of ulster loyalism. it gave the leader and a large number of his followers an opportunity to judge for themselves the strength and sincerity of ulster, and at the same time it served to show the ulstermen the weight of british opinion ready to back them. mr. bonar law was accompanied to belfast by no less than seventy members of parliament, representing english, scottish, and welsh constituencies, not a few of whom had already attained, or afterwards rose to, political distinction. among them were mr. walter long, lord hugh cecil, sir robert finlay, lord charles beresford, lord castlereagh, mr. amery, mr. j.d. baird, sir arthur griffith-boscawen, mr. ian malcolm, lord claud hamilton, mr. j.g. butcher, mr. ernest pollock, mr. george cave, mr. felix cassel, mr. ormsby-gore, mr. scott dickson, mr. w. peel, captain gilmour, mr. george lloyd, mr. j.w. hills, mr. george lane-fox, mr. stuart-wortley, mr. j.f.p. rawlinson, mr. h.j. mackinder, and mr. herbert nield. the reception of the unionist leader at larne on easter monday was wonderful, even to those who knew what a larne welcome to loyalist leaders could be, and who recalled the scenes there during the historic visits of lord randolph churchill, lord salisbury, and mr. balfour. "if this is how you treat your friends," said mr. bonar law simply, in reply to one of the innumerable addresses presented to him, "i am glad i am not an enemy." before reaching belfast he had ample opportunity at every stopping-place of his train to note the fervour of the populace. "are all these people landlords?" he asked (in humorous allusion to the liberal legend that ulster unionism was manufactured by a few aristocratic landowners), as he saw every platform thronged with enthusiastic crowds of men and women, the majority of whom were evidently of the poorer classes. in belfast the concourse of people was so dense in the streets that the motor-car in which mr. bonar law and sir edward carson sat side by side found it difficult to make its way to the reform club, the headquarters of what had once been ulster liberalism, where an address was presented in which it was stated that the conduct of the government "will justify loyal ulster in resorting to the most extreme measures in resisting home rule." in his reply mr. bonar law gave them "on behalf of the unionist party this message--though the brunt of the battle will be yours, there will not be wanting help from 'across the channel.'" at comber, where a stop was made on the way to mount stewart, he asked himself how radical scotsmen would like to be treated as the government were treating protestant ulster. "i know scotland well," he replied to his own question, "and i believe that, rather than submit to such fate, the scottish people would face a second bannockburn or a second flodden." these few quotations from the first utterances of mr. bonar law on his arrival are sufficient to show how complete was the understanding between him and the ulster people even before the great demonstration of the following day. he had, as _the times_ correspondent noted, "already found favour with the belfast crowd. all the way from larne by train to belfast and through belfast by motor-car to newtownards and mount stewart, his progress was a triumph." the remarks of the same experienced observer on the eve of the balmoral meeting are worth recording, especially as his anticipations were amply fulfilled. "to-morrow's demonstration," he telegraphed from belfast, "both in numbers and enthusiasm, promises to be the most remarkable ever seen in ireland. if expectations are realised the assemblage of men will be twice as numerous as the whole white population of the witwatersrand, whose grievances led to the south african war, and they will represent a community greater in numbers than the white population of south africa as a whole. unless all the signs are misleading, it will be the demonstration of a community in the deadliest earnest. by the protestant community of ulster, home rule is regarded as a menace to their faith, to their material well-being and prosperity, and to their freedom and national traditions, and thus all the most potent motives which in history have stirred men to their greatest efforts are here in operation." no written description, unless by the pen of some gifted imaginative writer, could convey any true impression of the scenes that were witnessed the following day in the show ground at balmoral and the roads leading to it from the heart of the city. the photographs published at the time give some idea of the apparently unbounded ocean of earnest, upturned faces, closely packed round the several platforms, and stretching away far into a dim and distant background; but even they could not record the impressive stillness of the vast multitude, its orderliness, which required the presence of not a single policeman, its spirit of almost religious solemnity which struck every observant onlooker. no profusion of superlative adjectives can avail to reproduce such scenes, any more than words, no matter how skilfully chosen, can convey the tone of a violin in the hands of a master. even the mere number of those who took part in the demonstration cannot be guessed with any real accuracy. there was a procession of men, whose fine physique and military smartness were noticed by visitors from england, which was reported to have taken three hours to pass a given point marching in fours, and was estimated to be not less than 100,000 strong, while those who went independently to the ground or crowded the route were reckoned to be at least as many more. the correspondent of _the times_ declared that "it was hardly by hyperbole that sir edward carson claimed that it was one of the largest assemblies in the history of the world." but the moral effect of such gatherings is not to be gauged by numbers alone. the demeanour of the people, which no organisation or stage management could influence, impressed the english journalists and members of parliament even more than the gigantic scale of the demonstration. there was not a trace of the picnic spirit. there was no drunkenness, no noisy buffoonery, no unseemly behaviour. the ulster habit of combining politics and prayer--which was not departed from at balmoral, where the proceedings were opened by the primate of all ireland and the moderator of the presbyterian church--was jeered at by people who never witnessed an ulster loyalist meeting; but the editor of _the observer_, himself a roman catholic, remarked with more insight that "the protestant mind does not use prayer simply as part of a parade;" and _the times_ correspondent, who has already been more than once quoted, was struck by the fervour with which at balmoral "the whole of the vast gathering joined in singing the 90th psalm," and he added the very just comment that "it is the custom in ulster to mark in this solemn manner the serious nature of the issue when the union is the question, as something different from a question of mere party politics." the spectacular aspect of the demonstration was admirably managed. a saluting point was so arranged that the procession, on entering the enclosure, could divide into two columns, one passing each side of a small pavilion where mr. bonar law, sir edward carson, lord londonderry, and mr. walter long stood to take the salute before proceeding to the stand which held the principal platform for the delivery of the speeches. in the centre of the ground was a signalling-tower with a flagstaff 90 feet high, on which a union jack measuring 48 feet by 25 and said to be the largest ever woven, was broken at the moment when the resolution against home rule was put to the meeting. mr. bonar law, visibly moved by the scene before him, made a speech that profoundly affected his audience, although it was characteristically free from rhetorical display. a recent incident in dublin, where the sight of the british flag flying within view of a nationalist meeting had been denounced as "an intolerable insult," supplied him, when he compared it with the spectacle presented by the meeting, with an apt illustration of the contrast between "the two nations" in ireland--the loyal and the disloyal. he told the ulstermen that he had come to them as the leader of the unionist party to give them the assurance that "that party regard your cause, not as yours alone, nor as ours alone, but as the cause of the empire"; the meeting, which he had expected to be a great gathering but which far exceeded his expectation, proved that ulster's hostility to home rule, far from having slackened, as enemies had alleged, had increased and solidified with the passing years; they were men "animated by a unity of purpose, by a fixity of resolution which nothing can shake and which must prove irresistible," to whom he would apply cromwell's words to his ironsides: "you are men who know what you are fighting for, and love what you know." then, after an analysis of the practical evils that home rule would engender and the benefits which legislative union secured, he again emphasised the lack of mandate for the government policy. his hearers, he said, "knew the shameful story": how the radicals had twice failed to obtain the sanction of the british people for home rule, "and now for the third time they were trying to carry it not only without the sanction, but against the will, of the british people." the peroration which followed made an irresistible appeal to a people always mindful of the glories of the relief of derry. mr. bonar law warned them that the ministerial majority in the house of commons, "now cemented by â£400 a year," could not be broken up, but would have their own way. he therefore said to them: "with all solemnity--you must trust in yourselves. once again you hold the pass--the pass for the empire. you are a besieged city. the timid have left you; your lundys have betrayed you; but you have closed your gates. the government have erected by their parliament act a boom against you to shut you off from the help of the british people. you will burst that boom. that help will come, and when the crisis is over men will say to you in words not unlike those used by pitt--you have saved yourselves by your exertions and you will save the empire by your example." the overwhelming ovation with which sir edward carson was received upon taking the president's chair at the chief platform, in the absence through illness of the duke of abercorn, proved that he had already won the confidence and the affection of the ulster people to a degree that seemed to leave little room for growth, although every subsequent appearance he made among them in the years that lay ahead seemed to add intensity to their demonstrations of personal devotion. the most dramatic moment at balmoral--if for once the word so hackneyed and misused by journalists may be given its true signification--the most dramatic moment was when the ulster leader and the leader of the whole unionist party each grasped the other's hand in view of the assembled multitude, as though formally ratifying a compact made thus publicly on the eve of battle. it was the consummation of the purpose of this assembly of the unionist hosts on ulster soil, and gave assurance of unity of aim and undivided command in the coming struggle. of the other speeches delivered, many of them of a high quality, especially, perhaps, those of lord hugh cecil, sir robert finlay, and mr. scott dickson, it is enough to say that they all conveyed the same message of encouragement to ulster, the same promise of undeviating support. one detail, however, deserves mention, because it shows the direction in which men's thoughts were then moving. mr. walter long, whose great services to the cause of the union procured him a welcome second in warmth to that of no other leader, after thanking londonderry and carson "for the great lead they have given us in recent difficult weeks "--an allusion to the churchill incident that was not lost on the audience--added with a blunt directness characteristic of the speaker: "if they are going to put lord londonderry and sir edward carson into the dock, they will have to find one large enough to hold the whole unionist party." the balmoral demonstration was recognised on all sides as one of the chief landmarks in the ulster movement. the craigavon policy was not only reaffirmed with greater emphasis than before by the people of ulster themselves, but it received the deliberate endorsement of the unionist party in england and scotland. moreover, as mr. long's speech explicitly promised, and mr. bonar law's speech unmistakably implied, british support was not to be dependent on ulster's opposition to home rule being kept within strictly legal limits. indeed, it had become increasingly evident that opposition so limited must be impotent, since, as mr. bonar law pointed out, ministers and their majority in the house of commons were in mr. redmond's pocket, and had no choice but to "toe the line," while the "boom" which they had erected by the parliament act cut off ulster from access to the british constituencies, unless that boom could be burst as the boom across the foyle was broken by the _mountjoy_ in 1689. the unionist leader had warned the ulstermen that in these circumstances they must expect nothing from parliament, but must trust in themselves. they did not mistake his meaning, and they were quite ready to take his advice. coming, as it did, two days before the introduction of the government's bill, the balmoral demonstration profoundly influenced opinion in the country. the average englishman, when his political party is in a minority, damns the government, shrugs his shoulders, and goes on his way, not rejoicing indeed, but with apathetic resignation till the pendulum swings again. he now awoke to the fact that the ulstermen meant business. he realised that a political crisis of the first magnitude was visible on the horizon. the vague talk about "civil war" began to look as if it might have something in it, and it was evident that the provisions of the forthcoming bill, about which there had been so much eager anticipation, would be of quite secondary importance since neither the cabinet nor the house of commons would have the last word. supporters of the government in the press could think of nothing better to do in these circumstances than to pour out abuse, occasionally varied by ridicule, on the unionist leaders, of which sir edward carson came in for the most generous portion. he was by turns everything that was bad, dangerous, and absurd, from mephistopheles to a madman. "f.c.g." summarised the balmoral meeting pictorially in a _westminster gazette_ cartoon as a costermonger's donkey-cart in which carson, londonderry, and bonar law, refreshed by "orangeade," took "an easter jaunt in ulster," and other caricaturists used their pencils with less humour and more malice with the same object of belittling the demonstration with ridicule. but ridicule is not so potent a weapon in england or in ulster as it is said to be in france. it did nothing to weaken the ulster cause; it even strengthened it in some ways. it was about this time that hostile writers began to refer to "king carson," and to represent him as exercising regal sway over his "subjects" in ulster. those "subjects" were delighted; they took it as a compliment to their leader's position and power, and did not in the least resent the role assigned to themselves. on the other hand, they did resent very hotly the vulgar insolence often levelled at their "sir edward." he himself was always quite indifferent to it, sometimes even amused by it. on one occasion, when something particularly outrageous had appeared with reference to him in some radical paper, he delighted a public meeting by solemnly reading the passage, and when the angry cries of "shame, shame" had subsided, saying with a smile: "this sort of thing is only the manure that fertilises my reputation with you who know me." and that was true. if home rulers, whether in ireland or in great britain, ever seriously thought of conciliating ulster, as mr. redmond professed to desire, they never made a greater mistake than in saying and writing insulting things about carson. it only endeared him more and more to his followers, and it intensified the bitterness of their feeling against the nationalists and all their works. an almost equally short-sighted error on the part of hostile critics was the idea that the attitude of ulster as exhibited at craigavon and balmoral should be represented as mere bluster and bluff, to which the only proper reply was contempt. there never was anything further removed from the truth, as anyone ought to have known who had the smallest acquaintance with irish history or with the character of the race that had supplied the backbone of washington's army; but, if there had been at any time an element of bluff in their attitude, their contemptuous critics took the surest means of converting it into grim earnestness of purpose. mr. redmond himself was ill-advised enough to set an example in this respect. in an article published by _reynold's newspaper_ in january he had scoffed at the "stupid, hollow, and unpatriotic bellowings" of the loyalists in belfast. some few opponents had enough sense to take a different line in their comments on balmoral. one article in particular which appeared in _the star_ on the day of the demonstration attracted much attention for this reason. "we have never yielded," it said, "to the temptation to deride or to belittle the resistance of ulster to home rule.... the subjugation of protestant ulster by force is one of those things that do not happen in our politics.... it is, we know, a popular delusion that ulster is a braggart whose words are empty bluff. we are convinced that ulster means what she says, and that she will make good every one of her warnings." _the star_ went on to implore liberals not to be driven "into an attitude of bitter hostility to the ulster protestants," with whom it declared they had much in common. after balmoral there was certainly more disposition than before on the part of liberal home rulers to acknowledge the sincerity of ulster and the gravity of the position created by her opposition, and this disposition showed itself in the debates on the bill; but, speaking generally, the warning of _the star_ was disregarded by its political adherents, and its neglect contributed not a little to the embitterment of the controversy. footnotes: [22] _annual register_, 1912, p. 3. [23] _the times_, february 3rd, 1912. [24] ibid. [25] _annual register_, 1912, p. 7. [26] ibid., p. 126. chapter viii the exclusion of ulster within forty-eight hours of the balmoral meeting the prime minister moved for leave to introduce the third home rule bill in the house of commons. carson immediately stated the ulster case in a powerful speech which left no room for doubt that, while every clause in the bill would be contested, it was the setting up of an executive administration responsible to a parliament in dublin--that is to say, the central principle of the measure--that would be most strenuously opposed. there is no occasion here to explain in detail the proposals contained in mr. asquith's home rule bill. they form part of the general history of the period, and are accessible to all who care to examine them. our concern is with the endeavour of ulster to prevent, if possible, the passage of the bill to the statute-book, and, if that should prove impracticable, to prevent its enforcement "in those districts of which they had control." but one or two points that were made in the course of the debates which occupied parliament for the rest of the year 1912 claim a moment's notice in their bearing on the subject in hand. mr. bonar law lost no time in fully redeeming the promises he made at balmoral. challenged to repeat in parliament the charges he had made against the government in ulster, he not only repeated them with emphasis, but by closely-knit reasoning justified them with chapter and verse. as to balmoral, "it really was not like a political demonstration; it was the expression of the soul of a people." he declared that "the gulf between the two peoples in ireland was really far wider than the gulf between ireland and great britain." he then dealt specifically with the threatened resistance of ulster. "these people in ulster," he said, "are under no illusion. they know they cannot fight the british army. the people of ulster know that, if the soldiers receive orders to shoot, it will be their duty to obey. they will have no ill-will against them for obeying. but they are ready, in what they believe to be the cause of justice and liberty, to lay down their lives. how are you going to overcome that resistance? do honourable members believe that any prime minister could give orders to shoot down men whose only crime is that they refuse to be driven out of our community and be deprived of the privilege of british citizenship? the thing is impossible. all your talk about details, the union of hearts and the rest of it, is a sham. this is a reality. it is a rock, and on that rock this bill will inevitably make shipwreck." the unionist leader then made a searching exposure of the traffic and bargaining between the cabinet and the nationalists by which the support of the latter had been bought for a budget which they hated, the price paid being the premier's improper advice to the crown, leading to the mutilation of the constitution; the acknowledgment in the preamble to the parliament act that an immediate reform of the second chamber was a "debt of honour"; the omission to redeem that debt, which had provided a new proverb--"lying as a preamble"; and, finally, the determination to carry home rule after deliberately keeping it out of sight during the elections. the prime minister's "debt of honour must wait until he has paid his debt of shame"; and the latter debt was being paid by the proposals they were then debating. if those proposals had been submitted to the electors, "there would be a difference," said mr. bonar law, "between the unionists in england and the unionists in ireland. now there is none. we can imagine nothing which the unionists in ireland can do which will not be justified against a trick of this kind." dissatisfaction with the financial clauses of the bill was expressed at once by the general council of county councils in ireland, a purely nationalist body; but on the 23rd of april a nationalist convention in dublin, under the influence of mr. redmond's oratory, accepted the whole of the government's proposals with enthusiasm. the first and second readings of the bill were duly carried by the normal government majority of about a hundred liberal, labour, and irish nationalist votes, and the committee stage opened on the 11th of june. on that day an amendment was down for debate which required the most careful consideration by the representatives of ulster, since their attitude now might have an important bearing on their future policy, and a false step at this stage might easily prove embarrassing later on. the author of this amendment was mr. agar-robartes, a cornish liberal member, whose proposal was to exclude the four counties of antrim, derry, down, and armagh from the jurisdiction of the proposed irish parliament, a gratifying proof that craigavon and balmoral were bearing fruit. a conference of ulster members and peers, and some english members closely identified with irish affairs, of whom mr. walter long was one, met at londonderry house before the sitting of the house on the 11th of june to decide what course to take on this proposal. it was not surprising to find that there were sharp differences of opinion among those present, for there were obvious objections to supporting the amendment and equally obvious objections to voting against it. the opposition of ulster for more than a quarter of a century had been directed against home rule for any part of ireland and in any shape or form. no suggestion had ever been made by any of her spokesmen that the protestant north, or any part of it, should be dealt with separately from the rest of the island, although carson and others had pointed out that all the arguments in support of home rule were equally valid for treating ulster as a unit. there were both economic and administrative difficulties in such a scheme which were sufficiently obvious, though by no means insuperable; but what weighed far more heavily in the minds of the ulster members was the anticipation that their acceptance of the proposal would probably be represented by enemies as a desertion of all the irish loyalists outside the four counties named in the amendment, with whom there was in every part of ulster the most powerful sentiment of solidarity. the idea of taking any action apart from these friends and associates, and of adopting a policy that might seem to imply the abandonment of their opposition to the main principle of the bill, was one that could not be entertained except under the most compelling necessity. but, had not that necessity now arisen? the ulster members had to keep in view the ultimate policy to which they were already committed. that policy, as laid down at craigavon, was to take over, in the event of the home rule bill being carried, the government "of those districts which they could control" in trust for the imperial parliament, and to resist by force if necessary the establishment of the dublin jurisdiction over those districts. the policy of resistance was always recognised as being strictly limited in area; no one ever supposed that ulster could forcibly resist home rule being set up in the south and west. the likelihood of failure to bring about a dissolution before the bill became law had to be faced, and if no general election took place there would be no alternative to resistance. if, then, it were decided to vote against an amendment offering salvation to the four most loyalist counties, what would be their position if ultimately driven to take up arms? except as to a matter of detail concerning the precise area proposed to be excluded from the bill, would they not be told that they were fighting for what they might have had by legislation, and what they had deliberately refused to accept? and if they so acted, could they expect not to forfeit the support of the great and growing volume of public opinion which now sympathised with ulster? they could not, of course, secure themselves against malicious misrepresentation of their motives, but the ulster members sincerely believed, and many in the south shared the opinion, that if it came to the worst they could be of more use to the southern unionists outside a dublin parliament than as members of it, where they would be an impotent minority. moreover, it was perfectly understood that ulster was resolved in any case not to enter a legislature in college green, and there would, therefore, be no more "desertion" of unionists outside the excluded area if the exclusion were effected by an amendment to the bill, than if it were the result of what mr. bonar law had called "trusting to themselves." the considerations thus briefly summarised were thoroughly discussed in all their bearings at the conference at londonderry house. it was one of many occasions when sir edward carson's colleagues had an opportunity of perceiving how his penetrating intellect explored the intricate windings of a complicated political problem, weighing all the alternatives of procedure with a clear insight into the appearance that any line of conduct would present to other and perhaps hostile minds, calculating like a chess-master move and counter-move far ahead of the present, and, while adhering undeviatingly to principle, using the judgment of a consummate strategist to decide upon the action to be taken at any given moment. he had an astonishing faculty of discarding everything that was unessential and fastening on the thing that really mattered in any situation. his strength in counsel lay in the rare combination of these qualities of the trained lawyer with the gift of intuition, which women claim as their distinguishing characteristic; and it often extorted from nationalists the melancholy admission that if carson had been on their side their cause would have triumphed long ago. his advice now was that the agar-robartes amendment should be supported; and, although some of those present required a good deal of persuasion, it was ultimately decided unanimously that this course should be followed. the wisdom of the decision was never afterwards questioned, and, indeed, was abundantly confirmed by subsequent events. mr. agar-robartes moved his amendment the same afternoon, summarising his argument in the dictum, denied by mr. william redmond, that "orange bitters will not mix with irish whisky." the debate, which lasted three days, was the most important that took place in committee on the bill, for in the course of it the whole ulster question was exhaustively discussed. sir edward grey and mr. churchill had thrown out hints in the second reading debate that the government might do something to meet the ulster case. the prime minister was now pressed to say what these hints meant. had the government any policy in regard to ulster? had they considered how they could deal with the threatened resistance? mr. bonar law told the government that they must know that, if they employed troops to coerce the ulster loyalists, ministers who gave the order "would run a greater risk of being lynched in london than the loyalists of ulster would run of being shot in belfast." every argument in favour of home rule was, he said, equally cogent against subjecting ulster to home rule contrary to her own desire. if the south of ireland objected to being governed from westminster, the north of ireland quite as strongly objected to being ruled from dublin. if england, as was alleged, was incapable of governing ireland according to irish ideas, the nationalists were fully as incapable of governing the northern counties according to ulster ideas. if ireland, with only one-fifteenth of the population of the united kingdom, had a right to choose its own form of government, by what equity could the same right be denied to ulster, with one-fourth of the population of ireland? as had been anticipated at londonderry house, mr. asquith and some of his followers did their best to drive a wedge between the ulstermen and the southern unionists, by contending that the former, in supporting the amendment, were deserting their friends. mr. balfour declared in answer to this that "nothing could relieve unionists in the rest of ireland except the defeat of the measure as a whole"; and a crushing reply was given by mr. j.h. campbell and mr. walter guinness, both of whom were unionists from the south of ireland. mr. guinness frankly acknowledged that "it was the duty of ulster members to take this opportunity of trying to secure for their constituents freedom from this iniquitous measure. it would be merely a dog-in-the-manger policy for those who lived outside ulster to grudge relief to their co-religionists merely because they could not share it. such self-denial on ulster's part would in no way help them (the southerners) and it would only injure their compatriots in the north." sir edward carson, in supporting the amendment, insisted that "ulster was not asking for anything" except to be left within the imperial constitution; she "had not demanded any separate parliament." he accepted the "basic principle" of the amendment, but would not be content with the four counties which alone it proposed to exclude from the bill. he only accepted it, however, on two assumptions--first, that the bill was to become law; and, second, that it was to be, as mr. asquith had assured them, part of a federal system for the united kingdom. if the first steps were being taken to construct a federal system, there was no precedent for coercing ulster to form part of a federal unit which she refused to join. he had been solicitor-general when the act establishing the commonwealth of australia was being discussed, and it never would have passed, he declared, "if every single clause had not been agreed to by every single one of the communities concerned." ministers were always basing their irish policy on dominion analogies, but could anyone, carson asked, imagine the imperial government sending troops to compel the transvaal or new south wales to come into a federal system against their will? the arguments in favour of the amendment were also stated with uncompromising force by mr. william moore, mr. charles craig, and his brother captain james craig, the last-mentioned taking up a challenge thrown down by mr. birrell in a maladroit speech which had expressed doubt as to the reality of the danger to be apprehended in ulster. captain craig said they would immediately take steps in ulster to convince the chief secretary of their sincerity. lord hugh cecil, in an outspoken speech, greatly to the taste of english unionists, "had no hesitation in saying that ulster would be perfectly right in resisting, and he hoped she would be successful." in the division on mr. agar-robartes's amendment the government majority fell to sixty-nine, both the "tellers" being usual supporters of the ministry. mr. f.e. smith, in a vigorous speech to the belfast orangemen on the 12th of july, declared that "on the part of the government the discussion (on mr. agar-robartes's amendment) was a trap. ... the government hoped that ulster would decline the amendment in order that the coalition might protest to the constituencies: 'we offered ulster exclusion and ulster refused exclusion--where is the grievance of ulster? where her justification for armed revolt?'" the snare was avoided; but the debate was a landmark in the movement, for it was then that the spokesmen of ulster for the first time publicly accepted the idea of separate treatment for themselves as a possible alternative policy to the integral maintenance of the union. the government, for their part, made no response to the demand of bonar law and carson that they should declare their intentions for dealing with resistance in ulster. it was clearly more than ever necessary for the ulstermen to "trust in themselves." the debates on the bill occupied parliament till the end of the year, and beyond it, and great blocks of clauses were carried under the guillotine closure without a word of discussion, although they were packed with constitutional points, many of which were of the highest moment. over in ulster, at the same time, those preparations were industriously carried forward which captain craig told the house of commons would be necessary to cure the scepticism of the chief secretary. in england and scotland, also, unionists did their utmost to make public opinion realise the gravity of the crisis towards which the country was drifting under the wait-and-see ministry. never before, probably, had so many great political meetings been held in any year as were held in every part of the country in 1912. with the exception of those that took place in ireland, the most striking was a monster gathering at blenheim on the 27th of july, which was attended by delegates from every unionist association in the united kingdom. a notable defeat of the government in a by-election at crewe, news of which reached the meeting while the audience of some fifteen thousand people was assembling, was an encouraging sign of the trend of opinion in the country, and added confidence to the note of defiance that sounded in the speeches of mr. bonar law, mr. f.e. smith, and sir edward carson. the unionist leader repeated, with added emphasis, what he had already said in the house of commons, that he could imagine no length of resistance to which ulster might go in which he and the overwhelming majority of the british people would not be ready to give support. he again said that resistance would be justified only because the people had not been consulted, and the government's policy was "part of a corrupt parliamentary bargain." he refused to acknowledge the right of the government "to carry such a revolution by such means," and as they appeared to be resolved to do so, mr. bonar law and the party he led "would use any means to deprive them of the power they had usurped, and to compel them to face the people they had deceived." mr. f.e. smith expressed the same thought in a more epigrammatic antithesis: "we have come to a clear issue between the party which says 'we will judge for the democracy,' and the party which says 'the democracy shall judge you.'" the tremendous enthusiasm evoked by mr. bonar law's pledge of support to ulster, and by sir edward carson's announcement that they in ulster "would shortly challenge the government to interfere with them if they dared, and would with equanimity await the result," was a sufficient proof, if proof were needed, that the intention of the ulstermen to offer forcible resistance to home rule had the whole-hearted sympathy and approval of the entire unionist party in great britain, whose representatives from every corner of the country were assembled at blenheim. liberals hoped and believed that this promise of support for the "rebellious" attitude of ulster would alienate british opinion from the unionist party. the supporters of the government in the press daily proclaimed that it was doing so. when parliament adjourned for the summer recess, at the beginning of what journalists call "the silly season," mr. churchill published two letters to a constituent in scotland which were intended to be a crushing indictment both of ulster and of her sympathisers in great britain. the ulster menace was in his eyes nothing but "melodramatic stuff," and he sneeringly suggested that the unionist leaders would be "unspeakably shocked and frightened" if anything came of their "foolish and wicked words." the letter was lengthy, and contained some telling phrases such as mr. churchill has always been skilful in coining; but the "turgid homily--a mixture of sophistry, insult, and menace," as _the times_ not unfairly described it, was less effective than the terse and simple rejoinder in which mr. bonar law pointed out that mr. churchill's onslaught wounded his father's memory more deeply than it touched his living opponents, since lord randolph's "incitement" of ulster was at a time when ulster could not be cast out from the union without the consent of the british electors. mr. churchill's epistles to scottish liberals started a correspondence which reverberated through the press for weeks, breaking the monotony of the holiday season; but they entirely failed in their purpose, which was to break the sympathy for ulster in england and scotland. in march the unionists had won a seat at a by-election in south manchester; the victory at crewe in july, which so cheered the gathering at blenheim, was followed by still more striking victories in north-west manchester in august, and in midlothian--gladstone's old constituency--in september; and perhaps a not less significant indication of the trend of opinion so far as the unionist party was concerned, was given by the local unionist association at rochdale, which promptly repudiated its selected candidate who had ventured to protest against the blenheim speech of the unionist leader. in an analysis of electoral statistics published by _the times_ on the 24th of august it was shown that, in thirty-eight contests since the general election in december 1910, the unionists had gained an advantage of more than 32,000 votes over liberals. and shortly afterwards, at a dinner in london to three newly elected unionists, mr. bonar law pointed out that the results of by-elections, if realised in the same proportion all over the country, would have given a substantial unionist majority in the house of commons. the ulster people had, therefore, much to encourage them at a time when they were preparing the most significant forward step in the movement, and the most solemn pronouncement of their unfaltering resolution never to submit to the dublin parliament--the signing of the ulster covenant. their policy of resistance, first propounded at craigavon, reiterated at balmoral, endorsed by british sympathisers at blenheim, and specifically defended in parliament both by unionist leaders like mr. bonar law and mr. long and by prominent members of the unionist rank and file like lord hugh cecil, had won the approval and support of great popular constituencies in lancashire and in scotland, and had alienated no section of unionist opinion or of the unionist press. it was in no merely satirical spirit that carson wrote in august that he was grateful to mr. churchill "for having twice within a few weeks done something to focus public opinion on the stern realities of the situation in ulster."[27] for that was the actual result of the "turgid homily." it proved of real service to the ulster cause by bringing to light the complete solidarity of unionist opinion in its support. that meant, in the light of the electoral returns, that certainly more than half the nation sympathised with the measures that were being taken in ulster, and that ulster could well afford to smile at the mockery which english home rulers deemed a sufficient weapon to demolish the "wooden guns" and the "military play-acting of king carson's army." footnotes: [27] see _the times_, august 19th, 1912. chapter ix the eve of the covenant there was one liberal statesman, formerly the favourite lieutenant of gladstone and the closest political ally of asquith, who was under no illusion as to the character of the men with whom asquith was now provoking a conflict. speaking in edinburgh on the 1st of november, 1911, that is, shortly after the craigavon meeting, lord rosebery told his scottish audience that "he loved highlanders and he loved lowlanders, but when he came to the branch of their race which had been grafted on to the ulster stem he took off his hat with reverence and awe. they were without exception the toughest, the most dominant, the most irresistible race that existed in the universe."[28] the kinship of this tough people with the lowlanders of scotland, in character as in blood, was never more signally demonstrated than when they decided, in one of the most intense crises of their history, to emulate the example of their scottish forefathers in binding themselves together by a solemn league and covenant to resist what they deemed to be a tyrannical encroachment on their liberties and rights. the most impressive moment at the balmoral meeting at easter 1912 was when the vast assemblage, with uncovered heads, raised their hands and repeated after sir edward carson words abjuring home rule. the incident suggested to some of the local unionist leaders that the spirit of enthusiastic solidarity and determination thus manifested should not be allowed to evaporate, and the people so animated to disperse to the four corners of ulster without any bond of mutual obligation. the idea of an oath of fidelity to the cause and to each other was mooted, and appeared to be favoured by many. the leader was consulted. he gave deep, anxious, and prolonged consideration to the proposal, calculating all the consequences which, in various possible eventualities, might follow its adoption. he was not only profoundly conscious of the moral responsibility which he personally, and his colleagues, would be undertaking by the contemplated measure; he realised the numerous practical difficulties there might be in honouring the bond, and he would have nothing to do with a device which, under the guise of a solemn covenant, would be nothing more than a verbal manifesto. if the people were to be invited to sign anything of the sort, it must be a reality, and he, as leader, must first see his way to make it a reality, whatever might happen. for, although carson never shrank from responsibility, he never assumed it with levity, or without full consideration of all that it might involve. many a time, especially before he had fully tested for himself the temper of the ulster people, he expressed to his intimates his wonder whether the bulk of his followers sufficiently appreciated the seriousness of the course they had set out upon. sometimes in private he seemed to be hypersensitive as to whether in any particular he was misleading those who trusted him; he was scrupulously anxious that they should not be carried away by unreflecting enthusiasm, or by personal devotion to himself. about the only criticism of his leadership that was ever made directly to himself by one of the rank and file in ulster was that it erred on the side of patience and caution; and this criticism elicited the sharpest reproof he was ever heard to administer to any of his followers.[29] his expressions of regard, almost amounting to affection, for the men and women who thronged round him for a touch of his hand wherever he appeared in the streets might have been ignorantly set down as the arts of a demagogue had they ever been spoken in public, but were capable of no such misconstruction when reserved, as they invariably were, for the ears of his closest associates. the truth is that no popular leader was ever less of a demagogue than sir edward carson. he had no "arts" at all--unless indeed complete simplicity is the highest of all "arts" in one whom great masses of men implicitly trust. he never sought to gain or augment the confidence of his followers by concealing facts, minimising difficulties, or overcolouring expectations. it is not surprising, then, that the decision to invite the ulster people to bind themselves together by some form of written bond or oath was one which carson did not come to hastily. while the matter was still only being talked about by a few intimate friends, and had not been in any way formally proposed, captain james craig happened to be occupying himself one day at the constitutional club in london with pencil and paper, making experimental drafts that might do for the proposed purpose, when he was joined by mr. b.w.d. montgomery, secretary of the ulster club in belfast, who asked what he was doing. "trying to draft an oath for our people at home," replied craig, "and it's no easy matter to get at what will suit." "you couldn't do better," said montgomery, "than take the old scotch covenant. it is a fine old document, full of grand phrases, and thoroughly characteristic of the ulster tone of mind at this day." thereupon the two men went to the library, where, with the help of the club librarian, they found a history of scotland containing the full text of the celebrated bond of the covenanters (first drawn up, by a curious coincidence of names, by john craig, in 1581), a verbatim copy of which was made from the book. the first idea was to adapt this famous manifesto of militant protestantism by making only such abbreviations and alterations as would render it suitable for the purpose in view. but when it was ultimately decided to go forward with the proposal, and the task of preparing the document was entrusted to the special commission,[30] it was at once realised that, however strongly the fine old jacobean language and the historical associations of the solemn league and covenant might appeal to the imagination of a few, it was far too involved and long-winded, no matter how drastically revised, to serve as an actual working agreement between men of to-day, or as a rallying-point for a modern democratic community. what was needed was something quite short and easily intelligible, setting forth in as few words as possible a purpose which the least learned could grasp at a glance, and which all who so desired could sign with full comprehension of what they were doing. mr. thomas sinclair, one of the special commission, was himself a draughtsman of exceptional skill, and in a matter of this kind his advice was always invaluable, and it was under his hand that the ulster covenant, after frequent amendment, took what was, with one important exception, its final shape. the last revision cut down the draft by more than one-half; but the portion discarded from the covenant itself, in the interest of brevity, was retained as a resolution of the ulster unionist council which accompanied the covenant and served as a sort of declaratory preamble to it[31]. the exception referred to was an amendment made to meet an objection raised by prominent representatives of the presbyterian church. the special commission, realising that the proposed covenant ought not to be promulgated without the consent and approval of the protestant churches, submitted the agreed draft to the authorities of the church of ireland and of the presbyterian, methodist, and congregational churches. the moderator, and other leaders of the presbyterians, including mr. (afterwards sir alexander) mcdowell, a man endowed with much of the wisdom of the serpent, while supporting without demur the policy of the covenant, took exception to its terms in a single particular. they pointed out that the obligation to be accepted by the signatories would be, as the text then stood, of unlimited duration. they objected to undertaking such a responsibility without the possibility of modifying it to meet the changes which time and circumstance might bring about; and they insisted that, before they could advise their congregations to contract so solemn an engagement, the text of the covenant must be amended by the introduction of words limiting its validity to the crisis which then confronted them. this was accordingly done. words were introduced which declared the pledge to be binding "throughout this our time of threatened calamity," and its purpose to be the defeat of "the present conspiracy." the language was as precise, and was as carefully chosen, as the language of a legal deed; but in an unhappy crisis which arose in 1916, in circumstances which no one in the world could have foreseen in 1912, there were some in ulster who were not only tempted to strain the interpretation which the covenant as a whole could legitimately bear, but who failed to appreciate the significance of the amendments that had been made in its text at the instance of the presbyterian church.[32] when these amendments had been incorporated in the covenant by the special commission, a meeting of the standing committee was convened at craigavon on the 19th of september to adopt it for recommendation to the council. the committee, standing in a group outside the door leading from the arcade at craigavon to the tennis-lawn, listened while sir edward carson read the covenant aloud from a stone step which now bears an inscription recording the event. those present showed by their demeanour that they realised the historic character of the transaction in which they were taking part, and the weight of responsibility they were about to assume. but no voice expressed dissent or hesitation. the covenant was adopted unanimously and without amendment. its terms were as follows: "ulster's solemn league and covenant "being convinced in our consciences that home rule would be disastrous to the material well-being of ulster as well as of the whole of ireland, subversive of our civil and religious freedom, destructive of our citizenship, and perilous to the unity of the empire, we, whose names are underwritten, men of ulster, loyal subjects of his gracious majesty king george v, humbly relying on the god whom our fathers in days of stress and trial confidently trusted, do hereby pledge ourselves in solemn covenant throughout this our time of threatened calamity to stand by one another in defending for ourselves and our children our cherished position of equal citizenship in the united kingdom, and in using all means which may be found necessary to defeat the present conspiracy to set up a home rule parliament in ireland. and in the event of such a parliament being forced upon us we further solemnly and mutually pledge ourselves to refuse to recognise its authority. in sure confidence that god will defend the right we hereto subscribe our names. and further, we individually declare that we have not already signed this covenant. god save the king." on monday, the 23rd of september, the ulster unionist council, the body representing the whole loyalist community on an elective and thoroughly democratic basis, held its annual meeting in the ulster hall, the chief business being the ratification of the covenant prior to its being presented for general signature throughout the province on ulster day. upwards of five hundred delegates attended the meeting, and unanimously approved the terms of the document recommended for their acceptance by their standing committee. they then adopted, on the motion of lord londonderry, the resolution which, as already mentioned, had originally formed part of the draft of the covenant itself. this resolution, as well as the covenant, was the subject of extensive comment in the english and scottish press. some opponents of ulster directed against it the flippant ridicule which appeared to be their only weapon against a movement the gravity of which was admitted by ministers of the crown; but, on the whole, the british press acknowledged the important enunciation of political principle which it contained. it placed on record that: "inasmuch as we, the duly elected delegates and members of the ulster unionist council, representing all parts of ulster, are firmly persuaded that by no law can the right to govern those whom we represent be bartered away without their consent; that although the present government, the services and sacrifices of our race having been forgotten, may drive us forth from a constitution which we have ever loyally upheld, they may not deliver us bound into the hands of our enemies; and that it is incompetent for any authority, party, or people to appoint as our rulers a government dominated by men disloyal to the empire and to whom our faith and traditions are hateful; and inasmuch as we reverently believe that, as in times past it was given our fathers to save themselves from a like calamity, so now it may be ordered that our deliverance shall be by our own hands, to which end it is needful that we be knit together as one man, each strengthening the other, and none holding back or counting the cost--therefore we, loyalists of ulster, ratify and confirm the steps so far taken by the special commission this day submitted and explained to us, and we reappoint the commission to carry on its work on our behalf as in the past. "we enter into the solemn covenant appended hereto, and, knowing the greatness of the issues depending on our faithfulness, we promise each to the others that, to the uttermost of the strength and means given us, and not regarding any selfish or private interest, our substance or our lives, we will make good the said covenant; and we now bind ourselves in the steadfast determination that, whatever may befall, no such domination shall be thrust upon us, and in the hope that by the blessing of god our union with great britain, upon which are fixed our affections and trust, may yet be maintained, and that for ourselves and for our children, for this province and for the whole of ireland, peace, prosperity, and civil and religious liberty may be secured under the parliament of the united kingdom and of the king whose faithful subjects we are and will continue all our days." it had been known for some weeks that it was the intention of the ulster loyalists to dedicate the 28th of september as "ulster day," by holding special religious services, after which they were to "pledge themselves to a solemn covenant," the terms of which were not yet published or, indeed, finally settled. this announcement, which appeared in the press on the 17th of august, was hailed in england as an effective reply to the recent "turgid homily" of mr. churchill, but there was really no connection between them in the intentions of ulstermen, who had been too much occupied with their own affairs to pay much attention to the attack upon them in the dundee letters. the ulster day celebration was to be preceded by a series of demonstrations in many of the chief centres of ulster, at which the purpose of the covenant was to be explained to the people by the leader and his colleagues, and a number of english peers and members of parliament arranged to show their sympathy with the policy embodied in the covenant by taking part in the meetings. it would not be true to say that the enthusiasm displayed at this great series of meetings in september eclipsed all that had gone before, for it would not be possible for human beings greatly to exceed in that emotion what had been seen at craigavon and balmoral; but they exhibited an equally grave sense of responsibility, and they proved that the same exaltation of mind, the same determined spirit, that had been displayed by loyalists collected in the populous capital of their province, equally animated the country towns and rural districts. the campaign opened at enniskillen on the 18th of september, where the leader was escorted by two squadrons of mounted and well-equipped yeomen from the station to portora gate, at which point 40,000 members of unionist clubs drawn from the surrounding agricultural districts marched past him in military order. during the following nine days demonstrations were held at lisburn, derry, coleraine, ballymena, dromore, portadown, crumlin, newtownards, and ballyroney, culminating with a meeting in the ulster hall--loyalist headquarters--on the eve of the signing of the covenant on ulster day. at six of these meetings, including, of course, the last, sir edward carson was the principal speaker, while all the ulster unionist members of parliament took part in their several constituencies. lord londonderry was naturally prominent among the speakers, and presided as usual, when the duke of abercorn was prevented by illness from being present, in the ulster hall. mr. f.e. smith, who had closely identified himself with the ulster movement, delighting with his fresh and vigorous eloquence the meetings at balmoral and blenheim, as well as the orange lodges whom he had addressed on the 12th of july, crossed the channel to lend a helping hand, and spoke at five meetings on the tour. others who took part--in addition to local men like mr. thomas sinclair and mr. john young, whose high character always made their appearance on political platforms of value to the cause they supported--were lord charles beresford, lord salisbury, mr. james campbell, lord hugh cecil, lord willoughby de broke, and mr. harold smith; while the marquis of hamilton and lord castlereagh, by the part which they took in the programme, showed their desire to carry on the traditions which identified the two leading ulster families with loyalist principles. a single resolution, identical in the simplicity of its terms, was carried without a dissenting voice at every one of these meetings: "we hereby reaffirm the resolve of the great ulster convention of 1892: 'we will not have home rule.'" these words became so familiar that the laconic phrase "we won't have it," was on everybody's lips as the alpha and omega of ulster's attitude, and was sometimes heard with unexpected abruptness in no very precise context. a ticket-collector, when clipping the tickets of the party who were starting from belfast in a saloon for enniskillen, made no remark and no sign of recognition till he reached carson, when he said almost in a whisper and without a glimmer of a smile, as he took a clip out of the leader's ticket: "tell the station-master at clones, sir edward, that we won't have it." he doubtless knew that the political views of that misguided official were of the wrong colour. a conversation overheard in the crowd at enniskillen before the speaking began was a curious example of the habit so characteristic of ulster--and indeed of other parts of ireland also--of thinking of "old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago" as if they had occurred last week, and were a factor to be taken into account in the conduct of to-day. the demonstration was in the open air, and the sunshine was gleaming on the grass of a hill close at hand. "it 'ud be a quare thing," said a peasant to his neighbour in the crowd, "if the rebels would come out and hould a meetin' agin us on yon hill." "what matter if they would," was the reply, "wouldn't we let on that we won't have it? an' if that wouldn't do them, isn't there hundreds o' king james's men at the bottom o' the lough, an' there's plenty o' room yet." it was not spoken in jest, but in grim conviction that the issue of 1689 was the issue of 1912, and that another newtown butler might have to be fought. this series of meetings in preparation for the covenant brought carson much more closely in touch with the loyalists in outlying districts than he had been hitherto, and when it was over their wild devotion to him personally equalled what it was in belfast itself. the appeal made to the hearts of men as quick as any living to detect and resent humbug or boastfulness, by the simplicity, uncompromising directness, and courage of his character was irresistible. he never spoke better than during this tour of the province. the special correspondent of _the times_, who sent to his paper vivid descriptive articles on each meeting, said in his account of the meeting at coleraine that "sir edward carson was vigorous, fresh, and picturesque. his command over the feelings of his ulster audiences is unquestionable, and never a phrase passes his lips which does not tell." and when the proceedings of the meeting were over, the same observer "was at the station to witness the 'send-off' of the leaders, and for ten minutes before the train for belfast came in the tumult of the cheers, the thanks, and the farewells never faltered for an instant."[33] two days later another english commentator declared that "the ulster campaign has been conducted up to the present with a combination of wisdom, ability, and restraint which has delighted all the unionists of the province, and exasperated their radical and nationalist enemies. from its opening at enniskillen not a speech has been delivered unworthy of a great movement in defence of civil and religious liberty."[34] it was characteristic of sir edward carson that neither at these meetings nor at any time did he use his unmatched power of persuasion to induce his followers to come forward and sign the covenant. on the contrary, he rather warned them only to do so after mature reflection and with full comprehension of the responsibility which signature would entail. he told the unionist council a few days before the memorable 28th of september: "how often have i thought over this covenant--how many hours have i spent, before it was published that we would have one, in counting the cost that may result! how many times have i thought of what it may mean to all that we care about up here! does any man believe that i lightly took this matter in hand without considering with my colleagues all that it may mean either in the distant or the not too distant future? no, it is the gravest matter in all the grave matters in the various offices i have held that i have ever had to consider." and he went on to advise the delegates, "responsible men from every district in ulster, that it is your duty, when you go back to your various districts, to warn your people who trust you that, in entering into this solemn obligation, they are entering into a matter which, whatever may happen in the future, is the most serious matter that has ever confronted them in the course of their lives."[35] a political campaign such as that of september 1912 could not be a success, however spontaneous the enthusiasm of the people, however effective the oratory, unless the arrangements were based on good organisation. it was by general consent a triumph of organisation, the credit for which was very largely due to mr. richard dawson bates, the secretary of the ulster unionist council. sir edward carson himself very wisely paid little attention to detail; happily there was no need for him to do so, for he had beside him in captain james craig and mr. bates two men with real genius for organisation, and indefatigable in relieving "the chief" of all unnecessary work and worry. mr. bates had all the threads of a complex network of organisation in his hands; he kept in close touch with leading unionists in every district; he always knew what was going on in out-of-the-way corners, and where to turn for the right man for any particular piece of work. anyone whose duty it has been to manage even a single political demonstration on a large scale knows what numerous details have to be carefully foreseen and provided for. in ulster a succession of both outdoor and indoor demonstrations, seldom if ever equalled in this country in magnitude and complexity of arrangement, besides an amazing quantity of other miscellaneous work inseparable from the conduct of a political movement in which crisis followed crisis with bewildering rapidity, were managed year after year from mr. bates's office in the old town hall with a quiet, unostentatious efficiency which only those could appreciate who saw the machine at work and knew the master mechanic behind it. of this efficiency the september demonstrations in 1912 were a conspicuous illustration. nor did the loyalist women of ulster lag an inch behind the men either in organisation or in zeal for the unionist cause, and their keenness at every town visited in this september tour was exuberantly displayed. women had not yet been enfranchised, of course, and the ulster women had shown but little interest in the suffragette agitation which was raging at this time in england; but they had organised themselves in defence of the union very effectively on parallel lines to the men, and if the latter had needed any stimulus to their enthusiasm they would certainly have got it from their mothers, sisters, and wives. the marchioness of londonderry threw herself whole-heartedly into the movement. having always ably seconded her husband's many political and social activities, she made no exception in regard to his devotion to ulster. lord londonderry, she was fond of saying, was an ulsterman born and bred, and she was an ulsterwoman "by adoption and grace." her energy was inexhaustible, and her enthusiasm contagious; she used her influence and her wonderful social gifts unsparingly in the unionist cause. a meeting of the ulster women's unionist council, of which the dowager marchioness of dufferin and ava, widow of the great diplomat, was president, was held on the 17th of september, the day before the demonstration at enniskillen, when a resolution proposed by lady londonderry declaring the determination of ulster women to stand by their men in the policy to be embodied in the covenant, was carried with immense enthusiasm and without dissent. no women were so vehement in their support of the loyalist cause as the factory workers, who were very numerous in belfast. indeed, their zeal, and their manner of displaying it, seemed sometimes to illustrate a well-known line of kipling's, considered by some to be anything but complimentary to the female sex. anyhow, there was no divergence of opinion or sympathy between the two sexes in ulster on the question of union or home rule; and the women who everywhere attended the meetings in large numbers were no idle sightseers--though they were certainly hero-worshippers of the ulster leader--but a genuine political force to be taken into account. it was during the september campaign that the "wooden guns" and "dummy rifles" appeared, which excited so much derision in the english radical press, whose editors little dreamed that the day was not far distant when mr. asquith's government would be glad enough to borrow those same dummy rifles for training the new levies of kitchener's army to fight the germans. so far as the ulstermen were concerned the ridicule of their quasi-military display and equipment never had any sting in it. they were conscious of the strength given to their cause by the discipline and military organisation of the volunteers, even if the weapons with which they drilled should never be replaced by the real thing; and many of them had an instinctive belief that their leaders would see to it that they were effectively armed all in good time. and so with grim earnestness they recruited the various battalions of volunteers, gave up their evenings to drilling, provided cyclist corps, signalling corps, ambulances and nurses; they were proud to receive their leader with guards of honour at the station, and bodyguards while he drove through their town or district to the meetings where he spoke. few of them probably ever so much as heard of the gibes of _the irish news_, _the daily news_, or _the westminster gazette_ at the "royal progresses" of "king carson"; but they would have been in no way upset by them if they had, for they were far too much in earnest themselves to pay heed to the cheap sneers of others. at each one of the september meetings there was a military setting to the business of the day. at enniskillen carson was conducted by a cavalry escort to the ground where he was to address the people; at coleraine, portadown, and other places volunteers lined the route and marched in column to and from the meeting. they were, it is true, but "half-baked" levies, with more zeal than knowledge of military duties. but competent critics--and there were many such amongst the visitors--praised their bearing and physique and the creditable measure of discipline they had already acquired. and it must be remembered that in september 1912 the ulster volunteer force was still in its infancy. in the following two years its improvement in efficiency was very marked; and within three years of the time when its battalions paraded before sir edward carson, with dummy rifles, and marched before him to his meetings in lisburn, newtownards, enniskillen, and belfast on the eve of the covenant, those same men had gloriously fought against the flower of the prussian army, and many of them had fallen in the battle of the somme. the final meeting in the ulster hall on friday the 27th of september was an impressive climax to the tour. many english journalists and other visitors were present, and some of them admitted that, in spite of all they had heard of what an ulster hall meeting was like, they were astonished by the soul-stirring fervour they witnessed, and especially by the wonderful spectacle presented at the overflow meeting in the street outside, which was packed as far as the eye could reach in either direction with upturned faces, eager to catch the words addressed to them from a platform erected for the speakers outside an upper window of the building.[36] messages of sympathy and approval at this supreme moment were read from mr. bonar law and lord lansdowne, mr. long, mr. balfour, and mr. austen chamberlain. then, after brief speeches by four local belfast men, one of whom was a representative of labour, and while the audience were waiting eagerly for the speech of their leader, there occurred what _the times_ next day described as "two entirely delightful, and, as far as the crowd was concerned, two entirely unexpected episodes." the first was the presentation to sir edward carson of a faded yellow silk banner by colonel wallace, grand master of the belfast orangemen, who explained that it was the identical banner that had been carried before king william iii at the battle of the boyne, and was now lent by its owner, a lineal descendant of the original standard-bearer, to be carried before carson to the signing of the covenant; the second was the presentation to the leader of a silver key, symbolic of ulster as "the key of the situation," and a silver pen wherewith to sign the covenant on the morrow, by captain james craig. "the two incidents," continued the correspondent of _the times_, "were followed by the audience with breathless excitement, and made a remarkably effective prelude to sir edward carson's speech. premeditated, no doubt, that incident of the banner--yet entirely graceful, entirely fitting to the spirit of the occasion--a plan carried through with the sense of ceremony which ulstermen seem to have always at their command in moments of emotion." and if ever there was a "moment of emotion" for the loyalists of ulster--those descendants of the plantation men who had been deliberately sent to ireland with a commission from the first sovereign of a united britain to uphold british interests, british honour, and the reformed faith across the narrow sea--loyalists who were conscious that throughout the generations they had honestly striven to be faithful to their mission--if ever in their long and stormy history they experienced a "moment of emotion," it was assuredly on this evening before the signing of their covenant. the speeches delivered by their leader and others were merely a vent for that emotion. there was nothing that could be said about their cause that they did not know already; but all felt that the heart of the matter was touched--the whole situation, so far as they were concerned, summed up in a single sentence of carson's speech: "we will take deliberately a step forward, not in defiance but in defence; and the covenant which we will most willingly sign to-morrow will be a great step forward, in no spirit of aggression, in no spirit of ascendancy, but with a full knowledge that, if necessary, you and i--you trusting me, and i trusting you--will follow out everything that this covenant means to the very end, whatever the consequences." every man and woman who heard these words was filled with an exalted sense of the solemnity of the occasion. the mental atmosphere was not that of a political meeting, but of a religious service--and, in fact, the proceedings had been opened by prayer, as had become the invariable custom on such occasions in ulster. it was felt to be a time of individual preparation for the _sacramentum_ of the following day, which protestant ulster had set apart as a day of self-dedication to a cause for which they were willing to make any sacrifice. footnotes: [28] _the scotsman_, november 2nd, 1911. [29] see sir b. carson's speech in _belfast newsletter_, september 24th, 1912. [30] see _ante_, p. 53. [31] see p. 106. [32] see p. 248. [33] _the times_, september 23rd, 1912. [34] _the daily telegraph_, september 25th, 1912. [35] _belfast newsletter_, september 24th, 1912. [36] the article which appeared on the following sunday in _the observer_, showed how profoundly a distinguished london editor and writer had been moved by what he saw in belfast. chapter x the solemn league and covenant ulster day, saturday the 28th of september, 1912, was kept as a day of religious observance by the northern loyalists. so far as the protestants of all denominations were concerned, ulster was a province at prayer on that memorable saturday morning. in belfast, not only the services which had more or less of an official character--those held in the cathedral, in the ulster hall, in the assembly hall--but those held in nearly all the places of worship in the city, were crowded with reverent worshippers. it was the same throughout the country towns and rural districts--there was hardly a village or hamlet where the parish church and the presbyterian and methodist meeting-houses were not attended by congregations of unwonted numbers and fervour. not that there was any of the religious excitement such as accompanies revivalist meetings; it was simply that a population, naturally religious-minded, turned instinctively to divine worship as the fitting expression of common emotion at a moment of critical gravity in their history. "one noteworthy feature," commented upon by one of the english newspaper correspondents in a despatch telegraphed during the day, "is the silence of the great shipyards. in these vast industrial establishments on both sides of the river, 25,000 men were at work yesterday performing their task at the highest possible pressure, for the order-books of both firms are full of orders. now there is not the sound of a hammer; all is as silent as the grave. the splendid craftsmen who build the largest ships in the world have donned their sunday clothes, and, with unionist buttons on the lapels of their coats, or orange sashes on their shoulders, are about to engage on what to them is an even more important task." he also noticed that although the streets were crowded there was no excitement, for "the average ulsterman performs his religious and political duties with calm sobriety. he has no time to-day for mirth or merriment, for every minute is devoted to proving that he is still the same man--devoted to the empire, to the king, and constitution."[37] there is at all times in ulster far less sectarian enmity between the episcopal and other reformed churches than in england; on ulster day the complete harmony and co-operation between them was a marked feature of the observances. at the cathedral in belfast the preacher was the bishop of down,[38] while a presbyterian minister representing the moderator of the general assembly, and the president of the methodist college took part in the conduct of the service. at the ulster hall the same unity was evidenced by a similar co-operation between clergy of the three denominations, and also at the assembly hall (a presbyterian place of worship), where dr. montgomery, the moderator, was assisted by a clergyman of the church of ireland representing the bishop. the service in the ulster hall was attended by sir edward carson, the lord mayor of belfast (mr. mcmordie, m.p.), most of the distinguished visitors from england, and by those ulster members whose constituencies were in or near the city; those representing country seats went thither to attend local services and to sign the covenant with their own constituents. one small but significant detail in the day's proceedings was much noticed as a striking indication of the instinctive realisation by the crowd of the exceptional character of the occasion. bedford street, where the ulster hall is, was densely packed with spectators, but when the leader arrived, instead of the hurricane of cheers that invariably greeted his appearance in the streets, there was nothing but a general uncovering of heads and respectful silence. it is true that the people abundantly compensated themselves for this moment of self-restraint later on, until in the evening one wondered how human throats could survive so many hours of continuous strain; but the contrast only made the more remarkable that almost startling silence before the religious service began. the "sense of ceremony" which _the times_ correspondent on another occasion had declared to be characteristic of ulstermen "in moments of emotion," was certainly displayed conspicuously on ulster day. ceremony at large public functions is naturally cast in a military mould--marching men, bands of music, display of flags, guards of honour, and so forth--and although on this occasion there was, it is true, more than mere decorative significance in the military frame to the picture, it was an admirably designed and effective spectacle. it is but a few hundred yards from the ulster hall to the city hall, where the signing of the covenant was to take place. when the religious service ended, about noon, sir edward carson and his colleagues proceeded from one hall to the other on foot. the boyne standard, which had been presented to the leader the previous evening, was borne before him to the city hall. he was escorted by a guard consisting of a hundred men from the orange lodges of belfast and a like number representing the unionist clubs of the city. these clubs had also provided a force of 2,500 men, whose duty, admirably performed throughout the day, was to protect the gardens and statuary surrounding the city hall from injury by the crowd, and to keep a clear way to the hall for the endless stream of men entering to sign the covenant. the city hall in belfast is a building of which ulster is justly proud. it is, indeed, one of the few modern public buildings in the british islands in which the most exacting critic of architecture finds nothing to condemn. standing in the central site of the city with ample garden space in front, its noble proportions and beautiful faã§ade and dome fill the view from the broad thoroughfare of donegal place. the main entrance hall, leading to a fine marble stairway, is circular in shape, surrounded by a marble colonnade carrying the dome, to which the hall is open through the full height of the building. it was in this central space beneath the dome that a round table covered with the union jack was placed for the signing of the covenant by the ulster leaders and the most prominent of their supporters. to those englishmen who have never been able to grasp the ulster point of view, and who have, therefore, persisted in regarding the ulster movement as a phase of party politics in the ordinary sense, it must appear strange and even improper that the city hall, the official quarters of the corporation, should have been put to the use for which it was lent on ulster day, 1912. the vast majority of the citizens, whose property it was, thought it could be used for no better purpose than to witness their signatures to a deed securing to them their birthright in the british empire. at the entrance to the city hall sir edward carson was received by the lord mayor and members of the corporation wearing their robes of office, and by the harbour commissioners, the water board, and the poor law guardians, by whom he was accompanied into the hall. the text of ulster's solemn league and covenant had been printed on sheets with places for ten signatures on each; the first sheet lay on the table for edward carson to sign. no man but a dullard without a spark of imagination could have witnessed the scene presented at that moment without experiencing a thrill which he would have found it difficult to describe. the sunshine, sending a beam through the stained glass of the great window on the stairway, threw warm tints of colour on the marbles of the columns and the tesselated floor of the hall, sparkled on the lord mayor's chain, lent a rich glow to the scarlet gowns of the city fathers, and lit up the red and the blue and the white of the imperial flag which draped the table and which was the symbol of so much that they revered to those who stood looking on. they were grouped in a semicircle behind the leader as he stepped forward to sign his name--men of substance, leaders in the commercial life of a great industrial city, elderly men many of them, lovers of peace and order; men of mark who had served the crown, like londonderry and campbell and beresford; doctors of divinity, guides and teachers of religion, like the bishop and the moderator of the general assembly; privy councillors; members of the imperial parliament; barristers and solicitors, shopkeepers and merchants,--there they all stood, silent witnesses of what all felt to be one of the deeds that make history, assembled to set their hands, each in his turn, to an instrument which, for good or evil, would influence the destiny of their race; while behind them through the open door could be seen a vast forest of human heads, endless as far as eye could reach, every one of whom was in eager accord with the work in hand, and whose blended voices, while they waited to perform their own part in the great transaction, were carried to the ears of those in the hall like the inarticulate noise of moving waters. when carson had signed the covenant he handed the silver pen to londonderry, and the latter's name was followed in order by the signatures of the moderator of the general assembly, the lord bishop of down, connor, and dromore (afterwards primate of all ireland), the dean of belfast (afterwards bishop of down), the general secretary of the presbyterian church, the president of the methodist conference, the ex-chairman of the congregational union, viscount castlereagh, and mr. james chambers, m.p. for south belfast; and the rest of the company, including the right hon. thomas sinclair and the veteran sir william ewart, as well as the members of the corporation and other public authorities and boards, having attached their signatures to other sheets, the general public waiting outside were then admitted. the arrangements for signature by the general public had fully taxed the organising ability of the specially appointed ulster day committee, and their three hon. secretaries, mr. dawson bates, mr. mccammon, and mr. frank hall. they made provision for signatures to be received in many hundreds of localities throughout ulster, but it was impossible to estimate closely the numbers that would require accommodation at the city hall. lines of desks, giving a total desk-space of more than a third of a mile, were placed along both sides of the corridors on the upper and lower floors of the building, which enabled 540 persons to sign the covenant simultaneously. it all worked wonderfully smoothly, largely because every individual in the multitude outside was anxious to help in maintaining orderly procedure, and behaved with the greatest patience and willingness to follow directions. the people were admitted to the hall in batches of 400 or 500 at a time, and as there was no confusion there was no waste of time. all through the afternoon and up to 11 p.m., when the hall was closed, there was an unceasing flow of men eager to become covenanters. immense numbers who belonged to the orange lodges, unionist clubs, or other organised bodies, marched to the hall in procession, and those whose route lay through royal avenue had an opportunity, of which they took the fullest advantage, of cheering carson, who watched the memorable scene from the balcony of the reform club, the quondam headquarters of ulster liberalism. prominent and influential men in the country districts refrained from coming to belfast, preferring to sign the covenant with their neighbours in their own localities. the duke of abercorn, who had been prevented by failing health from taking an active part in the movement of late, and whose life unhappily was drawing to a close, signed the covenant at barons court; his son, the marquis of hamilton, m.p. for derry, attached his signature in the maiden city together with the bishop; another prelate, the bishop of clogher, signed at enniskillen with the grand master of the orangemen, lord erne; at armagh, the primate of all ireland, the dean, and sir john lonsdale, m.p. (afterwards lord armaghdale), headed the list of signatures; the provost of trinity college signed in dublin; and at ballymena the veteran presbyterian privy councillor, mr. john young, and his son mr. william robert young, hon. secretary of the ulster unionist council, and for thirty years one of the most zealous and active workers for the loyalist cause, were the first to sign. but a more notable covenanter than any of these local leaders was lord macnaghten, one of the most illustrious of english judges, whose great position as lord of appeal did not deter him from wholly identifying himself with his native ulster, by accepting the full responsibility of the signatories of the covenant. ulstermen living in other parts of ireland, and in great britain, were not forgotten. arrangements were made enabling such to sign the covenant in dublin, london, edinburgh, glasgow, manchester, liverpool, bristol, and york. two curious details may be added, which no reader who is alive to the picturesqueness of historical associations will deem too trivial to be worth recording. in edinburgh a number of ulstermen signed the covenant in the old greyfriars' churchyard on the "covenanters' stone," the well-known memorial of the scottish covenant of the seventeenth century; and the other incident was that, among some twenty men who signed the covenant in belfast with their own blood, major crawford was able to claim that he was following a family tradition, inasmuch as a lineal ancestor had in the same grim fashion emphasised his adherence to the solemn league and covenant in 1638. the most careful precautions were taken to ensure that all who signed were properly entitled to do so, by requiring evidence to be furnished of their ulster birth or domicile, and references able to corroborate it. the declaration in the covenant itself that the person signing had not already done so was in order to make sure that none of the signatures should be duplicates. when the lists were closed--they were kept open for some days after ulster day--they were very carefully scrutinised by a competent staff at the old town hall, and it is certain that the numbers as eventually published included no duplicate signature and none that was not genuine. precisely the same care was taken in the case of the declaration by which, in words similar to the covenant but without its pledge for definite action, the women of ulster associated themselves with the men "in their uncompromising opposition to the home rule bill now before parliament." it was not until the 22nd of november that the scrutiny and verification of the signatures was completed, and the actual numbers published. they were as follows: in ulster itself 218,206 men had registered themselves as covenanters, and 228,991 women had signed the declaration; in the rest of ireland and in great britain 19,162 men and 5,055 women had signed. thus, a grand total of 471,414 ulster men and women gave their adherence to the policy of which the ulster covenant was the solemn pledge. to every one of these was given a copy of the document printed on parchment, to be retained as a memento, and in thousands of cottages throughout ulster the framed covenant hangs to-day in an honoured place, and is the householder's most treasured possession. although the main business of the day was over, so far as carson and the other leaders were concerned, when they had signed the covenant in the city hall at noon, every hour, and every minute in the hour, until they took their departure in the liverpool packet in the evening, was full of incident and excitement. the multitude in the streets leading to the city hall was so densely packed that they had great difficulty in making their way to the reform club, where they were to be entertained at lunch. and, as every man and woman in the crowd was desperately anxious the moment they saw him to get near enough to carson to shake him by the hand, the pressure of the swaying mass of humanity was a positive danger. happily the behaviour of the people was as exemplary as it was tumultuously enthusiastic. _the times_ special correspondent thus summed up his impressions of the scene: "belfast did all that a city could do for such an occasion. i do not well see how its behaviour could have been more impressive. the tirelessness of the crowd--it was that perhaps which struck me most; and, secondly, the good conduct of the crowd. belfast had one of the lowest of its saturday records for drunkenness and disorderliness yesterday. i was in the reform club between one and three o'clock. again and again i went out on the balcony and watched the streets. i saw the procession of thousands upon thousands come down royal avenue. but this was not the only line of march, for all belfast was now converging upon the city hall, the arrangements in which must have been elaborate. it was a procession a description of which would have been familiar to the belfast public, but the like of which is only seen in ulster." the tribute here paid to the conduct of the belfast crowd was well merited. but in this respect the day of the covenant was not so exceptional as it would have been before the beginning of the ulster movement. before that period neither belfast nor any part of ulster could have been truthfully described as remarkable for its sobriety. but by the universal testimony of those qualified to judge in such matters--police, clergy of all denominations, and workers for social welfare--the political movement had a sobering and steadying influence on the people, which became more and more noticeable as the movement developed, and especially as the volunteers grew in numbers and discipline. the "man in the street" gained a sense of responsibility from the feeling that he formed one of a great company whom it was his wish not to discredit, and he found occupation for mind and body which diminished the temptations of idle hours. from the reform club carson, londonderry, beresford, and f.e. smith went to the ulster club, just across the street, where they dined as the guests of lord mayor mcmordie before leaving for liverpool; and it was outside that dingy building that the enthusiasm of the people reached a climax. none who witnessed it can ever forget the scene, which the english newspaper correspondents required all their superlatives to describe for london readers next day. those superlatives need not be served up again here. one or two bald facts will perhaps give to anyone possessing any faculty of visualisation as clear an idea as they could get from any number of dithyrambic pages. the distance from the ulster club to the quay where the liverpool steamer is berthed is ordinarily less than a ten minutes' walk. the wagonette in which the ulster leader and his friends were drawn by human muscles took three minutes short of an hour to traverse it. it was estimated that into that short space of street some 70,000 to 100,000 people had managed to jam themselves. movement was almost out of the question, yet everyone within reach tried to press near enough to grasp hands with the occupants of the carriage. when at last the shed was reached the people could not bear to let carson disappear through the gates. _the times_ correspondent heard them shout, "don't leave us," "you mustn't leave us," and, he added, "it was seriously meant; it was only when someone pointed out that sir edward carson had work to do in england for ulster, that the crowd finally gave way and made an opening for their hero."[39] there had been speeches from the balcony of the reform club in the afternoon; speeches from the window of the ulster club in the evening; speeches outside the dock gates; speeches from the deck of the steamer before departure; speeches by carson, by londonderry, by f.e. smith, by lord charles beresford--and the purport of one and all of them could be summed up in the familiar phrase, "we won't have it." but this simple theme, elaborated through all the modulations of varied oratory, was one of which the belfast populace was no more capable of becoming weary than is the music lover of tiring of a recurrent _leitmotif_ in a wagner opera. at last the ship moved off, and speech was no longer possible. it was replaced by song, "rule britannia"; then, as the space to the shore widened, "auld lang syne"; and finally, when the figures lining the quay were growing invisible in the darkness, those on board heard thousands of loyalists fervently singing "god save the king." footnotes: [37] _the standard_, september 30th, 1912. [38] dr. d'arcy, now (1922) primate of all ireland. [39] _the times_, september 30th, 1912. chapter xi passing the bill no part of great britain displayed a more constant and whole-hearted sympathy with the attitude of ulster than the city of liverpool. there was much in common between belfast and the great commercial port on the mersey. both were the home of a robust protestantism, which perhaps was reinforced by the presence in both of a quarter where irish nationalists predominated. just as west belfast gave a seat in parliament to the most forceful of the younger nationalist generation, mr. devlin, the scotland division of liverpool had for a generation been represented by mr. t.p. o'connor, one of the veteran leaders of the parnellite period. in each case the whole of the rest of the city was uncompromisingly conservative, and among the members for liverpool at the time was mr. f.e. smith, unquestionably the most brilliant of the rising generation of conservatives, who had already conspicuously identified himself with the ulster movement, and was a close friend as well as a political adherent of carson. among local leaders of opinion in liverpool alderman salvidge exercised a wide and powerful influence on the unionist side. it was in accordance with the fitness of things, therefore, that liverpool should have wished to associate itself in no doubtful manner with the men who had just subscribed to the covenant on the other side of the channel. having left belfast amid the wonderful scenes described in the last chapter, carson, londonderry, f.e. smith, beresford, and the rest of the distinguished visitors awoke next morning--if the rollers of the irish sea permitted sleep--in the oily waters of the mersey, to find at the landing-stage a crowd that in dimensions and demeanour seemed to be a duplicate of the one they had left outside the dock gates at belfast. except that the point round which everything had centred in belfast, the signing of the covenant, was of course missing in liverpool, the unionists of liverpool were not to be outdone by the ulstermen themselves in their demonstration of loyalty to the union. the packet that carried the group of leaders across the channel happened to be, appropriately enough, the r.m.s. _patriotic_. as she steamed slowly up the river towards prince's landing-stage in the chilly atmosphere of early morning it was at once evident that more than the members of the deputation who had arranged to present addresses to carson were out to welcome him to liverpool, and when the workers who thronged the river bank started singing "o god, our help in ages past," the sound was strangely familiar in ears fresh from ulster. an address from the unionist working men of liverpool and district, presented by alderman salvidge, thanked carson for his "magnificent efforts to preserve the integrity of the empire," and assured him that they, "unionist workers of the port which is connected with belfast in so many ways, stand by ulster in this great struggle." scenes of intense enthusiasm in the streets culminated in a monster demonstration in shiel park, at which it was estimated that close on 200,000 people were present. in all the speeches delivered and the resolutions adopted during this memorable liverpool visit the same note was sounded, of full approval of the covenanters and of determination to support them whatever might befall. the events of the last three months, and especially the signing of the covenant, had concentrated on ulster the attention of the whole united kingdom, not to speak of america and the british oversea dominions. this was not of unmixed advantage to the cause for which ulster was making so determined a stand. there was a tendency more and more to regard the opposition to irish home rule as an ulster question, and nothing else. the unionist protagonists of the earlier, the gladstonian, period of the struggle, men like salisbury, randolph churchill, devonshire, chamberlain, and goschen, had treated it mainly as an imperial question, which it certainly was. in their eyes the irish loyalists, of whom the ulstermen were the most important merely because they happened to be geographically concentrated, were valuable allies in a contest vital to the safety and prosperity of the british empire; but, although the particular interests of these loyalists were recognised as possessing a powerful claim on british sympathy and support, this was a consideration quite secondary in comparison with the larger aspects of imperial policy raised by the demand for home rule. it was an unfortunate result of the prominence into which ulster was forced after the introduction of mr. asquith's measure that these larger aspects gradually dropped away, and the defence of the union came to be identified almost completely in england and scotland with support of the ulster loyalists. it was to this aspect of the case that mr. kipling gave prominence in the poem published on the day of the balmoral meeting,[40] although no one was less prone than he to magnify a "side-show" in imperial policy; and it was the same note that again was sounded on the eve of the covenant by another distinguished english poet. the general feeling of bewilderment and indignation that the only part of ireland which had consistently upheld the british connection should now be not only thrown over by the british government but denounced for its obstinate refusal to co-operate in a separatist movement, was finely expressed in mr. william watson's challenging poem, "ulster's reward," which appeared in _the times_ a few days before the signing of the covenant in belfast: "what is the wage the faithful earn? what is a recompense fair and meet? trample their fealty under your feet- that, is a fitting and just return. flout them, buffet them, over them ride, fling them aside! "ulster is ours to mock and spurn, ours to spit upon, ours to deride. and let it be known and blazoned wide that this is the wage the faithful earn: did she uphold us when others defied? then fling her aside. "where on the earth was the like of it done in the gaze of the sun? she had pleaded and prayed to be counted still as one of our household through good and ill, and with scorn they replied; jeered at her loyalty, trod on her pride, spurned her, repulsed her, great-hearted ulster; flung her aside." appreciating to the full the sympathy and support which their cause received from leading men of letters in england, it was not the fault of the ulstermen themselves that the larger imperial aspects of the question thus dropped into the background. they continually strove to make englishmen realise that far more was involved than loyal support of england's only friends in ireland; they quoted such pronouncements as admiral mahan's that "it is impossible for a military man, or a statesman with appreciation of military conditions, to look at a map and not perceive that if the ambition of the irish separatists were realised, it would be even more threatening to the national life of britain than the secession of the south was to that of the american republic.... an independent parliament could not safely be trusted even to avowed friends"; and they showed over and over again, quoting chapter and verse from nationalist utterances, and appealing to acknowledged facts in recent and contemporary history, that it was not to "avowed friends," but to avowed enemies, that mr. asquith was prepared to concede an independent parliament. but those were the days before the rude awakening from the dream that the world was to repose for ever in the soft wrappings of universal peace. questions of national defence bored englishmen. the judgment of the greatest strategical authority of the age weighed less than one of lord haldane's verbose platitudes, and the urgent warnings of lord roberts less than the impudent snub administered to him by an under-secretary. speakers on public platforms found that sympathy with ulster carried a more potent appeal to their audience than any other they could make on the irish question, and they naturally therefore concentrated attention upon it. liberals, excited alternately to fury and to ridicule by the proceedings in belfast, heaped denunciation on carson and the covenant, thereby impelling their opponents to vehement defence of both; and the result of all this was that before the end of 1912 the sun of imperial policy which had drawn the homage of earlier defenders of the union was almost totally eclipsed by the moon of ulster. when parliament reassembled for the autumn session in october the prime minister immediately moved a "guillotine" resolution for allotting time for the remaining stages of the home rule bill, and, in resisting this motion, mr. bonar law made one of the most convincing of his many convincing speeches against the whole policy of the bill. it stands for all time as the complete demonstration of a proposition which he argued over and over again--that home rule had never been submitted to the british electorate, and that that fact alone was full justification for ulster's resolve to resist it. it was impossible for any democratic minister to refute the contention that even if the principle of the government's policy had been as frankly submitted to the electorate as it had in fact been carefully withheld, it would still remain true that the intensity of the ulster opposition was itself a new factor in the situation upon which the people were entitled to be consulted. there was a limit, said mr. bonar law, to the obligation to submit to legally constituted authority, and that limit was reached "in a free country when a body of men, whether they call themselves a cabinet or not, propose to make a great change like this for which they have never received the sanction of the people." it was, however, thoroughly understood by every member of the house of commons that argument, no matter how irrefutable, had no effect on the situation, which was governed by the simple fact that the life of the ministry depended on the good-will of the nationalist section of the coalition, which rigorously demanded the passage of the bill in the current session, and feared nothing so much as the judgment of the english people upon it. consequently, under the guillotine, great blocks of the bill, containing the most far-reaching constitutional issues, and matters vital to the political and economic structure of the centre of the british empire, were passed through the house of commons by the ringing of the division bells without a word of discussion, exactly as they had come from the pen of the official draftsman, and destined under the exigencies of the parliament act procedure to be forced through the legislature in the same raw condition in the two following sessions. this last-mentioned fact suggested a consideration which weighed heavily on the minds of the ulster leaders as the year 1912 drew to a close, and with it the debates on the bill in committee. had the time come when they ought to put forward in parliament an alternative policy to the absolute rejection of the bill? they had not yet completely abandoned hope that ministers, however reluctantly, might still find it impossible to stave off an appeal to the country; but the opposite hypothesis was the more probable. if the bill became law in its present form they would have to fall back on the policy disclosed at craigavon and embodied in the covenant. but, although it is true that they had supported mr. agar-robartes's amendment to exclude certain ulster counties from the jurisdiction to be set up in dublin, the ulster representatives were reluctant to make proposals of their own which might be misrepresented as a desire to compromise their hostility to the principle of home rule. under the parliament act procedure, however, they realised that no material change would be allowed to be made in the bill after it first left the house of commons, although two years would have to elapse before it could reach the statute-book; if they were to propound any alternative to "no home rule" it was, therefore, a case of now or never. having regard to the extreme gravity of the course to be followed in ulster in the event of the measure passing into law, it was decided that the most honest and straightforward thing to do was to put forward at the juncture now reached a policy for dealing with ulster separately from the rest of ireland. but in fulfilment of the promise, from which he never deviated, to take no important step without first consulting his supporters in ulster, carson went over to attend a meeting of the standing committee in belfast on the 13th of december, where he explained fully the reasons why this policy was recommended by himself and all his parliamentary colleagues. it was not accepted by the standing committee without considerable discussion, but in the end the decision was unanimous, and the resolution adopting it laid it down that "in taking this course the standing committee firmly believes the interests of unionists in the three other provinces of ireland will be best conserved." in order to emphasise that the course resolved upon implied no compromise of their opposition to the bill as a whole, sir edward carson wrote a letter to the prime minister during the christmas recess, which was published in the press, and which made this point clear; and he pressed it home in the house of commons on the 1st of january, 1913, when he moved to exclude "the province of ulster" from the operation of the bill in a speech of wonderfully persuasive eloquence which deeply impressed the house, and which was truly described by mr. asquith as "very powerful and moving," and by mr. redmond as "serious and solemn." carson's proposal was altogether different from what was subsequently enacted in 1920. it was consistent with the uninterrupted demand of ulster to be let alone, it asked for no special privilege, except the privilege, which was also claimed as an inalienable right, to remain a part of the united kingdom with full representation at westminster and nowhere else; it required the creation of no fresh subordinate constitution raising the difficult question as to the precise area which its jurisdiction could effectively administer. carson's amendment was, of course, rejected by the government's invariably docile majority, and on the 16th of january the home rule bill passed the third reading in the house of commons, without the smallest concession having been made to the ulster opposition, or the slightest indication as to how the government intended to meet the opposition of a different character which was being organised in the north of ireland. when the bill went to the upper house at the end of january the whole subject was threshed out in a series of exceedingly able speeches; but the impotence of the second chamber under the parliament act gave an air of pathetic unreality to the proceedings, which was neatly epitomised by lord londonderry in the sentence: "the position is, that while the house of commons can vote but not speak, the lords can speak but not vote." nevertheless, such speeches as those of the archbishop of york, earl grey, the duke of devonshire, and lord londonderry, were not without effect on opinion outside. earl grey, an admitted authority on federal constitutions, urged that if, as the government were continually assuring the country, home rule was the first step in the federalisation of the united kingdom, there was every reason why ulster should be a distinct unit in the federal system. the archbishop dealt more fully with the ulster question. admitting that he had formerly believed "that this attitude of ulster was something of a scarecrow made up out of old and outworn prejudices," he had now to acknowledge that the men of ulster were "of all men the least likely to be 'drugged with the wine of words,' and were men who of all other men mean and do what they say." behind all the glowing eloquence of mr. asquith and mr. redmond, he discerned "this figure of ulster, grim, determined, menacing, which no eloquence can exorcise and no live statesmanship can ignore." if the result of this legislation should be actual bloodshed, then, on whomsoever might rest the responsibility for it, it would mean the shattering of all the hopes of a united and contented ireland which it was the aim of the bill to create. if ulster made good her threat of forcible resistance there was, said the archbishop, one condition, and one condition only, on which her coercion could be justified, and that was that the government "should have received from the people of this country an authority clear and explicit" to carry it out. but among the numerous striking passages in the debate which occupied the peers for four days, none was more telling than lord curzon's picturesque description of how ulster was to be treated. "you are compelling ulster," he said, "to divorce her present husband, to whom she is not unfaithful, and you compel her to marry someone else whom she cordially dislikes, with whom she does not want to live; and you do it because she happens to be rich, and because her new partner has a large and ravenous offspring to provide for. you are asking rather too much of human nature." that the home rule bill would be rejected on second reading by the lords was a foregone conclusion, and it was so rejected by a majority of 257 on the 31st of january, 1913. the bill then entered into its period of gestation under the parliament act. the session did not come to an end until the 7th of march, and the new session began three days afterwards. it is unnecessary to follow the fortunes of the bill in parliament in 1913, for the process was purely mechanical, in order to satisfy the requirements of the parliament act. the preparations for dealing with the mischief it would work went forward with unflagging energy elsewhere. footnotes: [40] see _ante_, p. 79. chapter xii was resistance justifiable? a story is told of queen victoria that in her youthful days, when studying constitutional history, she once asked lord melbourne whether under any circumstances citizens were justified in resisting legal authority; to which the old courtier replied: "when asked that question by a sovereign of the house of hanover i feel bound to answer in the affirmative." if one can imagine a similar question being asked of an ulsterman by mr. asquith, mr. lloyd george, or sir edward grey, in 1912, the reply would surely have been that such a question asked by a statesman claiming to be a guardian of liberal principles and of the whig tradition could only be answered in the affirmative. this, at all events, was the view of the late duke of devonshire, who more than any other statesman of our time could claim to be a representative in his own person of the whig tradition handed down from 1688.[41] passive obedience has, indeed, been preached as a political dogma in the course of english history, but never by apostles of liberalism. forcible resistance to legally constituted authority, even when it involved repudiation of existing allegiance, has often, both in our own and in foreign countries, won the approval and sympathy of english liberals. a long line of illustrious names, from cromwell and lord halifax in england to kossuth and mazzini on the continent, might be quoted in support of such a proposition if anyone were likely to challenge it. when, then, liberals professed to be unutterably shocked by ulster's declared intention to resist home rule both actively and passively, they could not have based their attitude on the principle that under no circumstances could such resistance be morally justified. indeed, in the case in question, there were circumstances that would have made the condemnation of ulster by the english liberal party not a little hypocritical if referred to any general ethical principle. for that party had itself been for a generation in the closest political alliance with irishmen whose leader had boasted that they were as much rebels as their fathers were in 1798, and whose power in ireland had been built up by long-sustained and systematic defiance of the law. yet the same politicians who had excused, if they had not applauded, the "plan of campaign," and the organised boycotting and cattle-driving which had for years characterised the agitation for home rule, were unspeakably shocked when ulster formed a disciplined volunteer force which never committed an outrage, and prepared to set up a provisional government rather than be ruled by an assembly of cattle-drivers in dublin. moreover, many of mr. asquith's supporters, and one at least of his most distinguished colleagues in the cabinet of 1912, had themselves organised resistance to an education act which they disliked but had been unable to defeat in parliament. nevertheless, it must, of course, be freely admitted that the question as to what conditions justify resistance to the legal authority in the state--or rebellion, if the more blunt expression be preferred--is an exceedingly difficult one to answer. it would sound cynical to say, though carlyle hardly shrinks from maintaining, that success, and success alone, redeems rebellion from wickedness and folly. yet it would be difficult to explain on any other principle why posterity has applauded the parliamentarians of 1643 and the whigs of 1688, while condemning monmouth and charles edward; or why mr. gladstone sympathised with jefferson davis when he looked like winning and withdrew that sympathy when he had lost. but if success is not the test, what is? is it the aim of the men who resist? the aim that appears honourable and heroic to one onlooker appears quite the opposite to another, and so the test resolves itself into a matter of personal partisanship. that is probably as near as one can get to a solution of the question. those who happen to agree with the purpose for which a rebellion takes place think the rebels in the right; those who disagree think them in the wrong. as mr. winston churchill succinctly puts it when commenting on the strictures passed on his father for "inciting" ulster to resist home rule, "constitutional authorities will measure their censures according to their political opinions." he reminds us, moreover, that when lord randolph was denounced as a "rebel in the skin of a tory," the latter "was able to cite the authority of lord althorp, sir robert peel, mr. morley, and the prime minister (gladstone) himself, in support of the contention that circumstances might justify morally, if not technically, violent resistance and even civil war."[42] to this distinguished catalogue of authorities an ulster apologist might have added the name of the chief secretary for ireland in mr. asquith's own cabinet, who admitted in 1912 that "if the religion of the protestants were oppressed or their property despoiled they would be right to fight[43];" which meant that mr. birrell did not condemn fighting in itself, provided he were allowed to decide when the occasion for it had arisen. greater authorities than mr. birrell held that the ulster case for resistance was a good and valid one as it stood. no english statesman of the last half-century has deservedly enjoyed a higher reputation for political probity, combined with sound common sense, than the eighth duke of devonshire. as long ago as 1893, when this same issue had already been raised in circumstances much less favourable to ulster than after the passing of the parliament act in 1911, the duke of devonshire said: "the people of ulster believe, rightly or wrongly, that under a government responsible to an imperial parliament they possess at present the fullest security which they can possess of their personal freedom, their liberties, and their right to transact their own business in their own way. you have no right to offer them any inferior security to that; and if, after weighing the character of the government which it is sought to impose upon them, they resolve that they are no longer bound to obey a law which does not give them equal and just protection with their fellow subjects, who can say--how at all events can the descendants of those who resisted king james ii say, that they have not a right, if they think fit, to resist, if they think they have the power, the imposition of a government put upon them by force?"[44] all the same, there never was a community on the face of the earth to whom "rebellion" in any real sense of the word was more hateful than to the people of ulster. they traditionally were the champions of "law and order" in ireland; they prided themselves above all things on their "loyalty" to their king and to the british flag. and they never entertained the idea that the movement which they started at craigavon in 1911, and to which they solemnly pledged themselves by their covenant in the following year, was in the slightest degree a departure from their cherished "loyalty"--on the contrary, it was an emphatic assertion of it. they held firmly, as mr. bonar law and the whole unionist party in great britain held also, that mr. asquith and his government were forcing home rule upon them by unconstitutional methods. they did not believe that loyalty in the best sense--loyalty to the sovereign, to the empire, to the majesty of the law--required of them passive obedience to an act of parliament placed by such means on the statute-book, which they were convinced, moreover, was wholly repugnant to the great majority of the british people. this aspect of the matter was admirably and soberly presented by _the times_ in one of the many weighty articles in which that great journal gave undeviating support to the ulster cause. "a free community cannot justly, or even constitutionally, be deprived of its privileges or its position in the realm by any measure that is not stamped with the considered and unquestionable approval of the great body of electors of the united kingdom. any attempt so to deprive them is a fraud upon their fundamental rights, which they are justified in resisting, as an act of violence, by any means in their power. this is elementary doctrine, borne out by the whole course of english history."[45] that the position was paradoxical calls for no denial; but the pith of the paradox lay in the fact that a movement denounced as "rebellious" by its political opponents was warmly supported not only by large masses, probably by the majority, of the people of this country, but by numbers of individuals of the highest character, occupying stations of great responsibility. whatever may be thought of men engaged in actual political conflict, whom some people appear to think capable of any wickedness, no one can seriously suggest that men like lord macnaghten, like the late and present primates of ireland, like the late provost of trinity, like many other sober thinkers who supported ulster, were men who would lightly lend themselves to "rebellion," or any other wild and irresponsible adventure. as _the times_ very truly observed in a leading article in 1912: "we remember no precedent in our domestic history since the revolution of 1688 for a movement among citizens, law-abiding by temperament and habit, which resembles the present movement of the ulster protestants. it is no rabble who have undertaken it. it is the work of orderly, prosperous, and deeply religious men."[46] nor did the paradox end there. if the ulster movement was "rebellious," its purpose was as paradoxical as its circumstances. it had in it no subversive element. in this respect it stands (so far as the writer's knowledge goes) without precedent, a solitary instance in the history of mankind. the world has witnessed rebellions without number, designed to bring about many different results--to emancipate a people from oppression, to upset an obnoxious form of government, to expel or to restore a rival dynasty, to transfer allegiance from one sovereign or one state to another. but has there ever been a "rebellion" the object of which was to maintain the _status quo_? yet that was the sole purpose of the ulstermen in all they did from 1911 to 1914. that fact, which distinguished their movement from every rebellion or revolution in history, placed them on a far more solid ground of reasonable justification than the excuse offered by mr. churchill for their bellicose attitude in his father's day. although he is no doubt right in saying that "when men are sufficiently in earnest they will back their words with more than votes," it is a plea that would cover alike the conduct of halifax and the other whigs who resisted the legal authority of james ii, of the jacobites who fought for his grandson, and of the contrivers of many another bloody or bloodless revolution. but there was nothing revolutionary in the ulster movement. it was resistance to the transfer of a people's allegiance without their consent; to their forcible expulsion from a constitution with which they were content and their forcible inclusion in a constitution which they detested. this was the very antithesis of revolution. english radical writers and politicians might argue that no "transfer of allegiance" was contemplated; but ulstermen thought they knew better, and the later development of the irish question proved how right they were. even had they been proved wrong instead of right in their conviction that the true aim of irish nationalism (a term in which sinn fein is included) was essentially separatist, they knew better than englishmen how little reality there was in the theory that under the proposed home rule their allegiance would be unaffected and their political _status_ suffer no degradation. they claimed to occupy a position similar to that of the north in the american civil war--with this difference, which, so far as it went, told in their favour, that whereas lincoln took up arms to resist secession, they were prepared to do so to resist expulsion, the purpose in both cases, however, being to preserve union. the practical view of the question, as it would appear in the eyes of ordinary men, was well expressed by lord curzon in the house of lords, when he said: "the people of this country will be very loth to condemn those whose only disloyalty it will be to have been excessive in their loyalty to the king. do not suppose that the people of this country will call those 'rebels' whose only form of rebellion is to insist on remaining under the imperial parliament."[47] of course, men like sir edward carson, lord londonderry, mr. thomas sinclair, and other ulster leaders were too far-seeing not to realise that the course they were taking would expose them to the accusation of having set a bad example which others without the same grounds of justification might follow in very different circumstances. but this was a risk they had to shoulder, as have all who are not prepared to subscribe to the dogma of passive obedience without limit. they accepted it as the less of two evils. but there was something humorous in the pretence put forward in 1916 and afterwards that the violence to which the adherents of sinn fein had recourse was merely copying ulster. as if irish nationalism in its extreme form required precedent for insurrection! even the leader of "constitutional nationalism" himself had traced his political pedigree to convicted rebels like tone and emmet, and since the date of those heroes there had been at least two armed risings in ireland against the british crown and government. if the taunt flung at ulstermen had been that they had at last thrown overboard law and order and had stolen the nationalist policy of active resistance, there would at least have been superficial plausibility in it. but when it was suggested or implied that the ulster example was actually responsible in any degree whatever for violent outbreaks in the other provinces, a supercilious smile was the only possible retort from the lips of representatives of ulster. but what caused them some perplexity was the disposition manifested in certain quarters in england to look upon the two parties in ireland in regard to "rebellion" as "six of one and half a dozen of the other." it has always, unhappily, been characteristic of a certain type of englishman to see no difference between the friends and the enemies of his country, and, if he has a preference at all, to give it to the latter. apart from all other circumstances which in the eyes of ulstermen justified them up to the hilt in the policy they pursued, apart from everything that distinguished them historically and morally from irish "rebels," there was the patent and all-important fact that the motive of their opponents was hostility to england, whereas their own motive was friendliness and loyalty to england. in that respect they never wavered. if the course of events had ever led to the employment of british troops to crush the resistance of ulster to home rule, the extraordinary spectacle would have been presented to the wondering world of the king's soldiers shooting down men marching under the british flag and singing "god save the king." it was no doubt because this was very generally understood in england that the sympathies of large masses of law-loving people were never for a moment alienated from the men of ulster by all the striving of their enemies to brand them as rebels. constitutional authorities may, as mr. churchill says, "measure their censures according to their political opinions," but the generality of men, who are not constitutional authorities, whose political opinions, if they have any, are fluctuating, and who care little for "juridical niceties," will measure their censures according to their instinctive sympathies. and the sound instinct of englishmen forbade them to blame men who, if rebels in law, were their firm friends in fact, for taking exceptional and even illegal measures, when all others failed, to preserve the full unity which they regarded as the fruit of that friendship. footnotes: [41] see _life of the eighth duke of devonshire,_ by bernard holland, ii, pp. 249-51. [42] _life of lord randolph churchill_, vol. ii, p. 65. [43] _annual register_, 1912, p. 82. [44] bernard holland's _life of the eighth duke of devonshire_, ii, 250. [45] _the times_, july 14th, 1913. [46] ibid., august 22nd, 1912. [47] _parliamentary debates_ (house of lords), july 15th, 1913. chapter xiii provisional government and propaganda by the death of the duke of abercorn on the 3rd of january, 1913, the ulster loyalists lost a leader who had for many years occupied a very special place in their affection and confidence. owing to failing health he had been unable to take an active part in the exciting events of the past two years, but the messages of encouragement and support which were read from him at craigavon, balmoral, and other meetings for organising resistance, were always received with an enthusiasm which showed, and was intended to show, that the great part he had played in former years, and especially his inspiring leadership as chairman of the ulster convention in 1893, had never been forgotten. his death inflicted also, indirectly, another blow which at this particular moment was galling to loyalists out of all proportion to its intrinsic importance. the removal to the house of lords of the marquis of hamilton, the member for derry city, created a vacancy which was filled at the ensuing by-election by a liberal home ruler. to lose a seat anywhere in the north-eastern counties at such a critical time in the movement was bad enough, but the unfading halo of the historic siege rested on derry as on a sanctuary of protestantism and loyalty, so that the capture of the "maiden city" by the enemy wounded loyalist sentiment far more deeply than the loss of any other constituency. the two parties had been for some time very nearly evenly balanced there, and every electioneering art and device, including that of bringing to the poll voters who had long rested in the cemetery, was practised in derry with unfailing zeal and zest by party managers. for some time past trade, especially ship-building, had been in a state of depression in derry, with the result that a good many of the better class of artisans, who were uniformly unionist, had gone to belfast and elsewhere to find work, leaving the political fortunes of the city at the mercy of the casual labourer who drifted in from the wilds of donegal, and who at this election managed to place the home rule candidate in a majority of fifty-seven. it was a matter of course that the late duke's place as president of the ulster unionist council should be taken by lord londonderry, and it happened that the annual meeting at which he was formally elected was held on the same day that witnessed the rejection of the home rule bill by the house of lords. it was also at this annual meeting (31st january, 1913) that the special commission who had been charged to prepare a scheme for the provisional government, presented their draft report. the work had been done with great thoroughness and was adopted without substantial alteration by the council, but was not made public for several months. the council itself was, in the event of the provisional government being set up, to constitute a "central authority," and provision was made, with complete elaboration of detail, for carrying on all the necessary departments of administration by different committees and boards, whose respective functions were clearly defined. among those who consented to serve in these departmental committees, in addition to the recognised local leaders in the ulster movement, were dr. crozier, archbishop of armagh, the moderator of the general assembly of the presbyterian church in ireland, lord charles beresford, major-general montgomery, colonel thomas hickman, m.p., lord claud hamilton, m.p., sir robert kennedy, k.c.m.g., and sir charles macnaghten, k.c., son of lord macnaghten, the distinguished lord of appeal. ulster at this time gave a lead on the question of admitting women to political power, at a time when their claim to enfranchisement was being strenuously resisted in england, by including several women in the provisional government. a most carefully drawn scheme for a separate judiciary in ulster had been prepared with the assistance of some of the ablest lawyers in ireland. it was in three parts, dealing respectively with (a) the supreme court, (b) the land commission, and (c) county courts; it was drawn up as an ordinance, in the usual form of a parliamentary bill, and it is an indication of the spirit in which ulster was preparing to resist an act of parliament that the ordinance bore the introductory heading: "_it is hereby enacted by the central authority in the name of the king's most excellent majesty that_------" similarly, the form of "oath or declaration of adherence" to be taken by judges, magistrates, coroners, and other officers of the courts, set out in a schedule to the ordinance, was: "i ... of ... being about to serve in the courts of the provisional government as the central authority for his majesty the king, etc." it will be remembered that the original resolution by which the council decided to set up a provisional government limited its duration until ulster should "again resume unimpaired her citizenship in the united kingdom,"[48] and at a later date it was explicitly stated that it was to act as trustee for the imperial parliament. all the forms prepared for use while it remained in being purported to be issued in the name of the king. and the resolution adopted by the unionist council immediately after constituting itself the central authority of the provisional government, in which the reasons for that policy were recorded, concluded with the statement that "we, for our part, in the course we have determined to pursue, are inspired not alone by regard to the true welfare of our own country, but by devotion to the interests of our world-wide empire and loyalty to our beloved king." if this was the language of rebels, it struck a note that can never before have been heard in a chorus of disaffection. the demonstrations against the government's policy which had been held during the last eighteen months, of which some account has been given, were so impressive that those which followed were inevitably less remarkable by comparison. they were, too, necessarily to a large extent, repetitions of what had gone before. there might be, and there were, plenty of variations on the old theme, but there was no new theme to introduce. propaganda to the extent possible with the resources at the disposal of the ulster unionist council was carried on in the british constituencies in 1913, the cost being defrayed chiefly through generous subscriptions collected by the energy and influence of mr. walter long; but many were beginning to share the opinion of mr. charles craig, m.p., who scandalised the radicals by saying at antrim in march that, while it was incumbent on ulstermen to do their best to educate the electorate, "he believed that, as an argument, ten thousand pounds spent on rifles would be a thousand times stronger than the same amount spent on meetings, speeches, and pamphlets." on the 27th of march a letter appeared in the london newspapers announcing the formation of a "british league for the support of ulster and the union," with an office in london. it was signed by a hundred peers and 120 unionist members of the house of commons. the manifesto emphasised the imperial aspect of the great struggle that was going on, asserting that it was "quite clear that the men of ulster are not fighting only for their own liberties. ulster will be the field on which the privileges of the whole nation will be lost or won." a small executive committee was appointed, with the duke of bedford as chairman, and within a few weeks large numbers of people in all parts of the country joined the new organisation. a conference attended by upwards of 150 honorary agents from all parts of the country was held at londonderry house on the 4th of june, where the work of the league was discussed, and its future policy arranged. its operations were not ostentatious, but they were far from being negligible, especially in connection with later developments of the movement in the following year. this proof of british support was most encouraging to the people of ulster, and the dublin correspondent of _the times_ reported that it gave no less satisfaction to loyalists in other parts of ireland, among whom, as the position became more desperate every day, there was "not the least sign of giving way, of accepting the inevitable." every month that passed in uncertainty as to what fate was reserved for ulster, and especially every visit of the leader to belfast, endeared him more intensely to his followers, who had long since learnt to give him their unquestioning trust; and his bereavement by the death of his wife in april 1913 brought him the profound and affectionate sympathy of a warm-hearted people, which manifested itself in most moving fashion at a great meeting a month later on the 16th of may, when, at the opening of a new drill hall in the most industrial district of belfast, sir edward exclaimed, in response to a tumultuous reception, "heaven knows, my one affection left me is my love of ireland." he took occasion at the same meeting to impress upon his followers the spirit by which all their actions should be guided, and which always guided his own. with a significant reference to the purposes for which the new drill hall might be used, he added, "always remember--this is essential--always remember you have no quarrel with individuals. we welcome and we love every individual irishman, even though he may be opposed to us. our quarrel is with the government." when the feelings of masses of men are deeply stirred in political conflict such exhortations are never superfluous; and there never was a leader who could give them with better grace than sir edward carson, who himself combined to an extraordinary degree strength of conviction with entire freedom from bitterness towards individual opponents.[49] in this same speech he showed that there was no slackening of determination to pursue to the end the policy of the covenant. there had been rumours that the government were making secret inquiries with a view to taking legal proceedings, and in allusion to them carson moved his audience to one of the most wonderful demonstrations of personal devotion that even he ever evoked, by saying: "if they want to test the legality of anything we are doing, let them not attack humble men--i am responsible for everything, and they know where to find me." the bill was running its course for the second time through parliament, a course that was now farcically perfunctory, and carson returned to london to repeat in the house of commons on the 10th of june his defiant acceptance of responsibility for the ulster preparations. he was back in belfast for the 12th of july celebrations, when 150,000 orangemen assembled at craigavon to hear another speech from their leader full of confident challenge, and to receive another message of encouragement from mr. bonar law, who assured them that "whatever steps they might feel compelled to take, whether they were constitutional, or whether in the long run they were unconstitutional, they had the whole of the unionist party under his leadership behind them." the leader of the unionist party had good reason to know that his message to ulster was endorsed by his followers. that had been demonstrated beyond all possibility of doubt during the preceding month. the ulster unionist members of the house of commons, with carson at their head, had during june made a tour of some of the principal towns of scotland and the north of england, receiving a resounding welcome wherever they went. the usual custom of political meetings, where one or two prominent speakers have the platform to themselves, was departed from; the whole parliamentary contingent kept together throughout the tour as a deputation from ulster to the constituencies visited, taking in turn the duty of supporting carson, who was everywhere the principal speaker. there were wonderful demonstrations at glasgow and edinburgh, both in the streets and the principal halls, proving, as was aptly said by _the yorkshire post_, that "the cry of the new covenanters is not unheeded by the descendants of the old"; and thence they went south, drawing great cheering crowds to welcome them and to present encouraging addresses at the railway stations at berwick, newcastle, darlington, and york, to leeds, where the two largest buildings in the city were packed to overflowing with yorkshiremen eager to see and hear the ulster leader, and to show their sympathy with the loyalist cause. similar scenes were witnessed at norwich and bristol, and the tour left no doubt in the minds of those who followed it, and who studied the comments of the press upon it, that not only was the whole unionist party in great britain solidly behind the ulstermen in their resolve to resist being subjected to a parliament in dublin, but that the general drift of opinion detached from party was increasingly on the same side. footnotes: [48] see _ante_, p. 53. [49] but he could be moved to stern indignation by the treachery of former friends, as he showed in december 1921. chapter xiv lord loreburn's letter whatever might be the state of public opinion in england, it was realised that the government, if they chose, were in a position to disregard it; and in ulster the tension was becoming almost unbearable. the leaders were apprehensive lest outbreaks of violence should occur, which they knew would gravely prejudice the movement; and there is no doubt that it was only the discipline which the rank and file had now gained, and the extraordinary restraining influence which carson exercised, that prevented serious rioting in many places. incidents like the attack by nationalist roughs in belfast on a carriage conveying crippled children to a holiday outing on the 31st of may because it was decorated with union jacks might at any moment lead to trouble. there was some disorder in belfast in the early hours of the 12th of july; and an outbreak occurred in august in derry, always a storm centre, when a procession was attacked, and a protestant was shot while watching it from his own upper window. the incident started rioting, which continued for several days, and a battalion of troops had to be called in to restore order. meantime, throughout the summer, while the government were complacently carrying their bill through parliament for the second time, the press was packed with suggestions for averting the crisis which everybody except the cabinet recognised as impending. it began to be whispered in the clubs and lobbies that the king might exercise the prerogative of veto, and even men like lord st. aldwyn and the veteran earl of halsbury, both of them ex-cabinet ministers, encouraged the idea; but there was no widespread acceptance of the notion that even in so exceptional a case his majesty would reject the advice of his responsible ministers. but in a letter to _the times_ on the 4th of september, mr. george cave, k.c., m.p. (afterwards home secretary, and ultimately lord of appeal), suggested that the king might "exercise his undoubted right" to dissolve parliament before the beginning of the next session, in order to inform himself as to whether the policy of his ministers was endorsed by the people. but a much greater sensation was created a few days later by a letter which appeared in _the times_ on the 11th of the same month over the signature of lord loreburn. lord loreburn had been lord chancellor at the time the home rule bill was first introduced, but had retired from the government in june 1912, being replaced on the woolsack by lord haldane. when the first draft of the home rule bill was under discussion in the cabinet in preparation for its introduction in the house of commons, two of the younger ministers, mr. lloyd george and mr. winston churchill, proposed that an attempt should be made to avert the stern opposition to be expected from ulster, by treating the northern province, or a portion of it, separately from the rest of ireland. this proposal was not acceptable to the cabinet as a whole, and its authors were roundly rated by lord loreburn for so unprincipled a lapse from orthodox gladstonian doctrine. what, therefore, must have been the astonishment of the heretics when they found their mentor, less than two years later, publicly reproving the government which he had left for having got into such a sad mess over the ulster difficulty! they might be forgiven some indignation at finding themselves reproved by lord loreburn for faulty statesmanship of which lord loreburn was the principal author. those, however, who had not the same ground for exasperation as mr. lloyd george and mr. churchill thought lord loreburn's letter very sound sense. he pointed out that if the bill were to become law in 1914, as it stood in september 1913, there would be, if not civil war, at any rate very serious rioting in the north of ireland, and when the riots had been quelled by the government the spirit that prompted them would remain. everybody concerned would suffer from fighting it out to a finish. the ex-chancellor felt bound to assume that "up to the last, ministers, who assuredly have not taken leave of their senses, would be willing to consider proposals for accommodation," and he therefore suggested that a conference should be held behind closed doors with a view to a settlement by consent. if lord loreburn had perceived at the time the draft bill was before the cabinet that it was not the ministers who proposed separate treatment for ulster who had "taken leave of their senses," but those, including himself, who had resisted that proposal, his wisdom would have been more timely; but it was better late than never, and his unexpected intervention had a decided influence on opinion in the country. the comment of _the times_ was very much to the point: "on the eve of a great political crisis, it may be of national disaster, a distinguished liberal statesman makes public confession of his belief that, as a permanent solution, the irish policy of the government is indefensible." this letter of the ex-lord chancellor gave rise to prolonged discussion in the press and on the platform. at durham, on the 13th of september, carson declared that he would welcome a conference if the question was how to provide a genuine expansion of self-government, but that, if ulster was to be not only expelled from the union but placed under a parliament in dublin, then "they were going to make home rule impossible by steady and persistent opposition." the government seemed unable to agree whether a conciliatory or a defiant attitude was their wiser policy, though it is true that the latter recommended itself mostly to the least prominent of its members, such as mr. j.m. robertson, secretary of the board of trade, who in a speech at newcastle on the 25th of september announced scornfully that ministers were not going to turn "king carson" into "saint carson" by prosecuting him, and that "the government would know how to deal with him."[50] but more important ministers were beginning to perceive the unwisdom of this sort of bluster. lord morley, in the house of lords, denied that he had ever underrated the ulster difficulty, and said that for twenty-five years he had never thought that ulster was guilty of bluff. mr. churchill, at dundee, on the 9th of october, no longer talked as he had the previous year about "not taking sir edward carson too seriously," though he still appeared to be ignorant of the fact that there was in ulster anybody except orangemen. "the orange leaders," he said, "used violent language, but liberals should try to understand their position. their claim for special consideration, if put forward with sincerity, could not be ignored by a government depending on the existing house."[51] the prime minister, less assured than his subordinate at the board of trade that "king carson" was negligible, also displayed a somewhat chastened spirit at ladybank on the 25th of october, when he acknowledged that it was "of supreme importance to the future well-being of ireland that the new system should not start with the apparent triumph of one section over another," and he invited a "free and frank exchange of views."[52] sir edward grey held out another little twig of olive two days later at berwick. to these overtures, if they deserve the name, mr. bonar law replied in an address to a gathering of fifteen thousand people at wallsend on the 29th, in the presence of sir edward carson. having repeated the blenheim pledge, he praised the discipline and restraint shown by the ulster people and their leaders, but warned his hearers that the nation was drifting towards the tragedy of civil war, the responsibility for which would rest on the government. he expressed his readiness to respond to mr. asquith's invitation, but pointed out that there were only three alternatives open to the government. they must either (1) go on as they were doing and provoke ulster to resist--that was madness; (2) they could consult the electorate, whose decision would be accepted by the unionist party as a whole; or (3) they could try to arrange a settlement which would at least avert civil war. there had been during the past six or eight months an unusual dearth of by-elections to test public opinion in regard to the irish policy of the government, and it must be borne in mind that the unionist party in great britain was still distracted by disputes over the tariff question, which in january 1913 had very nearly led to the retirement of mr. bonar law from the leadership. nevertheless, in may the unionists won two signal victories, one in cambridgeshire, and one in cheshire, where the altrincham division sent a staunch friend of ulster to parliament in the person of mr. george c. hamilton, who in his maiden speech declared that he had won the contest entirely on the ulster question. even more significant, perhaps, were two elections which were fought while the interchange of party strokes over the loreburn letter was in progress, and the results of both were declared on the 8th of november. at reading, where the unionists retained the seat, the liberal candidate was constrained by pressure of opinion in the constituency to promise support for a policy of "separate and generous treatment for ulster." at linlithgow, a liberal stronghold, where no such promise was forthcoming, the liberal majority, in spite of a large nationalist vote, was reduced by 1,500 votes as compared with the general election. there were signs that nonconformists, whose great leaders like spurgeon and dale had been hostile to home rule in gladstone's time, were again becoming uneasy about handing over the ulster presbyterians and methodists to the roman hierarchy. a memorial against home rule, signed by 131,000 people, which had been presented to the general assembly of the presbyterian church in june, had no doubt had some effect on nonconformist opinion in england, and it was just about the time when these elections took place that carson was described at a large gathering of nonconformists in london as "the best embodiment at this moment of the ancient spirit of nonconformity."[53] meanwhile the people in ulster were steadily maturing their plans. the arrangements already mentioned for setting up a provisional government were confirmed and finally adopted by the unionist council in belfast on the 24th of september, and the council by resolution delegated its powers to the standing committee, while the commission of five was at the same time appointed to act as an executive. carson, in accepting the chairmanship of the central authority, used the striking phrase, which precisely epitomised the situation, that "ulster might be coerced into submission, but in that case would have to be governed as a conquered country." the nationalist retort that the rest of ireland was now being so treated, appeared forcible to those englishmen only who could see no difference between controlling a disaffected population and chastising a loyal one. at the same meeting of the ulster unionist council on the 24th of september a guarantee fund was established for providing means to compensate members of the u.v.f. for any loss or disability they might suffer as a result of their service, and the widows and dependents of any who might lose their lives. this was a matter that had caused carson anxiety for some time. he was extremely sensitive to the moral responsibility he would incur towards those who so eagerly followed his lead, in the event of their suffering loss of life or limb in the service of ulster. his proposal that a guarantee fund of a million sterling should be started, met with a ready response from the council, and from the wealthier classes in and about belfast. the form of "indemnity guarantee" provided for the payment to those entitled to benefit under it of sums not less than they would have been entitled to under the fatal accidents act, the employers' liability act, and the workman's compensation act, as the circumstances of the case might be. the list was headed by sir edward carson, lord londonderry, captain craig, sir john lonsdale, sir george clark, and lord dunleath, with a subscription of â£10,000 each, and their example was followed by mr. kerr smiley, m.p., mr. r.m. liddell, mr. george preston, mr. henry musgrave, mr. c.e. allen, and mr. frank workman, who entered their names severally for the same amount. a quarter of a million sterling was guaranteed in the room before the council separated; by the end of a week it had grown to â£387,000; and before the 1st of january, 1914, the total amount of the indemnity guarantee fund was â£1,043,816. it gave carson and the other leaders the greatest possible satisfaction that the response to this appeal was so prompt and adequate. not only was their anxiety relieved in regard to their responsibility to loyal followers of the rank and file who might become "casualties" in the movement, but they had been given a striking proof that the business community of belfast did not consider its pocket more sacred than its principles. moreover, if there had been doubt on that score in anyone's mind, it was set at rest by a memorable meeting for business men only held in belfast on the 3rd of november. between three and four thousand leaders of industry and commerce, the majority of whom had never hitherto taken any active share in political affairs, presided over by mr. g.h. ewart, president of the belfast chamber of commerce, gave an enthusiastic reception to carson, who told them that he had come more to consult them as to the commercial aspects of the great political controversy than to impress his own views on the gathering. it was said that the men in the hall represented a capital of not less than â£145,000,000 sterling,[54] and there can be no doubt that, even if that were an exaggerated estimate, they were not of a class to whom revolution, rebellion, or political upheaval could offer an attractive prospect. nevertheless, the meeting passed with complete unanimity a resolution expressing confidence in carson and approval of everything he had done, including the formation of the ulster volunteer force, and declaring that they would refuse to pay "all taxes which they could control" to an irish parliament in dublin. this meeting was very satisfactory, for it proved that the "captains of industry" were entirely in accord with the working classes, whose support of the movement had never been in doubt. it showed that ulster was solid behind carson; and the unanimity was emphasised rather than disturbed by a little handful of cranks, calling themselves "protestant home rulers," who met on the 24th of october at the village of ballymoney "to protest against the lawless policy of carsonism." the principal stickler for propriety of conduct in public life on this occasion was sir roger casement. while the unity and steadfastness--which enemies called obstinacy--of the ulster people were being thus made manifest, the public in england were hearing a good deal about the growth of the ulster volunteer force in numbers and efficiency. as will be seen later, the anniversary of the covenant was celebrated with great military display at the very time when the newspapers across the channel were busy discussing lord loreburn's letter, and at a parade service in the ulster hall, canon harding, after pronouncing the benediction, called on the congregation to raise their right hands and pledge themselves thereby "to follow wherever sir edward carson shall lead us." the events of september 1913--the setting up of the provisional government, the wonderful and instantaneous response to the appeal for an indemnity guarantee fund, the rapid formation of an effective volunteer army--were given the fullest publicity in the english press. every newspaper of importance had its special correspondent in belfast, whose telegrams filled columns every day, adorned with all the varieties of sensational headline type. the radicals were becoming restive. the idea that carson was "not to be taken too seriously," had apparently missed fire. it was the ministerial affectation of contempt that no one was taking seriously; in fact, to borrow an expression from current slang, the "king carson" stunt was a "wash-out." _the nation_ suggested that, instead of being laughed at, the ulster leader should be prosecuted, or, at any rate, removed from the privy council, and other liberal papers feverishly took up the suggestion, debating whether the indictment should be under the treason felony act of 1848, the crimes act of 1887, or the unlawful drilling act of 1819. one of them, however, which succeeded in keeping its head, did not believe that a prosecution would succeed; and, as to the privy council, if carson's name were removed, what about londonderry and f.e. smith, walter long, and bonar law? in fact, "it would be difficult to know where to stop."[55] it would have been. the privy council would have had to be reduced to a committee of radical politicians; and, if carson had been prosecuted, room would have had to be found in the dock, not only for the whole unionist party, but for the proprietors and editors of most of the leading journals. the government stopped short of that supreme folly; but their impotence was the measure of the prevailing sympathy with ulster. footnotes: [50] _annual register_, 1913, p. 205. [51] ibid., p. 209. [52] ibid., p. 220. [53] _annual register_, 1913, p. 225. [54] _annual register_, 1913, p. 225. [55] _liverpool daily post and mercury_, september 22nd, 1913. chapter xv preparations and proposals we have seen in a former chapter how the ulster volunteer force originated. it was never formally established by the act of any recognised authority, but rather grew spontaneously from the zeal of the unionist clubs and the orange lodges to present an effective and formidable appearance at the demonstrations which marked the progress of the movement after the meeting at craigavon in 1911. by the following summer it had attained considerable numbers and respectable efficiency, and was becoming organised, without violation of the law, on a territorial basis under local officers, many of whom had served in the army. early in 1913 the standing committee resolved that these units should be combined into a single force, to be called the ulster volunteer force, which was to be raised and limited to a strength of 100,000 men, all of whom should be men who had signed the covenant. when this organisation took place it became obvious that a serious defect was the want of a commander-in-chief of the whole force, to give it unity and cohesion. this defect was pressed on the attention of the leaders of the movement, who then began to look about for a suitable officer of rank and military experience to take command of the u.v.f. among english members of the house of commons there was no firmer friend of ulster than colonel thomas hickman, c.b., d.s.o., who has been mentioned as one of those who consented to serve in the provisional government. hickman had seen a lot of active service, having served with great distinction in egypt and the soudan under kitchener, and in the south african war. it was natural to take him into confidence in the search for a general; and, when he was approached, it was decided that he should consult lord roberts, whose warm sympathy with the ulster cause was well known to the leaders of the movement, and whose knowledge of army officers of high rank was, of course, unequalled. moreover, the illustrious field-marshal had dropped hints which led those concerned to conjecture that in the last resort he might not himself be unwilling to lend his matchless prestige and genius to the loyalist cause in ireland. the contingency which might bring about such an accession had not, however, yet arisen, and might never arise; in the meantime, lord roberts gave a ready ear to hickman's application, which, after some weeks of delay, he answered in the following letter, which was at once communicated to carson and those in his immediate confidence: "englemere, ascot, berks. "_4th june_, 1913. "dear hickman, "i have been a long time finding a senior officer to help in the ulster business, but i think i have got one now. his name is lieut.-general sir george richardson, k.c.b., c/o messrs. henry s. king & co., pall mall, s.w. he is a retired indian officer, active and in good health. he is not an irishman, but has settled in ireland.... richardson will be in london for about a month, and is ready to meet you at any time. "i am sorry to read about the capture of rifles. "believe me, "yours sincerely, "roberts." the matter was quickly arranged, and within a few weeks sir george richardson had taken up his residence in belfast, and his duties as g.o.c. the ulster volunteer force. he was a distinguished soldier. he served under roberts in the afghan campaign of 1879-80; he took part in the waziri expedition of 1881, and the zhob valley field force operations of 1890. he was in command of a flying column in the tirah expedition of 1897-8, and of a cavalry brigade in the china expeditionary force in 1900, and had commanded a division at poona for three years before retiring in 1907. he had been three times mentioned in despatches, besides receiving a brevet and many medals and clasps. he was at this time sixty-six years of age, but, like the great soldier who recommended him to ulster, he was an active little man both in body and mind, with no symptom of approaching old age. general richardson was not long in making himself popular, not only with the force under his command, but with all classes in ulster. there were unavoidable difficulties in handling troops whose officers had no statutory powers of discipline, who had inherited no military traditions, and who formed part of a population conspicuously independent in character. but sir george richardson was as full of tact as of good humour, and he soon found that the keenness of the officers and men, to whom dismissal from the u.v.f. would have been the severest of punishments, more than counterbalanced the difficulties referred to. when the new g.o.c. went to belfast in july, 1913, he found his command between fifty and sixty thousand strong, with recruits joining every day. in september a number of parades were held in different localities, at which the general was accompanied by sir edward carson, mr. f.e. smith, captain james craig, and other members of parliament. the local battalions were in many cases commanded by retired or half-pay officers of the regular army. at all these inspections carson addressed the men, many of whom were now seeing their commander-in-chief for the first time, and pointed out that the u.v.f., being now under a single command, was no longer a mere collection of unrelated units, but an army. at an inspection at antrim on the 21st of september, he made a disclosure which startled the country not a little next day when it appeared in the headlines of english newspapers. "i tell the government," he said, "that we have pledges and promises from some of the greatest generals in the army, who have given their word that, when the time comes, if it is necessary, they will come over and help us to keep the old flag flying." these promises were entirely spontaneous and unsolicited. more than one of those who made them did fine service to the empire in the impending time of trial which none of them foresaw in 1913. of the men inspected on that day, numbering about 5,000, it was said by the special correspondent of _the yorkshire post_, who was present- "as far as i could detect in a very careful observation, there were not half a dozen of them unqualified by physique or age to play a manly part. they reminded me more than anything else--except that but few of them were beyond the best fighting age--of the finest class of our national reserve. there was certainly nothing of the mock soldier about them. led by keen, smart-looking officers, they marched past in quarter column with fine, swinging steps, as if they had been in training for years. officers who have had the teaching of them tell me that the rapidity with which they have become efficient is greater than has ever come within their experience in training recruits for either the territorials or the regular service."[56] the 24th of september, it will be remembered, was the day when the formation of the provisional government and the indemnity fund (with the subscription of a quarter of a million sterling in two hours) was made public; on saturday the 27th, the country parades of volunteers of the preceding weeks reached a climax in a grand review in belfast itself, when some 15,000 men were drawn up on the same ground where the balmoral meeting had been held eighteen months before. they were reviewed by sir george richardson, g.o.c., and it was on this occasion that mr. f.e. smith became famous as "galloper" to the general. the commanders of the four regiments on parade--one from each parliamentary division of the city--comprising fourteen battalions, were: colonel wallace, major f.h. crawford, major mccalmont, m.p., and captain the hon. a.c. chichester. more than 30,000 sympathetic spectators watched the arrival and the review of the troops. among these spectators were a large number of special military correspondents of english newspapers, whose impressions of this memorable event were studied in every part of the united kingdom on the following monday morning. that which appeared in a great lancashire journal may be quoted as a fair and dispassionate account of the scene: "it is quite certain that the review of volunteers at balmoral to-day will go down into history as one of the most extraordinary events in the annals of these islands. not since the marshalling of cromwell's puritan army have we had anything approaching a parallel; but, whereas the puritans took up arms against a king of whom they disapproved, the men of ulster strongly protest their loyalty to the british throne. the great crowd which lined the enclosure was eager, earnest, and sympathetic. it was not a boisterous crowd. on the contrary, beyond the demonstration following the call for cheers for the union there was comparatively little cheering. the crowd seemed burdened with a heavy sense of the importance of the occasion. the conduct of the gathering was serious to the point of positive solemnity. "the volunteers from their own ranks policed the grounds, not a solitary member of the royal irish constabulary being seen in the enclosure. the sun shone brilliantly as colonel wallace led the men of the north division into the enclosure. amidst subdued cheers he marched them across the field in fours, forming up in quarter column by the right, facing left. for an hour and a quarter the procession filed through the gates, the men taking up their positions with perfect movement and not the faintest suggestion of confusion. as the men from the west took up their position the crowd broke into a great cheer. they mustered only two battalions, but they had come from mr. devlin's constituency! "as a body the men were magnificent. the hardy sons of toil from shipyards and factories marched shoulder to shoulder with clergy and doctors, professional men and clerks. from the saluting base general richardson took command, and almost immediately sir edward carson took up his position on the platform, with lord londonderry and captain craig in attendance. then followed a scene that will live long in the memories of that vast concourse of people. with the men standing to 'attention,' the bands struck up the 'british grenadiers,' and the whole division advanced in review order, in perfect lines and unison. "the supreme moment had arrived. the men took off their hats, and the g.o.c. shouted, 'i call upon the men to give three cheers for the union, taking their time from me. hip, hip----' "well, people who were not there must imagine the rest. out of the deafening cheers came the strains of 'rule, britannia!' from the bands; the monster union jack was unfurled in the centre of the ground, and the mighty gathering stood bare-headed to 'god save the king.' it was solemn, impressive, thrilling."[57] the following day, sunday, was "ulster day," the first anniversary of the signing of the covenant, and it was celebrated in belfast and many other places in ulster by holding special services in all places of worship, which had the effect of sustaining that spirit of high seriousness which struck all observers as remarkable in the behaviour of the people. this week, in which occurred the proclamation of the provisional government, the great review of the belfast volunteers, and the second celebration of ulster day, was a notable landmark in the movement. the press in england and scotland gave the widest publicity to every picturesque and impressive detail, and there can be little doubt that the idea of attempting to arrive at some agreed settlement, started by lord loreburn's letter to _the times_, was greatly stimulated by these fresh and convincing proofs of the grim determination of the ulster people. at all events, the autumn produced more than the usual plethora of political meetings addressed by "front bench" politicians on both sides, each answering each like an antiphonal choir; scraps of olive-branch were timidly held out, only to be snatched back next day in panic lest someone had blundered in saying too much; while day by day a clamorous liberal press, to whom ulster's loyalty to king and empire was an unforgivable offence, alternated between execration of ulster wickedness and affected ridicule of ulster bluff. but it was evident that genuine misgiving was beginning to be felt in responsible liberal quarters. a correspondent of _the manchester guardian_ on the 25th of november made a proposal for special treatment of ulster; on the 1st of december mr. massingham, in _the daily news_, urged that an effort should be made to conciliate the northern protestants; and on the 6th mr. asquith displayed a more conciliatory spirit than usual in a speech at manchester. a most active campaign of propaganda in england and scotland was also carried on during the autumn by ulster speakers, among whom women bore their full share. the ulster women's unionist association employed 93 voluntary workers, who visited over 90 constituencies in great britain, addressing 230 important meetings. it was reckoned that not less than 100,000 electors heard the ulster case from the lips of earnest ulster women. on the 5th of december two royal proclamations were issued by the government, prohibiting the importation of arms and ammunition into ireland. but during the christmas holidays the impression gained ground that the government contemplated making concessions to ulster, and communications in private between the prime minister and sir edward carson did in fact take place at this time. the truth, however, was that the government were not their own masters, and, as mr. bonar law bluntly declared at bristol on the 15th of january, 1914, they were compelled by the nationalists, on whom they depended for existence, to refuse any genuine concession. in the same speech mr. bonar law replied to the allegation that ulster was crying out before she was hurt, by saying that the american colonies had done the same thing--they had revolted on a question of principle while suffering was still distant, and for a cause that in itself was trivial in comparison with that of ulster.[58] most of the leaders on both sides were speaking on various platforms in january. on the 17th carson, at an inspection of the east belfast u.v.f., said he had lately visited mr. joseph chamberlain, and that the dying statesman, clear-sighted and valiant as ever, had said to him at parting, "i would fight it out." in the same spirit mr. austen chamberlain, in a speech at skipton a fortnight later, ridiculed any concession that fell short of the exclusion of ulster from the irish parliament, and asserted that what the policy of the government amounted to was that england was to conquer a province and hold it down at the expense of her friends for the benefit of her enemies.[59] public attention was, however, not allowed to concentrate wholly on ireland. the radicals, instigated by sir john brunner, president of the national liberal federation, were doing their best to prevent the strengthening of the navy, the time being opportune for parsimony in mr. lloyd george's opinion because our relations with germany were "far more friendly than for years past."[60] the militant women suffragists were carrying on a lively campaign of arson and assault all over the country. labour unrest was in a condition of ferment. land agitation was exciting the "single-taxers" and other fanatics; and the tariff question had not ceased to be a cause of division in the unionist party. but, while these matters were sharing with the irish problem the attention of the press and the public, "conversations" were being held behind the scenes with a view to averting what everyone now agreed would be a dangerous crisis if ulster proved implacable. when parliament met on the 10th of february, 1914, mr. asquith referred to these conversations; but while he congratulated everyone concerned on the fact that the press had been successfully kept in the dark for months regarding them, he had to admit that they had produced no result. but there were, he said, "schemes and suggestions of settlement in the air," among them the exclusion of ulster from the bill, a proposal on which he would not at that moment "pronounce, or attempt to pronounce, any final judgment", and he then announced that, as soon as the financial business of the year was disposed of, he would bring forward proposals for the purpose of arriving at an agreement "which will consult not only the interests but the susceptibilities of all concerned." this appeared to be a notable change of attitude on the part of the government; but it was received with not a little suspicion by the unionist leaders. whether or not the change was due, as mr. william moore bluntly asserted, to the formation of the ulster volunteer force, which had now reached its full strength of 100,000 men, the question of interest was whether the promised proposals would render that force unnecessary. mr. austen chamberlain asked why the government's proposals should be kept bottled up until a date suspiciously near all fools' day; and sir edward carson, in one of the most impressive speeches he ever made in parliament, which wrung from mr. lloyd george the acknowledgment that it had "entranced the house," joined chamberlain in demanding that the country should not be kept in anxious suspense. the only proper way of making the proposals known was, he said, by embodying them at once in a bill to amend the home rule bill. he confirmed chamberlain's statement that nothing short of the exclusion of ulster would be of the slightest use. the covenanters were not men who would have acted as they had done for the sake of minor details that could be adjusted by "paper safeguards," they were "fighting for a great principle and a great ideal," and if their determination to resist was not morally justified he "did not see how resistance could ever be justified in history at all." but if the exclusion of ulster was to be offered, he would immediately go to belfast and lay the proposal before his followers. he did not intend "that ulster should be a pawn in any political game," and would not allow himself to be manoeuvred into a position where it could afterwards be said that ulster had resorted to arms to secure something that had been rejected when offered by legislation. the sympathy of ulstermen with loyalists in other parts of ireland was as deep and sincere as ever, but no one had ever supposed that ulster could by force of arms do more than preserve her own territory from subjection to dublin. as for the nationalists, they would never succeed in coercing ulster, but "by showing that good government can come under home rule they might try and win her over to the case of the rest of ireland." that was a plan that had never yet been tried. the significance of the announcement which mr. asquith had now made lay in the fact that it was an acknowledgment by the government for the first time that there was an "ulster question" to be dealt with--that ulster was not, as had hitherto been the liberal theory, like any other minority who must submit to the will of the majority opposed to it, but a distinct community, conditioned by special circumstances entitling it to special treatment. the prime minister had thus, as mr. bonar law insisted, "destroyed utterly the whole foundation on which for the last two years the treatment extended to ulster in this bill has been justified." from that day it became impossible ever again to contend that ulster was merely a recalcitrant minority in a larger unity, without rights of her own. the speeches of the unionist leaders in the house of commons showed clearly enough how little faith they had that the government intended to do anything that could lead to an agreed settlement. the interval that passed before the nature of the government's proposals was made known increased rather than diminished this distrust. the air was full of suggestions, the most notable of which was put forward by the veteran constitutional lawyer, mr. frederic harrison, who proposed that ulster should be governed by a separate committee elected by its own constituencies, with full legislative, administrative, and financial powers, subject only to the crown and the imperial parliament.[61] unionists did not believe that the liberal cabinet would be allowed by their nationalist masters to offer anything so liberal to ulster; nor did that province desire autonomy for itself. they believed that the chief desire of the government was not to appease ulster, but to put her in a tactically indefensible position. this fear had been expressed by lord lansdowne as long before as the previous october, when he wrote privately to carson in reference to lord loreburn's suggested conference that he suspected the intention of the government to be "to offer us terms which they know we cannot accept, and then throw on us the odium of having obstructed a settlement." mr. walter long had the same apprehension in march 1914 as to the purpose of mr. asquith's unknown proposals. both these leaders herein showed insight and prescience, for not only mr. asquith's government, but also that which succeeded it, had resort on many subsequent occasions to the manoeuvre suspected by lord lansdowne. on the other hand, there were encouraging signs in the country. to the intense satisfaction of unionists, mr. c.f.g. masterman, who had just been promoted to the cabinet, lost his seat in east london when he sought re-election in february, and a day or two later the government suffered another defeat in scotland. on the 27th of february lord milner, a fearless supporter of the ulster cause, wrote to carson that a british covenant had been drawn up in support of the ulster covenanters, and that the first signatures, in addition to his own, were those of field-marshal lord roberts, admiral of the fleet sir e. seymour, the duke of portland, lord balfour of burleigh, lord desborough, lord lovat, mr. rudyard kipling, sir w. ramsay, f.r.s., the dean of canterbury, professors dicey and goudy, sir george hayter chubb, and mr. salvidge, the influential alderman of liverpool. on the 6th of march mr. walter long, writing from the office of the union defence league, of which he was president, was able to inform carson that there was "a rush to sign the covenant--we are really almost overpowered." this was supplemented by a women's covenant, which, like the men's, "had been numerously and influentially signed, about 3 or 4 per cent, of the signatories, it was said, being liberals."[62] long believed from this and other evidence that had reached him that "public opinion was now really aroused in the country," and that the steadfast policy of ulster had the undoubted support of the electorate. only those who were in the confidence of mr. asquith and his colleagues at the beginning of 1914 can know whether the "proposals" they then made were ever seriously put forward as an effort towards appeasement. if they were sincerely meant for such, it implied a degree of ignorance of the chief factor in the problem with which it is difficult to credit able ministers who had been face to face with that problem for years. they must have supposed that their leading opponents were capable of saying emphatically one thing and meaning quite another. for the unionist leaders had stated over and over again in the most unmistakable terms, both in the recent debate on the address, and on innumerable former occasions, that nothing except the "exclusion of ulster" could furnish a basis for negotiation towards settlement. and yet, when the prime minister at last put his cards on the table on the 9th of march, in moving the second reading of the home rule bill--which now entered on its third and last lap under the parliament act--it was found that his much-trumpeted proposals were derisory to the last degree. the scheme was that which came to be known as county option with a time limit. any county in ulster, including the cities of belfast and derry, was to be given the right to vote itself out of the home rule jurisdiction, on a requisition signed by a specified proportion of its parliamentary electorate, for a period of six years. mr. bonar law said at once, on behalf of the unionist party, that apart from all other objections to the government scheme, and they were many, the time limit for exclusion made the whole proposal a mockery. all that it meant was that when the preparations in ulster for resistance to home rule had been got rid of--for it would be practically impossible to keep them in full swing for six years--ulster should then be compelled to submit to the very thing to which she refused to submit now. carson described the proposal as a "sentence of death with a stay of execution for six years." he noted with satisfaction indeed the admission of the principle of exclusion, but expressed his conviction that the time limit had been introduced merely in order to make it impossible for ulster to accept. ulster wanted the question settled once for all, so that she might turn her attention from politics to her ordinary business. the time limit would keep the fever of political agitation at a high temperature for six years, and at the end of that period forcible resistance would be as necessary as ever, while in the interval all administration would be paralysed by the unworkable nature of the system to be introduced for six years. although there were other gross blots on the scheme outlined by the prime minister, yet, if the time limit were dropped, carson said he would submit it to a convention in belfast; but he utterly declined to do so if the time limit was to be retained. the debate was adjourned indefinitely, and before it could be resumed the whole situation was rendered still more grave by the events to be narrated in the next chapter, and by a menacing speech delivered by mr. churchill at bradford on the 14th of march. he hinted that, if ulster persisted in refusing the offer made by the prime minister, which was the government's last word, the forces of the crown would have to be employed against her; there were, he said, "worse things than bloodshed even on an extended scale"; and he ended by saying, "let us go forward together and put these grave matters to the proof."[63] two days later mr. asquith, in answer to questions in the house of commons, announced that no particulars of the government scheme would be given unless the principle of the proposals were accepted as a basis of agreement. the leader of the unionist party replied by moving a vote of censure on the government on the 19th of march. mr. churchill's bradford speech, and one no less defiant by mr. devlin the day following it, had charged with inflammable material the atmosphere in which the debate was conducted. sir edward carson began his speech by saying that, after these recent events, "i feel that i ought not to be here, but in belfast." there were some sharp passages between him and churchill, whom he accused of being anxious to provoke the ulster people to make an attack on the soldiers. a highly provocative speech by mr. devlin followed, at the end of which carson rose and left the house, saying audibly, "i am off to belfast." he was accompanied out of the chamber by eight ulster members, and was followed by ringing and sustained cheers of encouragement and approval from the crowded unionist benches. it was a scene which those who witnessed it are not likely to forget. the idea of accommodation between the combatant parties was at an end. footnotes: [56] _the yorkshire post_, september 22nd, 1913. [57] _the liverpool daily courier_, september 29th, 1913. [58] _annual register_, 1914, p. 6. [59] _annual register_, 1914, p. 12. [60] ibid., p. 1. [61] _the annual register_, 1914, p. 33. [62] _annual register_, 1914, pp. 51-2. [63] _the times_, march 16th, 1914. chapter xvi the curragh incident when mr. bonar law moved the vote of censure on the government on the 19th of march he had no idea that the cabinet had secretly taken in hand an enterprise which, had it been known, would have furnished infinitely stronger grounds for their impeachment than anything relating to their "proposals" for amending the home rule bill. it was an enterprise that, when it did become known, very nearly brought about their fall from power. the whole truth about the famous "curragh incident" has never been ascertained, and the answers given by the ministers chiefly concerned, under cross-examination in the house of commons, were so evasive and in several instances so contradictory as to make it certain that they were exceedingly anxious that the truth should be concealed. but when the available evidence is pieced together it leads almost irresistibly to the conclusion that in march 1914 the cabinet, or at any rate some of the most prominent members of it, decided to make an imposing demonstration of military force against ulster, and that they expected, if they did not hope, that this operation would goad the ulstermen into a clash with the forces of the crown, which, by putting them morally in the wrong, would deprive them of the popular sympathy they enjoyed in so large and increasing a measure. when mr. churchill spoke at bradford on the 14th of march of "putting these grave matters to the proof" he was already deeply involved in what came to be known as "the plot against ulster," to which his words were doubtless an allusion. that plot may perhaps have originated at mr. lloyd george's breakfast-table on the 11th, when he entertained mr. redmond, mr. dillon, mr. devlin, mr. o'connor, and the chief secretary for ireland, mr. birrell; for on the same day it was decided to send a squadron of battleships with attendant cruisers and destroyers from the coast of spain to lamlash, in the isle of arran, opposite belfast lough; and a sub-committee of the cabinet, consisting of lord crewe, mr. churchill, colonel seely, mr. birrell, and sir john simon, was appointed to deal with affairs connected with ulster. this sub-committee held its first meeting the following day, and the next was the date of mr. churchill's threatening speech at bradford, with its reference to the prospect of bloodshed and of putting grave matters to the proof. bearing in mind this sequence of events, it is not easy to credit the contention of the government, after the plot had been discovered, that the despatch of the fleet to the neighbourhood of the ulster coast had no connection with the other naval and military operations which immediately followed. for on the 14th, while churchill was travelling in the train to bradford, seely, the secretary of state for war, was drafting a letter to sir arthur paget, the commander-in-chief in ireland, informing him of reports (it was never discovered where the reports, which were without the smallest foundation, came from) that attempts might be made "in various parts of ireland by evil-disposed persons" to raid government stores of arms and ammunition, and instructing the general to "take special precautions" to safeguard the military depots. it was added that "information shows that armagh, omagh, carrickfergus, and enniskillen are insufficiently guarded."[64] it is permissible to wonder, if there was danger from evil-disposed persons "in various parts of ireland," from whom came the information that the places particularly needing reinforcements were a ring of strategically important towns round the outskirts of the loyalist counties of ulster. whatever the source of the alleged "information"--whether it originated at mr. lloyd george's breakfast-table or elsewhere--seely evidently thought it alarmingly urgent, for within forty-eight hours he telegraphed to paget asking for a reply before 8 a.m. next morning as to what steps he had taken, and ordering the general to come at once to london, bringing with him detailed plans. on the 16th sir a. paget telegraphed that he "had taken all available steps"; but, on second thoughts, he wrote on the 17th saying that there were sufficient troops at enniskillen to guard the depot, that he was making a small increase to the detachment at carrickfergus, and that, instead of strengthening the garrisons of omagh and armagh, the stores there were being removed--an operation that would take eight days. he explained his reason for this departure from instructions to be that such a movement of troops as had been ordered by the war office would, "in the present state of the country, create intense excitement in ulster and possibly precipitate a crisis."[65] as soon as this communication reached the war office orders were sent that the arms and ammunition at omagh and armagh, for the safety of which from evil-disposed persons seely had been so apprehensive, were not to be removed, although they had already been packed for transport. this order was sent on the 18th of march, and on the same day sir arthur paget arrived in london from ireland and had a consultation with the ulster sub-committee of the cabinet, and with sir john french and other members of the army council at the war office. news of this meeting reached the ears of sir edward carson, who was also aware that a false report was being spread of attempts by unionists to influence the army, and in his speech on the vote of censure on the 19th he said: "i have never suggested that the army should not be sent to ulster. i have never suggested that it should not do its duty when sent there. i hope and expect it will." at the same time reports were circulating in dublin--did they come from downing street?--that the government were preparing to take strong measures against the ulster unionist council, and to arrest the leaders. in allusion to these reports the dublin correspondent of _the times_ telegraphed on the 18th of march: "any man or government that increases the danger by blundering or hasty action will accept a terrible responsibility." what passed at the interviews which sir arthur paget had with ministers on the 18th and 19th has never been disclosed. but it is clear, from the events which followed, either that an entirely new plan on a much larger scale was now inaugurated, or that a development now took place which churchill and seely, and perhaps other ministers also, had contemplated from the beginning and had concealed behind the pretended insignificance of precautions to guard depots. it is noteworthy, at all events, that the measures contemplated happened to be the stationing of troops in considerable strength in important strategical positions round ulster, simultaneously with the despatch of a powerful fleet to within a few hours of belfast. the orders issued by the war office, at any rate, indicated something on a far bigger scale than the original pretext could justify. paget's fear of precipitating a crisis was brushed aside, and general friend, who was acting for him in dublin during his absence, was instructed by telegram to send to the four ulster towns more than double the number of men that paget had deemed would be sufficient to protect the government stores. but still more significant was another order given to friend on the 18th. the dorset regiment, quartered in the victoria barracks in belfast, were to be moved four miles out to holywood, taking with them their stores and ammunition, amounting to some thirty tons; and such was the anxiety of the government to get the troops out of the city that they were told to leave their rifles behind, if necessary, after rendering them useless by removing the bolts.[66] the government had vetoed paget's plan of removing the stores from omagh and armagh, because their real object was to increase the garrisons at those places; but, as they had no scruple about moving the much larger supply from the victoria barracks through the most intensely orange quarter of belfast, it could hardly be wondered at if such an order, under the circumstances, was held to give colour to the idea that ministers wished to provoke violent opposition to the troops. not less inconsistent with the original pretext was the despatch of a battalion to newry and dundalk. at the latter place there was already a brigade of artillery, with eighteen guns, which would prove a tough nut for "evil-disposed persons" to crack; and although both towns would be important points to hold with an army making war on ulster, they were both in nationalist territory where there could be no fear of raids by unionists. yet the urgency was considered so great at the war office to occupy these places in strength not later than the 20th that two cruisers were ordered to kingstown to take the troops to dundalk by sea, if there should be difficulty about land transport. whatever may have been the actual design of mr. churchill and colonel seely, who appear to have practically taken the whole management of the affair into their own hands, the dispositions must have suggested to anyone with elementary knowledge of military matters that nothing less than an overpowering attack on belfast was in contemplation. the transfer of the troops from victoria barracks, where they would have been useful to support the civil power in case of rioting, to holywood, where they would be less serviceable for that purpose but where they would be in rapid communication by water with the garrison of carrickfergus on the opposite shore of the lough; the ordering of h.m.s. _pathfinder_ and _attentive_ to belfast lough, where they were to arrive "at daybreak on saturday the 21st instant" with instructions to support the soldiers if necessary "by guns and search-lights from the ships[67]"; the secret and rapid garrisoning of strategic points on all the railways leading to belfast,--all this pointed, not to the safeguarding of stores of army boots and rifles, but to operations of an offensive campaign. it was in this light that the commander-in-chief in ireland himself interpreted his instructions, and, seeing that he had taken the responsibility of not fully obeying the much more modest orders he had received in ireland on the 14th, it is easy to understand that he thought the steps now to be taken would lead to serious consequences. he also foresaw that he might have trouble with some of the officers under his command, for before leaving london he persuaded the secretary of state and sir john french to give the following permission: "officers actually domiciled in ulster would be exempted from taking part in any operation that might take place. they would be permitted to 'disappear' [that being the exact phrase used by the war office], and when all was over would be allowed to resume their places without their career or position being affected."[68] having obtained this concession, sir arthur paget returned the same night to dublin, where he arrived on the 20th and had a conference with his general officers. he told them of the instructions he had received, which the government called "precautionary" and believed "would be carried out without resistance." the commander-in-chief did not share the government's optimism. he thought "that the moves would create intense excitement," that by next day "the country would be ablaze," and that the result might be "active operations against organised bodies of the ulster volunteer force under their responsible leaders." with regard to the permission for officers domiciled in ulster to "disappear," he informed his generals that any other officers who were not prepared to carry out their duty would be dismissed the service. there was, apparently, some misunderstanding as to whether officers without an ulster domicile who objected to fight against ulster were to say so at once and accept dismissal, or were to wait until they received some specific order which they felt unable to obey. many of the officers understood the general to mean the former of these two alternatives, and the colonel of one line regiment gave his officers half an hour to make up their minds on a question affecting their whole future career; every one of them objected to going against ulster, and "nine or ten refused under any condition" to do so.[69] another regimental commanding officer told his subordinates that "steps have been taken in ulster so that any aggression must come from the ulsterites, and they will have to shed the first blood," on which his comment was: "the idea of provoking ulster is hellish."[70] in consequence of what he learnt at the conference with his generals on the morning of the 20th sir arthur paget telegraphed to the war office: "officer commanding 5th lancers states that all officers except two, and one doubtful, are resigning their commissions to-day. i much fear same conditions in the 16th lancers. fear men will refuse to move[71]"; and later in the day he reported that the "brigadier and 57 officers, 3rd cavalry brigade, prefer to accept dismissal if ordered north."[72] next day he had to add that the colonel and all the officers of the 4th hussars had taken up the same attitude.[73] this was very disconcerting news for the war office, where it had been taken for granted that very few, if any, officers, except perhaps a few natives of ulster, would elect to wreck their careers, if suddenly confronted with so terrible a choice, rather than take part in operations against the ulster loyalists. instructions were immediately wired to paget in dublin to "suspend any senior officers who have tendered their resignations"; to refuse to accept the resignation of junior officers; and to send general gough, the brigadier in command of the 3rd cavalry brigade, and the commanding officers of the two lancer regiments and the 4th hussars, to report themselves promptly at the war office after relieving them of their commands. had the war office made up its mind what to do with general gough and the other cavalry officers when they arrived in london? the inference to be drawn from the correspondence published by the government makes it appear probable that the first intention was to punish these officers severely _pour encourager les autres_. an officer to replace gough had actually been appointed and sent to ireland, though mr. asquith denied in the house of commons that the offending generals had been dismissed. but, if that was the intention, it was abandoned. the reason is not plain; but the probability is that it had been discovered that sympathy with gough was widespread in the army, and that his dismissal would bring about very numerous resignations. it was said that a large part of the staff of the war office itself would have laid down their commissions, and that aldershot would have been denuded of officers.[74] colonel seely himself described it as a "situation of grave peril to the army."[75] anyhow, no disciplinary action of any kind was taken. it was decided to treat the matter as one of "misunderstanding," and when gough and his brother officers appeared at the war office on monday the 23rd they were told that it was all a mistake to suppose that the government had ever intended warlike operations against ulster (the orders to the fleet had been cancelled by wireless on the 21st), and that they might return at once to their commands, with the assurance that they would not be required to serve against ulster loyalists. general gough, who before leaving ireland had asked sir a. paget for a clear definition in writing of the duties that officers would be expected to perform if they went to ulster,[76] thought that in view of the "misunderstanding" it would be wise to have colonel seely's assurance also in black and white. seely had to hurry off to a cabinet meeting, and in his absence the adjutant-general reduced to writing the verbal statement of the secretary of state. a very confused story about the subsequent fortunes of this piece of paper made it the central mystery round which raged angry debates. this much, however, is not doubtful. seely went from the cabinet to buckingham palace; when he returned to downing street the paper was there, but the cabinet had broken up. he looked at the paper, saw that it did not accurately reproduce the assurance he had verbally given to gough, and with the help of lord morley he thereupon added two paragraphs (which mr. balfour designated "the peccant paragraphs") to make it conform to his promise. the addition so made was the only part of the document that gave the assurance that the officers would not be called upon "to crush political opposition to the policy or principles of the home rule bill." with this paper in his pocket general gough returned to his command at the curragh. there the matter might have ended had not some of the facts become known to unionist members of the house of commons, and to the press. on sunday, the 22nd, mr. asquith sent a communication to _the times_ (published on the 23rd) in which he minimised the whole matter, putting forward the original pretext of movements of troops solely to protect government property--an account at variance with a statement two days later by churchill in regard to the reason for naval movements--and on the 23rd seely also made a statement in the house of commons on the same lines as the prime minister's, which ended by saying that all the movements of troops were completed "and all orders issued have been punctually and implicitly obeyed." this was an hour or two after his interview with the generals who had been summoned from ireland to be dismissed for refusal to obey orders. but mr. bonar law had his own information, which was much fuller than the government imagined. a long and heated debate followed colonel seely's statement, and was continued on the two following days, gradually dragging to light the facts with a much greater profusion of detail than is necessary for this narrative. on the 24th mr. l.s. amery made a speech which infuriated the radicals and labour members, but the speaker, as was his intention, made them quite as angry with the government as with himself. the cause of offence was that the government was thought to have allowed itself to be coerced by the soldiers, while the latter had been allowed to make their obedience to orders contingent on a bargain struck with the government. this aspect of the case was forcibly argued by mr. j. ward, the labour member for stoke, in a speech greatly admired by enthusiasts for "democratic" principles. although mr. ward's invective was mainly directed against the unionist opposition, the latter listened to it with secret pleasure, perceiving that it was in reality more damaging to the government than to themselves, since ministers were forced into an attitude of defence against their own usually docile supporters. it may here be mentioned that at a much later date, when mr. john ward, in the light of experience gained by his own distinguished service as an officer in the great war, had come to the conviction that "the possibility of forcing ulster within the ambit of a dublin parliament has now become unthinkable," he acknowledged that in 1914 the only way by which mr. asquith's home rule act could have been enforced was through and by the power of the army.[77] so much shaken were the government by these attacks that on the next day, the 25th of march, colonel seely, at the end of a long narrative of the transaction, announced his resignation from the government. he had, he said, unintentionally misled his colleagues by adding without their knowledge to the paper given to general gough; the cabinet as a whole was quite innocent of the great offence given to democratic sentiment. this announcement having had the desired effect of relieving the ministry as a whole from responsibility for the "peccant paragraphs," and averting radical wrath from their heads, the prime minister later in the debate said he was not going to accept seely's resignation. yet mr. churchill exhibited a fine frenzy of indignation against mr. austen chamberlain for describing it as a "put-up job." only a fairly fertile imagination could suggest a transaction to which the phrase would be more justly applicable. the idea that seely, in adding the paragraphs, was tampering in any way with the considered policy of the cabinet was absurd, although it served the purpose of averting a crisis in the house of commons. he had been in constant and close communication with churchill, who had himself been present at the war office conference with gough, and who had seen the prime minister earlier in company with sir john french. the whole business had been discussed at the cabinet meeting, and when seely returned from his audience of the king he found the prime minister, mr. churchill, and lord morley still in the cabinet room. mr. asquith said on the 25th in the house of commons that no minister except seely had seen the added paragraphs, and almost at the same moment in the house of lords lord morley was saying that he had helped seely to draft them. moreover, lord morley actually took a copy of them, which he read in the house of lords, and he included the substance of them in his exposition of the government policy in the upper house. furthermore, general gough was on his way to ireland that night, and if it had been true that the prime minister, or any other minister, disapproved of what seely had done, there was no reason why gough should not have found a telegram waiting for him at the curragh in the morning cancelling seely's paragraphs and withdrawing the assurance they contained. no step of that kind was taken, and the government, while repudiating in the house of commons the action for which seely was allowed to take the sole responsibility, permitted gough to retain in his despatch-box the document signed by the army council. for it was not only the secretary of state for war who was involved. the memorandum had been written by the adjutant-general, and it bore the initials of sir john french and sir spencer ewart as well as colonel seely's. these members of the army council knew that the verbal assurance given by the secretary of state to gough had not been completely embodied in the written memorandum without the paragraph which had been repudiated after the debate in the commons on the 24th, and they were not prepared to go back on their written word, or to be satisfied by the "put-up job" resignation of their civilian chief. they both sent in their resignations; and, as they refused even under pressure to withdraw them, the secretary of state had no choice but to do the same on the 30th of march, this time beyond recall. mr. asquith announced on the same day that he had himself become secretary of state for war, and would have to go to scotland for re-election. the facts as here related were only extracted by the most persistent and laborious cross-examination of the government, who employed all the familiar arts of official evasion in order to conceal the truth from the country. day after day ministers were bombarded by batteries of questions in the house of commons, in addition to the lengthy debates that occupied the house for several consecutive days. this pressure compelled the prime minister to produce a white paper, entitled "correspondence relating to recent events in the irish command."[78] it was published on the 25th of march, the third day of the continuous debates, and, although mr. asquith said it contained "all the material documents," it was immediately apparent to members who had closely studied the admissions that had been dragged from the ministers chiefly concerned, that it was very far from doing so. much the most important documents had, in fact, been withheld. suspicion as to the good faith of the government was increased when it was found that the lord chancellor, lord haldane, had interpolated into the official report of his speech in the house of lords a significant word which transformed his definite pledge that ulster would not be coerced, into a mere statement that no "immediate" coercion was contemplated. in the face of such evasion and prevarication it was out of the question to let the matter drop. on the 22nd of april the government was forced to publish a second white paper,[79] which contained a large number of highly important documents omitted from the first. but it was evident that much was still being kept back, and, in particular, that what had passed between sir arthur paget and his officers at a conference mentioned in the published correspondence was being carefully concealed. mr. bonar law demanded a judicial inquiry, where evidence could be taken on oath. mr. asquith refused, saying that an insinuation against the honour of ministers could only be properly investigated by the house of commons itself, and that a day would be given for a vote of censure if the leader of the opposition meant that he could not trust the word of ministers of the crown. mr. bonar law sharply retorted that he "had already accused the prime minister of making a statement which was false."[80] but even this did not suffice to drive the government to face the ordeal of having their own account of the affair at the curragh sifted by the sworn evidence of others who knew the facts. they preferred to take cover under the dutiful cheers of their parliamentary majority when they repeated their explanations, which had already been proved to be untrue. but the ulster unionist council had, meantime, been making inquiries on their own account. there was nothing in the least improper, although the supporters of the government tried to make out that there was, in the officers at the curragh revealing what the commander-in-chief had said to them, so long as they did not communicate anything to the press. they were not, and could not be, pledged to secrecy. it thus happened that it was possible for the old town hall in belfast to put together a more complete account of the whole affair than it suited the government to reveal to parliament. on the 17th of april the standing committee issued to the press a statement giving the main additional facts which a sworn inquiry would have elicited. it bore the signatures of lord londonderry and sir edward carson, and there can have been few foolhardy enough to suggest that these were men who would be likely to take such a step without first satisfying themselves as to the trustworthiness of the evidence, a point on which the judgment of one of them at all events was admittedly unrivalled. from this statement it appeared that sir arthur paget, so far from indicating that mere "precautionary measures" for the protection of government stores were in contemplation, told his generals that preparations had been made for the employment of some 25,000 troops in ulster, in conjunction with naval operations. the gravity of the plan was revealed by the general's use of the words "battles" and "the enemy," and his statement that he would himself be "in the firing line" at the first "battle." he said that, when some casualties had been suffered by the troops, he intended to approach "the enemy" with a flag of truce and demand their surrender, and if this should be refused he would order an assault on their position. the cavalry, whose pro-ulster sentiments must have been well known to the commander-in-chief, were told that they would only be required to prevent the infantry "bumping into the enemy," or in other words to act as a cavalry screen; that they would not be called upon to fire on "the enemy"; and that as soon as the infantry became engaged, they would be withdrawn and sent to cork, where "a disturbance would be arranged" to provide a pretext for the movement. a military governor of belfast was to be appointed, and the general purpose of the operations was to blockade ulster by land and sea, and to provoke the ulster men to shed the first blood. the publication of this statement with the authority of the two ulster leaders created a tremendous sensation. but it probably strengthened the resolution of the government to refuse at all costs a judicial inquiry, which they knew would only supply sworn corroboration of the ulster unionist council's story. in this they were assisted in an unexpected way. just when the pressure was at its highest, relief came by the diversion of attention and interest caused by another startling event in ulster, which will be described in the following chapters. this curragh incident, which caused intense and prolonged excitement in march 1914, and nearly upset the asquith government, had more than momentary importance in connection with the ulster movement. it proved to demonstration the intense sympathy with the loyalist cause that pervaded the army. that sympathy was not, as radical politicians like mr. john ward believed, an aristocratic sentiment only to be found in the mess-rooms of smart cavalry regiments. it existed in all branches of the service, and among the rank and file as well as the commissioned ranks. sir arthur paget's telegram reporting to the war office the feeling in the 5th and 16th lancers, said, "fear men will refuse to move."[81] the men had not the same facility as the officers in making their sentiments known at headquarters, but their sympathies were the same. the government had no excuse for being ignorant of this feeling in the army. it had been a matter of notoriety for a long time. its existence and its danger had been reported by lord wolseley to the duke of cambridge, back in the old days of gladstonian home rule, in a letter that had been since published. in july 1913 _the times_ gave the warning in a leading article that "the crisis, the approach of which ministers affect to treat with unconcern, is already causing uneasiness and apprehension in the public services, and especially in the army.... it is notorious that some officers have already begun to speak of sending in their papers." lord roberts had uttered a significant warning in the house of lords not long before the incident at the curragh. colonel seely himself had been made aware of it in the previous december when he signed a war office memorandum on the subject[82]; and, indeed, no officer could fail to be aware of it who had ever been quartered in ireland. nor was it surprising that this sympathy should manifest itself. no one is quicker to appreciate the difference between loyalty and disloyalty than the soldier. there were few regiments in the army that had not learnt by experience that the king's uniform was constantly insulted in nationalist ireland, and as invariably welcomed and honoured in ulster. in the vote of censure debate on the 19th of march mr. cave quoted an irish newspaper, which had described the british army as "the most immoral and degraded force in europe," and warned irishmen that, by joining it, all they would get was "a red coat, a dishonoured name, a besmirched character." on the other hand, the very troops who were sent north from the curragh against the advice of sir arthur paget, to provoke "the ulsterites to shed the first blood," had, as the commander-in-chief reported, "everywhere a good reception."[83] the welcoming cheers at holywood and carrickfergus and armagh were probably a pleasant novelty to men fresh from the curragh or fermoy. even in belfast itself the contrast was brought home to troops quartered in victoria barracks, all of whom were well aware that on the death of a comrade his coffin would have to be borne by a roundabout route to the cemetery, to avoid the nationalist quarter of the city where a military funeral would be exposed to insult. such experiences, as they harden into traditions, sink deep into the consciousness of an army and breed sentiments that are not easily eradicated. soldiers ought, of course, to have no politics; but when it appeared that they might be called upon to open fire on those whom they had always counted "on our side," in order to subject them forcibly to men who hated the sight of a british flag and were always ready to spit upon it, human nature asserted itself. and the incident taught the government something as to the difficulty they would have in enforcing the home rule bill in ulster. footnotes: [64] see white paper (cd. 7329), no. ii. [65] see white paper (cd. 7329), no. vi. [66] see white paper (cd. 7329), no. vii. [67] white paper (cd. 7329), part ii, no. ii. [68] white paper (cd. 7329), part iii. [69] see _parliamentary debates_, vol. lx, p. 73. [70] ibid., p. 426. [71] cd. 7329, no. xvii. [72] ibid., nos. xviii, xx. [73] ibid., nos. xxii, xxiii. [74] see _parliamentary debates_, vol. lx, p. 246. [75] ibid., p. 400. [76] white paper (cd. 7329), no. xx. [77] _the nineteenth century and after_, january 1921, art. "the army and ireland," by lieut.-colonel john ward, c.b., c.m.g., m.p. [78] cd. 7318. [79] cd. 7329. [80] _parliamentary debate_, vol. lxi, p. 765. [81] white paper (cd. 7329), no. xvii. see _ante_, p. 180. [82] white paper (cd. 7329), no. i. [83] ibid., no. xxvii. chapter xvii arming the u.v.f. if the "evil-disposed persons" who so excited the fancy of colonel seely were supposed to be ulster loyalists, the whole story was an absurdity that did no credit to the government's intelligence in ireland; and if there ever was any "information," such as the war office alleged, it must have come from a source totally ignorant of ulster psychology. raids on government stores were never part of the ulster programme. the excitement of the curragh incident passed off without causing any sort of disturbance, and, as we have seen, the troops who were sent north received everywhere in ulster a loyal welcome. this was a fine tribute to the discipline and restraint of the people, and was a further proof of their confidence in their leaders. those leaders, it happened, were at that very moment taking measures to place arms in the hands of the u.v.f. without robbing government depots or any one else. that method was left to their opponents in ireland at a later date, who adopted it on an extensive scale accompanied by systematic terrorism. the ulster plan was quite different. all the arms they obtained were paid for, and their only crime was that they successfully hoodwinked mr. asquith's colleagues and agents. every movement has its fabius, and also its hotspur. both are needed--the men of prudence and caution, anxious to avoid extreme courses, slow to commit themselves too far or to burn their boats with the river behind them; and the impetuous spirits, who chafe at half-measures, cannot endure temporising, and are impatient for the order to advance against any odds. major f.h. crawford had more of the temperament of a hotspur than of a fabius, but he nevertheless possessed qualities of patience, reticence, discretion, and coolness which enabled him to render invaluable service to the ulster cause in an enterprise that would certainly have miscarried in the hands of a man endowed only with impetuosity and reckless courage. if the story of his adventures in procuring arms for the u.v.f. be ever told in minute detail, it will present all the features of an exciting novel by mr. john buchan. fred crawford, the man who followed a family tradition when he signed the covenant with his own blood,[84] began life as a premium apprentice in harland and wolf's great ship-building yard, after which he served for a year as an engineer in the white star line, before settling down to his father's manufacturing business in belfast. like so many ardent loyalists in ulster, he came of liberal stock. he was for years honorary secretary of the reform club in belfast. the more staid members of this highly respectable establishment were not a little startled and perplexed when it was brought to their attention in 1907 that advertisements in the name of one "hugh matthews," giving the belfast reform club as his address, had appeared in a number of foreign newspapers--french, belgian, italian, german, and austrian--inquiring for "10,000 rifles and one million rounds of small-arm ammunition." the membership of the club included no hugh matthews; but inquiry showed that the name covered the identity of the hon. secretary; and crawford, who sought no concealment in the matter, justified the advertisements by pointing out that the liberal government which had lately come into power had begun its rule in ireland by repealing the act prohibiting the importation of arms, and that there was therefore nothing illegal in what he was doing. but he resigned his secretaryship, which he felt might hamper future transactions of the same kind. the advertisement was no doubt half bravado and half practical joke; he wanted to see whether it would attract notice, and if anything would come of it. but it had also an element of serious purpose. crawford regarded the advent to power of the liberal party as ominous, as indeed all ulster did, for the liberal party was a home rule party; and he had from his youth been convinced that the day would come when ulster would have to carry out lord randolph churchill's injunction. that being so, he was not the man to tarry till solemn assemblies of merchants, lawyers, and divines should propound a policy; if there was to be fighting, crawford was going to be ready for it, and thought that preparation for such a contingency could not begin too soon. and the advertisements were not barren of practical result. there was an astonishing number of replies; crawford purchased a few rifles, and obtained samples of others; and, what was more important, he gained knowledge of the continental trade in second-hand firearms, which had its centre in the free port of hamburg, and of the men engaged in that trade. this knowledge he turned to account in 1912 and the two following years. he had been for nearly twenty years an officer of artillery militia, and when the u.v.f. was organised in 1912 he became its director of ordnance on the headquarters staff. he was also a member of the standing committee of the ulster unionist council, where he persistently advocated preparation for armed resistance long before most of his colleagues thought such a policy necessary. but early in 1912 he obtained leave to get samples of procurable firearms, and his promptitude in acting on it, and in presenting before certain members of the committee a collection of gleaming rifles with bayonets fixed, took away the breath of the more cautious of his colleagues. from this time forward crawford was frequently engaged in this business. he got into communication with the dealers in arms whose acquaintance he had made six years before. he went himself to hamburg, and, after learning something of the chicanery prevalent in the trade, which it took all his resourcefulness to overcome, he fell in with an honest jew by whose help he succeeded in sending a thousand rifles safely to belfast. other consignments followed from time to time in larger or smaller quantities, in the transport of which all the devices of old-time smuggling were put to the test. crawford bought a schooner, which for a year or more proved very useful, and, while employing her in bringing arms to ulster, he made acquaintance with a skipper of one of the antrim iron ore company's coasting steamers, whose name was agnew, a fine seaman of the best type produced by the british mercantile marine, who afterwards proved an invaluable ally, to whose loyalty and ability crawford and ulster owed a deep debt of gratitude, as they also did to mr. robert browne, managing director of the antrim iron ore company, for placing at their disposal both vessels and seamen from time to time. now and then the goods fell a victim to custom house vigilance; for although there was at this time nothing illegal in importing firearms, it was not considered prudent to carry on the trade openly, which would certainly have led to prohibition being introduced and enforced; and, consequently, infringements of shipping regulations had to be risked, which gave the authorities the right to interfere if they discovered rifles where zinc plates or musical instruments ought to have been. on one occasion a case of arms was shipped on a small steamer from glasgow to portrush, but was not entered in the manifest, so that the skipper (being a worthy man) knew nothing--officially--of this box which lay on deck instead of descending into the hold. but two customs officials, who noticed it with unsatisfied curiosity, decided, just as the boat cast off, to make the trip to portrush. happily it was a dirty night, and they, being bad sailors, were constrained to take refuge from the elements in the captain's cabin. but when portrush was reached search and research proved unavailing to find the mysterious box; the skipper could find no mention of it in the manifest and thought the customs house gentlemen must have been dreaming; they, on the other hand, threatened to seize the ship if the box did not materialise, and were told to do so at their peril. but exactly off ballycastle, which had been passed while the officials were poorly, there was a float in the sea attached to a line, which in due course led to the recovery of a case of valuable property that was none the worse for a few hours' rest on the bottom of the moyle. qualities of a different sort were called into play in negotiating the purchase of machine-guns from messrs. vickers & co., at woolwich. here a strong american accent, combined with the providential circumstance that mexico happened to be in the grip of revolutionary civil war, overcame all difficulties, and mr. john washington graham, u.s.a. (otherwise fred h. crawford of belfast) played his part so effectively that he did not fail to finish the deal by extracting a handsome commission for himself, which found its way subsequently to the coffers of the ulster unionist council. but he compensated the company by making a suggestion for improving the mechanism of the maxim-gun which the great ordnance manufacturers permanently adopted without having to pay for any patent rights. major crawford was, however, by no means the only person who was at this time bringing arms and ammunition into ulster, which, as already explained, although not illegal, could not be safely done openly on a large scale. ammunition in small quantities dribbled into belfast pretty constantly, many amateur importers deriving pleasurable excitement from feeling themselves conspirators, and affording amusement to others by the tales told of the ingenious expedients resorted to by the smugglers. there was a dock porter at belfast, an intense admirer of sir edward carson, who was the retailer of one of the best of these stories. he was always on the look-out for the leader arriving by the liverpool steamer, and would allow no one else, if he could help it, to handle the great man's hand-baggage; and when carson was not a passenger, any of his satellites who happened to be travelling came in for vicarious attention. thus, it happened on one occasion that the writer, arriving alone from liverpool, was hailed from the shore before the boat was made fast. "is sir edward on board?" a shake of the head brought a look of pathetic disappointment to the face of the hero-worshipper; but he was on board before the gangway was down and busy collecting the belongings of the leader's unworthy substitute. when laden with these and half-way down the gangway he stopped, and, entirely careless of the fact that he was obstructing a number of passengers impatient to land, he turned and whispered--a whisper that might be heard thirty yards off--with a knowing wink of the eye: "we're getting in plenty of stuff now." "yes, yes," was the reply. "never mind about that now; put those things on a car." but he continued, without budging from the gangway, "och aye, we're getting in plenty; but my god, didn't mrs. blank o' dungannon bate all? did ye hear about her?" "no, i never heard of mrs. blank of dungannon. but do hurry along, my good man; you're keeping back all the passengers." "what! ye never heard o' mrs. blank o' dungannon? wait now till i tell ye. mrs. blank came off this boat not a fortnight ago, an' as she came down this gangway i declare to god you'd ha' swore she was within a week of her time--and divil a ha'porth the matter with her, only cartridges. an' the fun was that the custom house boys knowed rightly what it was, but they dursn't lay a hand on her nor search her, for fear they were wrong." this admiring tribute to the heroic matron of dungannon--whose real name was not concealed by the porter--was heard by a number of people, and probably most of them thought themselves compensated by the story for the delay it caused them in leaving the steamer. by the summer of 1913 several thousands of rifles had been brought into ulster; but in may of that year the mishap occurred to which lord roberts referred in his letter to colonel hickman on the 4th of june, when he wrote: "i am sorry to read about the capture of rifles."[85] crawford had been obliged to find some place in london for storing the arms which he was procuring from his friends in hamburg, and with the help of sir william bull, m.p. for hammersmith, the yard of an old-fashioned inn in that district was found where it was believed they would be safe until means of transporting them to the north of ireland could be devised. the inn was taken by a firm calling itself john ferguson & co., the active member of which was sir william bull's brother-in-law, captain budden; and the business appeared to consist of dealing in second-hand scientific instruments and machinery, curiosities, antique armour and weapons, old furniture, and so forth, which were brought in very heavy cases and deposited in the yard. for a time it proved useful, and the maxims from woolwich passed safely through the hammersmith store. but the london police got wind of the hammersmith armoury, and seized a consignment of between six and seven thousand excellent italian rifles. a rusty and little-known act of parliament had to be dug up to provide legal authority for the seizure. many sportsmen and others then learnt for the first time that, under the gun-barrel proof act, 1868, every gun-barrel in england must bear the gun-makers' company's proof-mark showing that its strength has been tested and approved. as the penalty for being in possession of guns not so marked was a fine of â£2 per barrel, to have put in a claim for the italian rifles seized at hammersmith would have involved a payment of more than â£12,000, and would have given the government information as to the channel through which they had been imported. no move was made, therefore, so far as the firearms were concerned, but the bayonets attached to them, for the seizure of which there was no legal justification, were claimed by crawford's agent in hamburg, and eventually reached ulster safely by another route. about the same time a consignment of half a million rounds of small-arm ammunition, which was discovered by the authorities through faulty packing in cement-bags, was also confiscated in another part of the country. these losses convinced crawford that a complete change of method must be adopted if faith was to be kept with the ulster volunteers, who were implicitly trusting their leaders to provide them with weapons to enable them to make good the covenant. more than a year before this time he had told the special committee dealing with arms, to which he was immediately responsible, that, in his judgment, the only way of dealing effectively with the problem was not by getting small quantities smuggled from time to time by various devices and through disguised ordinary trade channels, but by bringing off a grand _coup_, as if running a blockade in time of war. he had crossed the channel on purpose to submit this view to sir edward carson and captain craig early in 1912, but at that time nothing was done to give effect to it. but the seizure of so large a number as six thousand rifles at a time when the political situation looked like moving towards a crisis in the near future, made necessary a bolder attempt to procure the necessary arms. when general sir george richardson took command of the u.v.f. in july 1913 he placed captain (afterwards lieut.-colonel) wilfrid bliss spender on his staff, and soon afterwards appointed him a.q.m.g. of the forces. captain spender's duties comprised the supply of equipment, arms, and ammunition, the organisation of transport, and the supervision of communications. he was now requested to confer with major fred crawford with a view to preparing a scheme for procuring arms and ammunition, to be submitted to a special sub-committee appointed to deal with this matter, of which captain james craig was chairman. spender gave his attention mainly to the difficulties that would attend the landing and distribution of arms if they reached ulster in safety; crawford said he could undertake to purchase and bring them from a foreign port. crawford's proposed _modus operandi_ may be given in his own words: "i would immediately go to hamburg and see b.s. [the hebrew dealer in firearms with whom he had been in communication for some six or seven years, and whom he had found perfectly honest, and not at all grasping], and consult him as to what he had to offer. i would purchase 25,000 to 30,000 rifles, modern weapons if possible, and not the italian vetteli rifles we had been getting, all to take the same ammunition and fitted with bayonets. i would purchase a suitable steamer of 600 tons in some foreign port and load her up with the arms, and either bring her in direct or transfer the cargo to a local steamer in some estuary or bay on the scottish coast. i felt confident, though i knew the difficulties in front of me, that i could carry it through all right."[86] the sub-committee accepted crawford's proposal, and, when it had been confirmed by headquarters council, he was commissioned to go to hamburg to see how the land lay. on arriving there he found that b.s. had still in store ten thousand vetteli rifles and a million rounds of ammunition for them, which he had been holding for crawford for two years. after a day or two the dealer laid three alternative proposals before his ulster customer: (a) twenty thousand vetteli rifles, with bayonets (ammunition would have to be specially manufactured).(6) thirty thousand russian rifles with bayonets (lacking scabbards) and ammunition, (c) fifteen thousand new austrian, and five thousand german army rifles with bayonets, both to take standard mannlicher cartridges. the last mentioned of these alternatives was much the most costly, being double the price of the first and nearly treble that of the second; but it had great advantages over the other two. ammunition for the italian weapons was only manufactured in italy, and, if further supplies should be required, could only be got from that country. the russian rifles were perfectly new and unused, but were of an obsolete pattern; they were single-loaders, and fresh supplies of cartridges would be nearly as difficult to procure for them as for the italian. the austrian and german patterns were both first-rate; the rifles were up-to-date clip-loaders, and, what was the most important consideration, ammunition for them would be easily procurable in the united kingdom or from america or canada. but the difference in cost was so great that crawford returned to belfast to explain matters to his committee, calling in london on his way to inform carson and craig. he strongly urged the acceptance of the third alternative offer, laying stress, among other considerations, on the moral effect on men who knew they had in their hands the most modern weapon with all latest improvements. carson was content to be guided on a technical matter of this sort by the judgment of a man whom he knew to be an expert, and as james craig, who was in control of the fund ear-marked for the purchase of arms, also agreed, crawford had not much difficulty in persuading the committee when he reached belfast, although at first they were rather staggered by the difference in cost between the various proposals. it was not until the beginning of february 1914 that crawford returned to hamburg to accept this offer, and to make arrangements with b.s. for carrying out the rest of his scheme for transporting his precious but dangerous cargo to ulster. on his way through london he called again on carson. "i pointed out to sir edward, my dear old chief," says crawford in a written account of the interview, "that some of my committee had no idea of the seriousness of the undertaking, and, when they did realise what they were in for, might want to back out of it. i said, 'once i cross this time to hamburg there is no turning back with me, no matter what the circumstances are so far as my personal safety is concerned; and no contrary orders from the committee to cancel what they have agreed to with me will i obey. i shall carry out the _coup_ if i lose my life in the attempt. now, sir edward, you know what i am about to undertake, and the risks those who back me up must run. are you willing to back me to the finish in this undertaking? if you are not, i don't go. but, if you are, i would go even if i knew i should not return; it is for ulster and her freedom i am working, and this alone.' i so well remember that scene. we were alone; sir edward was sitting opposite to me. when i had finished, his face was stern and grim, and there was a glint in his eye. he rose to his full height, looking me in the eye; he advanced to where i was sitting and stared down at me, and shook his clenched fist in my face, and said in a steady, determined voice, which thrilled me and which i shall never forget: 'crawford, i'll see you through this business, if i should have to go to prison for it.' i rose from my chair; i held out my hand and said, 'sir edward, that is all i want. i leave to-night; good-bye.'" next day crawford was in hamburg. he immediately concluded his agreement with b.s., and began making arrangements for carrying out the plan he had outlined to the committee in belfast. as will be seen in the next chapter, he was actually in the middle of this adventure at the very time when seely and churchill were worrying lest "evil-disposed persons" should raid and rob the scantily stocked government stores at omagh and enniskillen. footnotes: [84] _ante_, p. 123. [85] _ante_, p. 161. [86] from a manuscript narrative by colonel f.h. crawford. chapter xviii a voyage of adventure although mr. lloyd george's message to mankind on new year's day, 1914, was that "anglo-german relations were far more friendly than for years past,"[87] and that there was therefore no need to strengthen the british navy, it may be doubted, with the knowledge we now possess, whether the german government would have been greatly incensed at the idea of a cargo of firearms finding its way from hamburg to ireland in the spring of that year without the knowledge of the british government. but if that were the case fred crawford had no reason to suspect it. german surveillance was always both efficient and obtrusive, and he had to make his preparations under a vigilance by the authorities which showed no signs of laxity. those preparations involved the assembling and the packing of 20,000 modern rifles, 15,000 of which had to be brought from a factory in austria; 10,000 italian rifles previously purchased, which b.s. had in store; bayonets for all the firearms; and upwards of 3,000,000 rounds of small-arm ammunition. the packing of the arms was a matter to which crawford gave particular attention. he kept in mind the circumstances under which he expected them to be landed in ulster. avoidance of confusion and rapidity of handling were of the first importance. rifles, bayonets, and ammunition must be not separated in bulk, requiring to be laboriously reassembled at their destination. he therefore insisted that parcels should be made up containing five rifles in each, with bayonets to match, and 100 rounds of ammunition per rifle, each parcel weighing about 75 lbs. he attached so much importance to this system of packing that he adhered to it even after discovering that it would cost about â£2,000, and would take more than a month to complete. while the work of packing was going on, crawford, who found he was exciting the curiosity of the hamburg police, kept out of sight as much as possible, and he paid more than one visit to the committee in belfast, leaving the supervision to the skipper and packer, whom he had found he could trust. in the meantime, by advertisements in the scandinavian countries, he was looking out for a suitable steamer to carry the cargo. for a crew his thoughts turned to his old friend, andrew agnew, skipper in the employment of the antrim iron ore company. happily he was not only able to secure the services of agnew himself, but agnew brought with him his mate and his chief and second engineers. this was a great gain; for they were not only splendid men at their job, but were men willing to risk their liberty or their lives for the ulster cause. deck-hands and firemen would be procurable at whatever port a steamer was to be bought. several vessels were offered in response to crawford's advertisements, and on the 16th of march, when the packing of the arms was well advanced, crawford, agnew, and his chief engineer went to norway to inspect these steamers. eventually they selected the s.s. _fanny_, which had just returned to bergen with a cargo of coal from newcastle. she was only an eight-knot vessel, but her skipper, a norwegian, gave a favourable report of her sea-going qualities and coal consumption, and agnew and his engineer were satisfied by their inspection of her. the deal was quickly completed, and the captain and his norwegian crew willingly consented to remain in charge of the _fanny_; and, in order to enable her to sail under the norwegian flag, as a precaution against possible confiscation in british waters, it was arranged that the captain should be the nominal purchaser, giving crawford a mortgage for her full value. then, leaving agnew to get sufficient stores on board the _fanny_ for a three-months' cruise, crawford returned to hamburg on the 20th, and thence to belfast to report progress. agnew's orders were to bring the _fanny_ in three weeks' time to a rendezvous marked on the chart between the danish islands of langeland and fã¼nen, where he was to pick up the cargo of arms, which crawford would bring in lighters from hamburg through the kiel canal. while crawford was in belfast arrangements were made to enable him to keep in communication with spender, so that in case of necessity he could be warned not to approach the irish coast, but to cruise in the baltic till a more favourable opportunity. he was to let spender know later where he could be reached with final instructions as to landing the arms; the rendezvous so agreed upon subsequently was lough laxford, a wild and inaccessible spot on the west coast of sutherlandshire. crawford was warned by b.s. that he was far from confident of a successful end to their labours at hamburg. he had never before shipped anything like so large a number of firearms; and the long process of packing, and crawford's own mysterious coming and going, would be certain to excite suspicion, which would reach the secret agents of the british government, and lead either to a protest addressed to the german authorities, followed by a prohibition on shipping the arms, or to confiscation by the british authorities when the cargo entered british territorial waters. these fears must have been present to the mind of b.s. when he met crawford at the station in hamburg on the 27th on his return from belfast, for the precautions taken to avoid being followed gave their movements the character of an adventure by one of stanley weyman's heroes of romance. whether any suspicion had in fact been aroused remains unknown. anyhow, the barges were ready laden, with a tug waiting till the tide should serve about midnight for making a start down the elbe, and through the canal to kiel. the modest sum of â£10 procured an order authorising the tug and barges to proceed through the canal without stopping, and requiring other shipping to let them pass. a black flag was the signal of this privileged position, which suggested the "jolly roger" to crawford's thoughts, and gave a sense of insolent audacity when great liners of ten or fifteen thousand tons were seen making way for a tug-boat towing a couple of lighters. for the success of the enterprise up to this point crawford was greatly indebted to the jew, b.s. from first to last this gentleman "played the game" with sterling honesty and straightforward dealing that won his customers' warm admiration. several times he accepted crawford's word as sufficient security when cash was not immediately forthcoming, and in no instance did he bear out the character traditionally attributed to his race. on arrival at kiel, crawford, after a short absence from the tug, was informed that three men had been inquiring from the lightermen and the tug's skipper about the nature and destination of the cargo. all such evidences of curiosity on the subject were rather alarming, but it turned out that the visitors were probably mexicans--of what political party there it would be impossible to guess--whose interest had been aroused by the rumour, which crawford had encouraged, that guns were being shipped to that distracted republic. still more alarming was the arrival on board the tug of a german official in resplendent uniform, who insisted that he must inspect the cargo. crawford knew no german, but the shipping agent who accompanied him produced papers showing that all formalities had been complied with, and all requisite authorisation obtained. neither official papers, however, nor arguments made any impression on the officer until it occurred to crawford to produce a 100-marks note, which proved much more persuasive, and sent the official on his way rejoicing, with expressions of civility on both sides. the relief of the ulsterman when the last of the kiel forts was left behind, and he knew that his cargo was clear of germany, may be imagined. a night was spent crossing kiel bay, and in the morning of the 29th they were close to langeland, and approaching the rendezvous with the _fanny_. she was there waiting, and agnew, in obedience to orders, had already painted out her name on bows and stern. the next thing was to transfer the arms from the lighters to the _fanny_. crawford was apprehensive lest the danish authorities should take an interest in the proceedings if the work was carried out in the narrow channel between the islands, and he proposed, as it was quite calm, to defer operations till they were further from the shore. but the norwegian captain declared that he had often transhipped cargo at this spot, and that there was no danger whatever. nevertheless, crawford's fears were realised. before the work was half finished a danish port officer came on board, asked what the cargo comprised, and demanded to see the ship's papers. according to the manifest the _fanny_ was bound for iceland with a general cargo, part of which was to be shipped at bergen. the danish officer then spent half an hour examining the bales, and, although he did not open any of them, crawford felt no doubt he knew perfectly the nature of their contents. finally he insisted on carrying off the papers, both of the _fanny_ and the tug-boat, saying that all the information must be forwarded to copenhagen to be dealt with by the government authorities, but that the papers would be returned early next morning. one can well believe crawford when he says that he suffered "mental agony" that night. after all that he had planned, and all that he had accomplished by many months of personal energy and resource, he saw complete and ignominious failure staring him in the face. he realised the heavy financial loss to the ulster loyalists, for his cargo represented about â£70,000 of their money; and he realised the bitter disappointment of their hopes, which was far worse than any loss of money. he pictured to himself what must happen in the morning--"to have to follow a torpedo-boat into the naval base and lie there till the whole ulster scheme was unravelled and known to the world as a ghastly failure, and the province and sir edward and all the leaders the laughing stock of the world"--and the thought of it all plunged him almost into despair. almost, but not quite. he was not the man to give way to despair. if it came to the worst he would "put all the foreign crew and their belongings into the boats and send them off; agnew and i would arm ourselves with a bundle of rifles, and cut it open and have 500 rounds to fight any attempt to board us, and if we slipped this by any chance, he and i would bring her to england together, he on deck and i in the engine-room. he knew all about navigation and i knew all about engines, having been a marine engineer in my youth." but a less desperate job called for immediate attention. the men engaged in transferring the cargo from the barges to the steamer wanted to knock off work for the night; but the offer of double pay persuaded them to stick to it, and they worked with such good will that by midnight every bale was safely below hatches in the _fanny_. crawford then instructed the shipping agent to be off in the tug at break of day, giving him letters to post which would apprise the committee in belfast of what had happened, and give them the means of communicating with himself according to previously concerted plans. before morning a change occurred in the weather, which crawford regarded as providential. he was gladdened by the sight of a sea churned white by half a gale, while a mist lay on the water, reducing visibility to about 300 yards. it would be impossible for the port officer's motor-boat to face such a sea, or, if it did, to find the _fanny_, unless guided by her fog-whistle. as soon as eight o'clock had passed--the hour by which the return of the ship's papers had been promised--crawford weighed anchor, and crept out of the narrow channel under cover of the fog, only narrowly escaping going aground on the way among the banks and shallows that made it impossible to sail before daylight, but eventually the open sea was safely reached. but the _fanny_ was now without papers, and in law was a pirate ship. it was therefore desirable for her to change her costume. as many hands as possible were turned to the task of giving a new colour to the funnel and making some other effective alterations in her appearance, including a new name on her bows and stern. thus renovated, and after a delay of some days, caused by trifling mishaps, she left the cattegat behind and steered a course for british waters. the original plan had been to set a course for iceland, and, when north of the shetlands, to turn to the southward to lough laxford, the agreed rendezvous with spender. but the incident at langeland, which had made the danish authorities suspect illegal traffic with iceland, made a change of plan imperative. before leaving danish waters crawford tried to communicate this change to belfast. but, meantime, information had reached belfast of certain measures being taken by the government, and spender, hoping to catch crawford before he left kiel, went to dublin to telegraph from there. in dublin he was dismayed to read in the newspapers that a mysterious vessel called the _fanny_, said to be carrying arms for ulster, had been captured by the danish authorities in the baltic. for several days no further news reached belfast, where it was assumed that the whole enterprise had failed; and then a code message informed the committee that crawford was in london. spender at once went over to see him, in order to warn him not to bring the arms to ireland for the present. he was to take them back to hamburg, or throw them overboard, or sink the _fanny_ and take to her boats, according to circumstances. but in london, instead of crawford, spender found the hamburg skipper and packer, who told him of crawford's escape from langeland with the loss of the ship's papers. spender, knowing nothing of crawford's change of plan, and anxious to convey to him the latest instructions, went off on a wild-goose chase to the highlands of scotland, where he spent the best part of an unhappy week watching the waves tumbling in lough laxford, and looking as anxiously as tristan for the expected ship. meantime the _fanny_ had crossed the north sea, and crawford sent agnew ashore at yarmouth on the 7th of april with orders to hurry to belfast, where he was to procure another steamer and bring it to a rendezvous at lundy island, in the bristol channel. crawford himself, having rechristened the _fanny_ for the second time (this time the _doreen_), proceeded down the english channel, where he had a rather adventurous cruise in a gale of wind. he kept close to the french coast, to avoid any unwelcome attentions in british waters, but on the way had an attack of malaria, which the captain thought so grave that, no doubt with the most humane motives, he declared his intention of putting crawford ashore at dunkirk to save his life, a design which no persuasion short of crawford's handling of his revolver in true pirate fashion would make the norwegian abandon. in the heavy seas of the channel the _doreen_ could not make more than four knots, and she was consequently twenty-four hours late for the rendezvous with agnew at lundy, where she arrived on the 11th of april. the bristol channel seemed to swarm with pilot boats eager to be of service, whose inquisitive and expert eyes were anything but welcome to the custodian of ulster's rifles; and to his highly strung imagination every movement of every trawler appeared to betoken suspicion. and, indeed, they were not without excuse for curiosity; for, a foreign steamer whose course seemed indeterminate, now making for cardiff and now for st. ives, observed at one time north-east of lundy and a few hours later south of the island--a tramp, in fact, that was obviously "loitering" with no ascertainable destination, was enough to keep telescopes to the eyes of devon pilots and fisher-folk, and to set their tongues wagging. but there was no help for it. crawford could not leave the rendezvous till agnew arrived, and was forced to wander round lundy and up and down the bristol channel for two days and nights, until, at 5 a.m. on monday morning, the 13th of april, a signal from a passing steamer, the _balmerino_, gave the welcome tidings that agnew was on board and was proceeding to sea. when the two steamers were sufficiently far from lundy lighthouse and other prying eyes to make friendly intercourse safe, agnew came on board the _doreen_, bringing with him another north irish seaman whom he introduced to crawford. this man handed to crawford a paper he had brought from belfast. it was typewritten; it bore no address and no signature; it was no doubt a duplicate of what spender had taken to the highlands, for its purport, as given by crawford from memory, was to the following effect: "owing to great changes since you left, and altered circumstances, the committee think it would be unwise to bring the cargo here at present, and instruct you to proceed to the baltic and cruise there for three months, keeping in touch with the committee, or else to store the goods at hamburg till required." the "great changes" referred to were the operations that led to the curragh incident, the story of which crawford now learnt from agnew. the presence of the fleet at lamlash, and of destroyers off carrickfergus, was enough to make the committee deem it an inopportune moment for crawford to bring his goods to belfast lough. but the latter was hardly in a condition to appreciate the gravity of the situation, and the indignation which the missive aroused in him is intelligible. after all he had come through, the ups and downs, dangers and escapes--far more varied than have been here recorded--the disappointment at being ordered back was cruel; and in his eyes such instructions were despicably pusillanimous. the caution that had prompted his instructors to leave the order unsigned moved him to contempt, and in his wrath he was confident that "the chief at any rate had nothing to do with it." he told the messenger that he did not know who had sent the paper, and did not want to know, and instructed him to take it back and inform the senders that, as it bore no signature, no date, no address, and no official stamp, he declined to recognise it and refused to obey it; and, further, that unless he received within six days properly authenticated instructions for delivering his cargo, he would run his ship ashore at high water in the county down, and let the ulstermen salve as much as they could when the tide ebbed. but crawford determined to make another effort first to accomplish his task by less desperate methods. he therefore decided to accompany the messenger back to belfast. the _doreen_, late _fanny_, was too foreign-looking to pass unchallenged up belfast lough, but he believed that if the cargo could be transhipped to a vessel known to all watchers on the north irish coast, a policy of audacity would have a good chance of success. the s.s. _balmerino_, which had brought agnew and the messenger to lundy, was such a vessel; her owner, mr. sam kelly, was an intimate friend of crawford's; and if he could see kelly the matter, he hoped, might be quickly arranged. the reliance which crawford placed in mr. sam kelly was fully justified, for the assistance rendered by this gentleman was essential to the success of the enterprise. he it was who freely supplied two steamers, with crews and stevedores, thereby enabling the last part of this adventurous voyage to be carried through; and the willingness with which mr. kelly risked financial loss, and much besides, placed ulster under an obligation to him for which he sought no recompense. crawford accordingly went off in the _balmerino_, landed in south wales on tuesday, the 14th of april, and hastened by the quickest route to belfast. agnew took charge of the _doreen_, with instructions to be at the tuskar light, on the wexford coast, on the following friday night, the 17th, and to return there every night until crawford rejoined him. a friend of crawford's, mr. richard cowser, with whom he had a conversation on the telephone from dublin, met him at the railway station in belfast and told him that he had a motor waiting to take him to craigavon, where the council was expecting him, and that he would see mr. sam kelly, the owner of the _balmerino_, there also. this news made crawford very angry. he accused his friend of breach of confidence in letting anyone know that he was coming to belfast; he declared he would have nothing to do with the council after the unsigned orders he had received at lundy; and he besought his friend to take his car to craigavon and bring back kelly, repeating his determination to bring in his cargo, even if he had to run his ship ashore to do so. mr. cowser replied that this would be very disappointing to sir edward carson, who was waiting for crawford at craigavon, having come from london on purpose for this council meeting. "what!" exclaimed crawford, "is sir edward there? why did you not say so at once? where is your car? let us waste no time till i see the chief and report to him." that evening of the 14th of april, at craigavon, was a memorable one for all who were present at the meeting. carson invited crawford to relate all he had done, and to explain how he proposed to proceed. the latter did not mince matters in saying what he thought of the lundy instructions, which he again declared angrily he intended to disobey. when he had finished his narrative and his protestations against what he considered a cowardly policy--a policy that would deprive ulster of succour as sorely needed as derry needed the _mountjoy_ to break the boom--carson put a few questions to him in regard to the feasibility of his plans. crawford explained the advantage it would be to transfer the cargo from the _fanny_ to a local steamer, which he felt confident he could bring into larne, and after the transhipment he would send the _fanny_ straight back to the baltic, where she could settle her account with the danish authorities and recover her papers. some members of the council were sceptical about the possibility of transhipping the cargo at sea, but crawford, who had fully discussed it with agnew, believed that if favoured by calm weather it could be done. when carson, after hearing all that was to be said on both sides in the long debate between fabius and hotspur, finally supported the latter, the question was decided. there was no split--there never was in these deliberations in ulster; those whose judgment was overruled always supported loyally the policy decided upon. immediate measures were then taken to give effect to the decision. kelly knew of a suitable craft, the s.s. _clydevalley_, for sale at that moment in glasgow, which would be in belfast next morning with a cargo of coal. this was providential. a collier familiar to every longshoreman in belfast lough, carrying on her usual trade this week, could hardly be suspected of carrying rifles when she returned next week ostensibly in the same line of business. it was settled that crawford should cross to glasgow at once and buy her; the steamer, when bought, was to go from belfast to llandudno, where she would pick up crawford on the sands, and proceed to keep the rendezvous with agnew at the tuskar light on friday; and, after taking over the _fanny's_ cargo, would then steam boldly up belfast lough and through the musgrave channel to the belfast docks, where he undertook to arrive on the friday week, the 24th of april, the various proposals which named larne, bangor, and donaghadee as ports of discharge having all been rejected after full discussion. this last decision was not approved by crawford, for he and spender had long before this time agreed that larne harbour was the proper place to land the arms, both because the large number of country roads leading to it would facilitate rapid distribution, and because it would be more difficult for the authorities to interfere with the disembarkation there than at any of the other ports. before parting from the council crawford made it quite clear that during the remainder of the adventure he would recognise no orders of any kind unless they bore the autograph signature of sir edward carson. on this understanding he set out for glasgow, bought the _clydevalley_, and went by train to llandudno to await her arrival. these affairs had left very little margin of time to spare. the _clydevalley_ could not be at llandudno before the morning of the 17th, and agnew would be looking for her at the tuskar the same evening. as it actually turned out she only arrived at the welsh watering-place late that night, and, after picking up crawford, who had spent an anxious day on the beach, arrived off the wexford coast at daybreak on saturday, the 18th. not a sign of the _fanny_ was to be seen all that day, or the following night; and when the skipper of the _clydevalley_, who had been on the _balmerino_ and was privy to the arrangements with agnew, gave crawford reason to think there might have been a misunderstanding as to the rendezvous, yarmouth having been also mentioned in that connection, crawford was in a condition almost of desperation. it was, indeed, a situation to test the nerves, to say nothing of the temper, of even the most resolute. it was sunday, and crawford had undertaken to be at copeland island, at the mouth of belfast lough, on friday evening for final landing instructions. the precious cargo, which had passed safely through so many hazards, had vanished and was he knew not where. he had heard nothing of the _fanny_ (or _doreen_) since he landed at tenby five days previously. had she been captured by a destroyer from pembroke, or overhauled, pirate as she was without papers, by customs officials from rosslare? or had agnew mistaken his instructions, and risked all the dangers of the english channel in a fruitless voyage to yarmouth, where, even if still undetected, the _fanny_ would be too far away to reach copeland by friday, unless agnew could be communicated with at once? there was only one way in which such communication could be managed, and that way crawford now took with characteristic promptitude and energy. the _clydevalley_ crossed the irish sea to fishguard, where he took train on sunday night to london and yarmouth, having first made arrangements with the skipper for keeping in touch. but there was no trace of the _fanny_ at yarmouth, and no word from agnew at the post office. there appeared to be no solution of the problem, and every precious hour that slipped away made ultimate failure more menacing. but at two o'clock the outlook entirely changed. a second visit to the post office was rewarded by a telegram in code from agnew saying all was well, and that he would be at holyhead to pick up crawford on tuesday evening. there was just time to catch a london train that arrived in time for the irish mail from euston. on tuesday morning crawford was pacing the breakwater at holyhead, and a few hours later he was discussing matters with agnew in the little cabin of the _clydevalley_. the latter had amply made up for the loss of time caused by some misunderstanding as to the rendezvous at the tuskar, for he was able to show crawford, to his intense delight, that the cargo had all been safely and successfully transferred to the hold of the _clydevalley_ in a bay on the welsh coast, mainly at night. some sixteen transport labourers from belfast, willing ulster hands, had shifted the stuff in less than half the time taken by germans at langeland over the same job. there was, therefore, nothing more to be done except to steam leisurely to copeland, for which there was ample time before friday evening. the _fanny_ had departed to an appointed rendezvous on the baltic coast of denmark. it was now the turn of the _clydevalley_ to yield up her obscure identity, and to assume an historic name appropriate to the adventure she was bringing to a triumphant climax--a name of good omen in ulster ears. strips of canvas, 6 feet long, were cut and painted with white letters on a black ground, and affixed to bows and stern, so that the men waiting at copeland might hail the arrival of the _mountjoy ii_. off copeland island a small vessel was waiting, which agnew recognised as a tender belonging to messrs. workman & clark. the men on board, as soon as they could make out the name of the approaching vessel, understood at once, and raised a ringing cheer. two of them were seen gesticulating and hailing the _mountjoy_. crawford, suspecting fresh orders to retreat, paid no attention, and told agnew to hold on his course; and even when presently he was able to recognise mr. cowser and mr. dawson bates on board the tender, and to hear them shouting that they had important instructions for him, he still refused to let them come on board. "if the orders are not signed by sir edward carson," he shouted back, "you can take them back to where they came from." but the orders they brought had been signed by the leader, a special messenger having been sent to london to obtain his signature, and the change of plan they indicated was, in fact, just what crawford desired. the bulk of the arms were to be landed at larne, the port he had always favoured, and lesser quantities were to be taken to bangor and donaghadee. it was 10.30 that night, the 24th of april 1914, when the _mountjoy ii_ steamed alongside the landing-stage at larne, where she had been eagerly awaited for a couple of hours. the voyage of adventure was over. fred crawford, with the able and zealous help of andrew agnew, had accomplished the difficult and dangerous task he had undertaken, and a service had been rendered to ulster not unworthy to rank beside the breaking of the boom across the foyle by the first and more renowned _mountjoy_. footnotes: [87] _annual register_, 1914, p. 1. chapter xix on the brink of civil war the arrangements that had been made for the landing and disposal of the arms when they arrived in port were the work of an extremely efficient and complete organisation. in the previous summer captain spender, it will be remembered, had been appointed to a position on sir george richardson's staff which included in its duties that of the organisation of transport. a railway board, a supply board, and a transport board had been formed, on which leading business men willingly served; every u.v.f. unit had its horse transport, and in addition a special motor corps, organised in squadrons, and a special corps of motor-lorries were formed. more than half the owners of motor-cars in ulster placed their cars at the disposal of the motor corps, to be used as and when required. the corps was organised in sections of four cars each, and in squadrons of seventeen cars each, with motor cyclist despatch-riders; a signalling corps of despatch-riders and signallers completed the organisation. the lively interest aroused by the practice and displays of the last-mentioned corps did much to promote the high standard of proficiency attained by its "flag-waggers," many of whom were women and girls. in particular the signalling-station at bangor gained a reputation which attracted many english sympathisers with ulster to pay it a visit when they came to belfast for the great unionist demonstrations. the despatch-riders on motor-cycles made the ulster council independent of the post office, which for very good reasons they used as little as possible. post-houses were opened at all the most important centres in ulster, between which messages were transmitted by despatch-rider or signal according to the nature of the intervening country. along the coast of down and antrim the organisation of signals was complete and effective. the usefulness of the despatch-riders' corps was fully tested and proved during the curragh incident, when news of all that was taking place at the curragh was received by this means two or three times a day at the old town hall in belfast, where there was much information of what was going on that was unknown at the irish office in london. all this organisation was at the disposal of the leaders for handling the arms brought in the hold of the _mountjoy ii_. the perfection of the arrangements for the immediate distribution of the rifles and ammunition among the loyalist population, and the almost miraculous precision with which they were carried out on that memorable friday night, extorted the admiration even of the most inveterate political enemies of ulster. the smoothness with which the machinery of organisation worked was only possible on account of the hearty willingness of all the workers, combined with the discipline to which they gladly submitted themselves. the whole u.v.f. was warned for a trial mobilisation on the evening of the 24th of april, and the owners of all motor-cars and lorries were requested to co-operate. very few either of the volunteers or the motor owners knew that anything more than manoeuvres by night for practice purposes was to take place. all motors from certain specified districts were ordered to be at larne by 8 o'clock in the evening; from other districts the vehicles were to assemble at bangor and donaghadee respectively, at a later hour. all the roads leading to these ports were patrolled by volunteers, and at every cross-roads over the greater part of nine counties men of the local battalions were stationed to give directions to motor-drivers who might not be familiar with the roads. at certain points these men were provided with reserve supplies of petrol, and with repairing tools that might be needed in case of breakdown. it is a remarkable testimony to the zeal of these men for the cause that, although none of them knew he was taking part in an exciting adventure, not one, so far as is known, left his post throughout a cold and wet night, having received orders not to go home till daybreak. and these were men, it must be remembered, who before putting on the felt hats, puttees, and bandoliers which constituted their uniform, had already done a full day's work, and were not to receive a sixpence for their night's job. at the three ports of discharge large forces of volunteers were concentrated. sir george richardson, g.o.c. in c., remained in belfast through the night, being kept fully and constantly informed of the progress of events by signal and motor-cyclist despatch-riders. captain james craig was in charge of the operations at bangor; at larne general sir william adair was in command, with captain spender as staff officer. the attention of the customs authorities in belfast was diverted by a clever stratagem. a tramp steamer was brought up the musgrave channel after dark, her conduct being as furtive and suspicious as it was possible to make it appear. at the same time a large wagon was brought to the docks as if awaiting a load. the skipper of the tramp took an unconscionable time, by skilful blundering, in bringing his craft to her moorings. the suspicions of the authorities were successfully aroused; but every possible hindrance was put in their way when they began to investigate. the hour was too late: could they not wait till daylight? no? well, then, what was their authority? when that was settled, it appeared that the skipper had mislaid his keys and could not produce the ship's papers--and so on. by these devices the belief of the officers that they had caught the offender they were after was increasingly confirmed every minute, while several hours passed before they were allowed to realise that they had discovered a mare's-nest. for when at last they "would stand no more nonsense," and had the hatches opened and the papers produced, the latter were quite in order, and the cargo--which they wasted a little additional time in turning over--contained nothing but coal. meantime the real business was proceeding twenty miles away. all communications by wire from the three ports were blocked by "earthing" the wires, so as to cause short circuit. the police and coast-guards were "peacefully picketed," as trade unionists would call it, in their various barracks--they were shut in and strongly guarded. no conflict took place anywhere between the authorities and the volunteers, and the only casualty of any kind was the unfortunate death of one coast-guardsman from heart disease at donaghadee. at larne, where much the largest portion of the _mountjoy's_ cargo was landed, a triple cordon of volunteers surrounded the town and harbour, and no one without a pass was allowed through. the motors arrived with a punctuality that was wonderful, considering that many of them had come from long distances. as the drivers arrived near the town and found themselves in an apparently endless procession of similar vehicles, their astonishment and excitement became intense. only when close to the harbour did they learn what they were there for, and received instructions how to proceed. they had more than two hours to wait in drizzling rain before the _mountjoy_ appeared round the point of islandmagee, although her approach had been made known to spender by signal at dusk. there were about five hundred motor vehicles assembled at larne alone, and such an invasion of flaring head-lights gave the inhabitants of the little town unwonted excitement. practically all the able-bodied men of the place were either on duty as volunteers or were willing workers in the landing of the arms. the women stood at their doors and gave encouraging greeting to the drivers; many of them ran improvised canteens, which supplied the workers with welcome refreshments during the night. there was a not unnatural tendency at first on the part of some of the motor-drivers to look upon the event more in the light of a meet of hounds than of the gravest possible business, and to hang about discussing the adventure with the other "sportsmen." but the use of vigorous language brought them back to recognition of the seriousness of the work before them, and the discharge of the cargo proceeded hour after hour with the utmost rapidity and with the regularity of a well-oiled machine. the cars drew up beside the _mountjoy_ in an endless _queue_; each received its quota of bales according to its carrying capacity, and was despatched on its homeward journey without a moment's delay. the wisdom of crawford's system of packing was fully vindicated. there was no confusion, no waiting to bring ammunition from one part of the ship's hold to match with rifles brought from another, and bayonets from a third. the packages, as they were carried from the steamer or the cranes, were counted by checking clerks, and their destination noted as each car received its load. but even the large number of vehicles available would have been insufficient for the purpose on hand if each had been limited to a single load; dumps had therefore been formed at a number of selected places in the surrounding districts, where the arms were temporarily deposited so as to allow the cars to return and perform the same duty several times during the night. while the _mountjoy_ was discharging the larne consignment on to the quay, she was at the same time transhipping a smaller quantity into a motor-boat, moored against her side, which when laden hurried off to donaghadee; and she left larne at 5 in the morning to discharge the last portion of her cargo at bangor, which was successfully accomplished in broad daylight after her arrival there about 7.30. crawford refused to leave the ship at either larne or bangor, feeling himself bound in honour to remain with the crew until they were safe from arrest by the naval authorities. it was well known in belfast that a look-out was being kept for the _fanny_, which had figured in the press as "the mystery ship" ever since the affair at langeland, and had several times been reported to have been viewed at all sorts of odd places on the map, from the orkneys to tory island. just as agnew was casting off from bangor, when the last bale of arms had gone ashore, a message from u.v.f. headquarters informed him that a thirty-knot cruiser was out looking for the _fanny_. to mislead the coast-guards on shore a course was immediately set for the clyde--the very quarter from which a cruiser coming from lamlash was to be expected--and when some way out to sea crawford cut the cords holding the canvas sheets that bore the name of the _mountjoy_, so that within five minutes the filibustering pirate had again become the staid old collier _clydevalley_, which for months past had carried her regular weekly cargo of coal from scotland to belfast. as before at langeland, so now at copeland, fog providentially covered retreat, and through it the _clydevalley_ made her way undetected down the irish sea. at daybreak next morning crawford landed at rosslare; and agnew then proceeded along the french and danish coasts to the baltic to the rendezvous with the _fanny_, in order to bring back the ulstermen members of her crew, after which "the mystery ship" was finally disposed of at hamburg. sir edward carson and lord londonderry were both in london on the 24th of april. at an early hour next morning a telegram was delivered to each of them, containing the single word "lion." it was a code message signifying that the landing of the arms had been carried out without a hitch. before long special editions of the newspapers proclaimed the news to all the world, and as fresh details appeared in every successive issue during the day the public excitement grew in intensity. wherever two or three unionists were gathered together exultation was the prevailing mood, and eagerness to send congratulations to friends in ulster. soon after breakfast a visitor to sir edward carson found a motor brougham standing at his door, and on being admitted was told that "lord roberts is with sir edward." the great little field-marshal, on learning the news, had lost not a moment in coming to offer his congratulations to the ulster leader. "magnificent!" he exclaimed, on entering the room and holding out his hand, "magnificent! nothing could have been better done; it was a piece of organisation that any army in europe might be proud of." but it was not to be expected that the government and its supporters would relish the news. the radical press, of course, rang all the changes of angry vituperation, especially those papers which had been prominent in ridiculing "ulster bluff" and "king carson's wooden guns"; and they now speculated as to whether carson could be "convicted of complicity" in what mr. asquith in the house of commons described as "this grave and unprecedented outrage." carson soon set that question at rest by quietly rising in his place in the house and saying that he took full responsibility for everything that had been done. the prime minister, amid the frenzied cheers of his followers, assured the house that "his majesty's government will take, without delay, appropriate steps to vindicate the authority of the law." for a short time there was some curiosity as to what the appropriate steps would be. none, however, of any sort were taken; the government contented itself with sending a few destroyers to patrol for a short time the coasts of antrim and down, where they were saluted by the ulster signalling stations, and their officers hospitably entertained on shore by loyalist residents. on the 28th of april a further debate on the curragh incident took place in the house of commons, which was a curious example of the rapid changes of mood that characterise that assembly. most of the speeches both from the front and back benches were, if possible, even more bitter, angry, and defiant than usual. but at the close of one of the bitterest of them all mr. churchill read a typewritten passage that was recognised as a tiny olive-branch held out to ulster. carson responded next day in a conciliatory tone, and the prime minister was thought to suggest a renewal of negotiations in private. for some time nothing came of this hint; but on the 12th of may mr. asquith announced that the third reading of the home rule bill (for the third successive year, as required by the parliament act before being presented for the signature of the king) would be taken before whitsuntide, but that the government intended to make another attempt to appease ulster by introducing "an amending proposal, in the hope that a settlement by agreement may be arrived at"; and that the two bills--the home rule bill and the bill to amend it--might become law practically at the same time. but he gave no hint as to what the "amending proposal" was to be, and the reception of the announcement by the opposition did not seem to presage agreement. mr. bonar law insisted that the house of commons ought to be told what the amending bill would propose, before it was asked finally to pass the home rule bill. but the real fact was, as every member of the house of commons fully realised, that mr. asquith was not a free agent in this matter. the nationalists were not at all pleased at the attempts already made, trivial as they were, to satisfy ulster, and mr. redmond protested against the promise of an amending bill of any kind. mr. asquith could make no proposal sufficient to allay the hostility of ulster that would not alienate the nationalists, whose support was essential to the continuance of his government in office. on the same day as this debate in parliament the result of a by-election at grimsby was announced in which the unionist candidate retained the seat; a week later the unionists won a seat in derbyshire; and two days afterwards crowned these successes with a resounding victory at ipswich. the last-mentioned contest was considered so important that mr. lloyd george and sir edward carson went down to speak the evening before the poll for their respective sides. mr. lloyd george, the chancellor of the exchequer, made his appeal to the cupidity of the constituency, which was informed that it would gain â£15,000 a year from his new budget, in addition to large sums, of which he gave the figure, for old age pensions and under the government's health insurance act.[88] sir edward carson laid stress on ulster's determination to resist home rule by force. the unionist candidate won the seat next day in this essentially working-class constituency by a substantial majority, although his liberal opponent, mr. masterman, was a cabinet minister trying for the second time to return to parliament. out of seven elections since the beginning of the session the government had lost four. it happened that the two latest new members took their seats on the 25th of may, on which date the home rule bill was passed by the house of commons on third reading for the last time. the occasion was celebrated by the nationalists, not unnaturally, by a great demonstration of triumph, both in the house itself and outside in palace yard. men on the other side reflected that the tragedy of civil war had been brought one stage nearer. the reply of ulster to the passing of the bill was a series of reviews of the u.v.f. during the whitsuntide recess. carson, londonderry, craig, and most of the other ulster members attended these parades, which excited intense enthusiasm through the country, more especially as the arms brought by the _mountjoy_ were now seen for the first time in the hands of the volunteers. several battalions were presented with colours which had been provided by lady londonderry, lady massereene, mrs. craig, and other local ladies, and the ceremony included the dedication of these colours by the bishop of down and the moderator of the presbyterian church. many visitors from england witnessed these displays, and among them were several deputations of liberal and labour working men, who reported on their return that what they had seen had converted them to sympathy with ulster.[89] after the recess the promised amending bill was introduced in the house of lords on the 23rd of june by the marquis of crewe, who explained that it embodied mr. asquith's proposals of the 9th of march, and that he invited amendments. lord lansdowne at once declared that these proposals, which had been rejected as inadequate three months ago, were doubly insufficient now. but the invitation to amend the bill was accepted, lord londonderry asking the pertinent question whether the government would tell mr. redmond that they would insist on acceptance of any amendments made in response to lord crewe's invitation--a question to which no answer was forthcoming. lord milner, in the course of the debate, said the bill would have to be entirely remodelled, and he laid stress on the point that if ulster were coerced to join the rest of ireland it would make a united ireland for ever impossible, and that the employment of the army and navy for the purpose of coercion would give a shock to the empire which it would not long survive; to which lord roberts added that such a policy would mean the utter destruction of the army, as he had warned the prime minister before the incident at the curragh. on the 8th of july the bill was amended by substituting the permanent exclusion of the whole province of ulster--which mr. balfour had named "the clean cut"--for the proposed county option with a time limit; and several other alterations of minor importance were also made. the bill as amended passed the third reading on the 14th, when lord lansdowne predicted that, whatever might be the fate of the measure and of the home rule bill which it modified, the one thing certain was that the idea of coercing ulster was dead. in ulster itself, meanwhile, the people were bent on making lord lansdowne's certainty doubly sure. carson went over for the boyne celebration on the 12th of july. the frequency of his visits did nothing to damp the ardour with which his arrival was always hailed by his followers. the same wonderful scenes, whether at larne or at the belfast docks, were repeated time after time without appearing to grow stale by repetition. they gave colour to the radical jeer at "king carson," for no royal personage could have been given a more regal reception than was accorded to "sir edward" (as everybody affectionately called him in belfast) half a dozen times within a few months. this occasion, when he arrived on the 10th by the liverpool steamer, accompanied by mr. walter long, was no exception. his route had been announced in the press. countless union jacks were displayed in every village along both shores of the lough. every vessel at anchor, including the gigantic white star liner _britannic_, was dressed; every fog-horn bellowed a welcome; the multitude of men at work in the great ship-yards crowded to places commanding a view of the incoming packet, and waved handkerchiefs and raised cheers for sir edward; fellow passengers jostled each other to get sight of him as he went down the gangway and to give him a parting cheer from the deck; the dock sheds were packed with people, many of them bare-headed and bare-footed women, who pressed close in the hope of touching his hand, or hearing one of his kindly and humorous greetings. it was the same in the streets all the way from the docks to the centre of the city, and out through the working-class district of ballymacarret to the country beyond, and in every hamlet on the road to newtownards and mount stewart--people congregating to give him a cheer as he passed in lord londonderry's motor-car, or pausing in their work on the land to wave a greeting from fields bordering the road. radical newspapers in england believed--or at any rate tried to make their readers believe--that the "northcliffe press," particularly _the times_ and _daily mail_, gave an exaggerated account of these extraordinary demonstrations of welcome to carson, and of the impressiveness of the great meetings which he addressed. but the accounts in lord northcliffe's papers did not differ materially from those in other journals like _the daily telegraph, the daily express, the standard, the morning post, the observer, the scotsman_, and _the spectator_. there was no exaggeration. the special correspondents gave faithful accounts of what they saw and heard, and no more. editorial support was a different matter. lord northcliffe's papers were unfailing in their support of the ulster cause, as were many other great british journals; and even when at a later period lord northcliffe's attitude on the general question of irish government underwent a change that was profoundly disappointing to ulstermen, his papers never countenanced the idea of applying coercion to ulster. in the years 1911 to 1914 _the times_ remained true to the tradition started by john walter, who, himself a liberal, went personally to belfast in 1886 to inform himself on the question, then for the first time raised by gladstone; and, having done so, supported the loyalist cause in ireland till his death. a series of weighty articles in 1913 and 1914 approved and encouraged the resistance threatened by ulster to home rule, and justified the measures taken in preparation for it. whatever may have been the reason for a different attitude at a later date, ulster owed a debt of gratitude to _the times_ in those troubled years. the long-expected crisis appeared to be very close when carson arrived in belfast on the 10th of july, 1914. he had come to attend a meeting of the ulster unionist council--sitting for the first time as the provisional government. craig communicated to the press the previous day the preamble and some of the articles of the constitution of the provisional government, hitherto kept strictly secret, one article being that the administration would be taken over "in trust for the constitution of the united kingdom," and that "upon the restoration of direct imperial government, the provisional government shall cease to exist." at this session on the 10th, the proceedings of which were private, carson explained the extreme gravity of the situation now reached. the home rule bill would become law probably in a few weeks. it was pretty certain that the nationalists would not permit the government to accept the amending bill in the altered form in which it had left the upper house. in that case, nothing remained for them in ulster but to carry out the policy they had resolved upon long ago, and to make good the covenant. after his forty minutes' speech a quiet and business-like discussion followed. plenary authority to take any action necessary in emergency was conferred unanimously on the executive. the course to be followed in assuming the administration was explained and agreed to, and when they separated all the members felt that the crisis for which they had been preparing so long had at last come upon them. there was no flinching. next day there was a parade of 3,000 u.v.f. at larne. a distinguished american who was present said after the march past, "you could destroy these volunteers, but you could not conquer them." carson spoke with exceptional solemnity to the men, telling them candidly that, "unless something happens the evidence of which is not visible at present," he could discern nothing but darkness ahead, and no hope of peace. he ended by exhorting his followers throughout ulster to preserve their self-control and to "commit no act against any individual or against any man's property which would sully the great name you have already won." as usual, his influence was powerful enough to prevent disturbance. the government had made extensive military preparations to maintain order on the 12th of july; but, as a well-known "character" in belfast expressed it, "sir edward was worth twenty battalions in keeping order." the anniversary was celebrated everywhere by enormous masses of men in a state of tense excitement. lord londonderry addressed an immense gathering at enniskillen; seventy thousand orangemen marched from belfast to drumbeg to hear carson, who sounded the same warning note as at larne two days before. but nowhere throughout the province was a single occurrence reported that called for action by the police. when the ulster leaders returned to london on the 14th they were met by reports of differences in the cabinet over the amending bill, which was to be brought before the house of commons on the following monday. nationalist pressure no doubt dictated the deletion of the amendments made by the peers and the restoration of the bill to its original shape. a minority of the cabinet was said to be opposed to this course. whether that was true or false, the prime minister must by this time have realised that he had allowed the country to drift to the brink of civil war, and that some genuine effort must be made to arrive at a peaceable solution. accordingly on monday, the 20th, instead of introducing the amending bill, mr. asquith announced in the house of commons that his majesty the king, "in view of the grave situation which has arisen, has thought it right to summon representatives of parties, both british and irish, to a conference at buckingham palace, with the object of discussing outstanding issues in relation to the problem of irish government." the prime minister added that at the king's suggestion the speaker, mr. james lowther, would preside over the conference, which would begin its proceedings the following day. the liberals, the british unionists, the nationalists, and the ulstermen were respectively represented at the buckingham palace conference by mr. asquith and mr. lloyd george, lord lansdowne and mr. bonar law, mr. redmond and mr. dillon, sir edward carson and captain james craig. the king opened the conference in person on the 21st with a speech recognising the extreme gravity of the situation, and making an impressive appeal for a peaceful settlement of the question at issue. his majesty then withdrew. the conference deliberated for four days, but were unable to agree as to what area in ulster should be excluded from the jurisdiction of the parliament in dublin. on the 24th mr. asquith announced the breakdown of the conference, and said that in consequence the amending bill would be introduced in the house of commons on thursday, the 30th of july. here was the old deadlock. the last glimmer of hope that civil war might be averted seemed to be extinguished. only ten days had elapsed since carson had gloomily predicted at larne that peace was impossible "unless something happens, the evidence of which is not visible at present." but that "something" did happen--though it was something infinitely more dreadful, infinitely more devastating in its consequences, even though less dishonouring to the nation, than the alternative from which it saved us. balanced, as it seemed, on the brink of civil war, great britain and ireland together toppled over on the other side into the maelstrom of world-wide war. on the 30th of july, when the amending bill was to be discussed, the prime minister said that, with the concurrence of mr. bonar law and sir edward carson, it would be indefinitely postponed, in order that the country at this grave crisis in the history of the world "should present a united front and be able to speak and act with the authority of an undivided nation." to achieve this, all domestic quarrels must be laid aside, and he promised that "no business of a controversial character" would be undertaken. thus it happened that the amending bill was never seen by the house of commons. four days later the united kingdom was at war with the greatest military empire in the world. the opportunity had come for ulster to prove whether her cherished loyalty was a reality or a sham. footnotes: [88] _annual register_, 1914, p. 110. [89] _annual register_, 1914, p. 114. chapter xx ulster in the war more than a year before the outbreak of the great war a writer in _the morning post_, describing the ulster volunteers who were then beginning to attract attention in england, used language which was more accurately prophetic than he can have realised in may 1913: "what these men have been preparing for in ulster," he wrote, "may be of value as a military asset in time of national emergency. i have seen the men at drill, i have seen them on parade, and experts assure me that in the matter of discipline, physique, and all things which go to the making of a military force they are worthy to rank with our regular soldiers. it is an open secret that, once assured of the maintenance unimpaired of the union between great britain and ireland under the imperial parliament alone, a vast proportion of the citizen army of ulster would cheerfully hold itself at the disposal of the imperial government and volunteer for service either at home or abroad!"[90] the only error in the prediction was that the writer underestimated the sacrifice ulster would be willing to make for the empire. when the testing time came fifteen months after this appreciation was published all hope of unimpaired maintenance of the union had to be sorrowfully given up, and only those who were in a position to comprehend, with sympathy, the depth and intensity of the feeling in ulster on the subject could realise all that this meant to the people there. yet, all the same, their "citizen army" did not hesitate to "hold itself at the disposal of the imperial government, and volunteer for service at home or abroad." in august 1914 the u.v.f., of 100.000 men, was without question the most efficient force of infantry in the united kingdom outside the regular army. the medical comb did not seriously thin its ranks; and although the age test considerably reduced its number, it still left a body of fine material for the british army. some of the best of its officers, like captain arthur o'neill, m.p., of the life guards, and lord castlereagh of the blues, had to leave the u.v.f. to rejoin the regiments to which they belonged, or to take up staff appointments at the front. in spite of such losses there was a strong desire in the force, which was shared by the political leaders, that it should be kept intact as far as possible and form a distinct unit for active service, and efforts were at once made to get the war office to arrange for this to be done. pressure of work at the war office, and lord kitchener's aversion from anything that he thought savoured of political considerations in the organisation of the army, imposed a delay of several weeks before this was satisfactorily arranged; and the consequence was that in the first few weeks of the war a large number of the keenest young men in ulster enlisted in various regiments before it was known that an ulster division was to be formed out of the u.v.f. it was the beginning of september before carson was in a position to go to belfast to announce that such an arrangement had been made with lord kitchener. and when he went he had also the painful duty of telling the people of ulster that the government was going to give them the meanest recompense for the promptitude with which they had thrown aside all party purposes in order to assist the empire. when war broke out a "party truce" had been proclaimed. the unionist leaders promised their support to the government in carrying on the war, and mr. asquith pledged the government to drop all controversial legislation. the consideration of the amending bill had been shelved by agreement, mr. asquith stating that the postponement "must be without prejudice to the domestic and political position of any party." on this understanding the unionist party supported, almost without so much as a word of criticism, all the emergency measures proposed by the government. yet on the 10th of august mr. asquith astonished the unionists by announcing that the promise to take no controversial business was not to prevent him advising the king to sign the home rule bill, which had been hung up in the house of lords by the introduction of the amending bill, and had never been either rejected or passed by that house. mr. balfour immediately protested against this conduct as a breach of faith; but mr. redmond's speech on that occasion contained the explanation of the government's conduct. the nationalist leader gave a strong hint that any help in the war from the southern provinces of ireland would depend on whether or not the home rule bill was to become law at once. although the personal loyalty of mr. redmond was beyond question, and although he was no doubt sincere when he subsequently denied that his speech was so intended, it was in reality an application of the old maxim that england's difficulty is ireland's opportunity. in any case, the cabinet knew that, however unjustly ulster might be treated, she could be relied upon to do everything in her power to further the successful prosecution of the war, and they cynically came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to placate those whose loyalty was less assured. this was the unpleasant tale that sir edward carson had to unfold to the ulster unionist council on the 3rd of september. after explaining how and why he had consented to the indefinite postponement of the amending bill, he continued: "and so, without any condition of any kind, we agreed that the bill should be postponed without prejudice to the position of either party. england's difficulty is not ulster's opportunity. england's difficulty is our difficulty; and england's sorrows have always been, and always will be, our sorrows. i have seen it stated that the germans thought they had hit on an opportune moment, owing to our domestic difficulties, to make their bullying demand against our country. they little understood for what we were fighting. we were not fighting to get away from england; we were fighting to stay with england, and the power that attempted to lay a hand upon england, whatever might be our domestic quarrels, would at once bring us together--as it has brought us together--as one man." in order to avoid controversy at such a time, carson declared he would say nothing about their opponents. he insisted that, however unworthily the government might act in a great national emergency, ulstermen must distinguish between the prime minister as a party leader and the prime minister as the representative of the whole nation. their duty was to "think not of him or his party, but of our country," and they must show that "we do not seek to purchase terms by selling our patriotism." he then referred to the pride they all felt in the u.v.f.; how he had "watched them grow from infancy," through self-sacrificing toil to their present high efficiency, with the purpose of "allowing us to be put into no degraded position in the united kingdom." but under the altered conditions their duty was clear: "our country and our empire are in danger. and under these circumstances, knowing that the very basis of our political faith is our belief in the greatness of the united kingdom and of the empire, i say to our volunteers without hesitation, go and help to save your country. go and win honour for ulster and for ireland. to every man that goes, or has gone, and not to them only, but to every irishman, you and i say, from the bottom of our hearts, 'god bless you and bring you home safe and victorious.'" the arrangements with the war office for forming a division from the ulster volunteers were then explained, which would enable the men "to go as old comrades accustomed to do their military training together." carson touched lightly on fears that had been expressed lest political advantage should be taken by the government or by the nationalists of the conversion of the u.v.f. into a division of the british army, which would leave ulster defenceless. "we are quite strong enough," he said, "to take care of ourselves, and so i say to men, so far as they have confidence and trust in me, that i advise them to go and do their duty to the country, and we will take care of politics hereafter." he concluded by moving a resolution, which was unanimously carried by the council, urging "all loyalists who owe allegiance to our cause" to join the army at once if qualified for military service. from beginning to end of this splendidly patriotic oration no allusion was made to the nationalist attitude to the war. few people in ulster had any belief that the spots on the leopard were going to disappear, even when the home rule bill had been placed on the statute-book. the "difficulty" and the "opportunity" would continue in their old relations. people in belfast, as elsewhere, did justice to the patriotic tone of mr. redmond's speech in the house of commons on the 3rd of august, which made so deep an impression in england; but they believed him mistaken in attributing to "the democracy of ireland" a complete change of sentiment towards england, and their scepticism was more than justified by subsequent events. but they also scrutinised more carefully than englishmen the precise words used by the nationalist leader. englishmen, both in the house of commons and in the country, were carried off their feet in an ecstasy of joy and wonder at mr. redmond's confident offer of loyal help from ireland to the empire in the mighty world conflict. ireland was to be "the one bright spot." ulstermen, on the other hand, did not fail to observe that the offer was limited to service at home. "i say to the government," said mr. redmond, "that they may to-morrow withdraw every one of their troops from ireland. i say that the coast of ireland will be defended from foreign invasion by her armed sons, and for this purpose armed nationalist catholics in the south will be only too glad to join arms with the armed protestant ulstermen in the north." these sentences were rapturously applauded in the house of commons. when they were read in ulster the shrewd men of the north asked what danger threatened the "coast of ireland"; and whether, supposing there were a danger, the british navy would not be a surer defence than the "armed sons" of ireland whether from south or north. it was not on the coast of ireland but the coast of flanders that men were needed, and it was thither that the "armed protestant ulstermen" were preparing to go in thousands. they would not be behind the catholics of the south in the spirit of comradeship invoked by mr. redmond if they were to stand shoulder to shoulder under the fire of prussian batteries; but they could not wax enthusiastic over the suggestion that, while they went to france, mr. redmond's nationalist volunteers should be trained and armed by the government to defend the irish coast--and possibly, later, to impose their will upon ulster. the organisation and the training of the ulster division forms no part of the present narrative, but it must be stated that after carson's speech on the 3rd of september, recruiting went on uninterruptedly and rapidly, and the whole energies of the local leaders and of the rank and file were thrown into the work of preparation. captain james craig, promoted to be lieutenant-colonel, was appointed q.m.g. of the division; but the arduous duties of this post, in which he tried to do the work of half a dozen men, brought about a complete breakdown of health some months later, with the result that, to his deep disappointment, he was forbidden to go with the division to france. no one displayed a finer spirit than his brother, mr. charles craig, m.p. for south antrim. he had never done any soldiering, as his brother had in south africa, and he was over military age in 1914; but he did not allow either his age, his military inexperience, or his membership of the house of commons to serve as excuse for separating himself from the men with whom he had learnt the elements of drill in the u.v.f. he obtained a commission as captain in the ulster division, and went with it to france, where he was wounded and taken prisoner in the great engagement at thiepval in the battle of the somme, and had to endure all the rigours of captivity in germany till the end of the war. there was afterwards not a little pungent comment among his friends on the fact that, when honours were descending in showers on the heads of the just and the unjust alike, a full share of which reached members of parliament, sometimes for no very conspicuous merit, no recognition of any kind was awarded to this gallant ulster officer, who had set so fine an example and unostentatiously done so much more than his duty. the government's act of treachery in regard to "controversial business" was consummated on the 18th of september, when the home rule bill received the royal assent. on the 15th mr. asquith put forward his defence in the house of commons. in a sentence of mellifluous optimism that was to be woefully falsified in a not-distant future, he declared his confidence that the action his ministry was taking would bring "for the first time for a hundred years irish opinion, irish sentiment, irish loyalty, flowing with a strong and a continuous and ever-increasing stream into the great reservoir of imperial resources and imperial unity." he acknowledged, however, that the government had pledged itself not to put the home rule bill on the statute-book until the amending bill had been disposed of. that promise was not now to be kept; instead he gave another, which, when the time came, was equally violated, namely, to introduce the amending bill "in the next session of parliament, before the irish government bill can possibly come into operation." meantime, there was to be a suspensory bill to provide that the home rule bill should remain in abeyance till the end of the war, and he gave an assurance "which would be in spirit and in substance completely fulfilled, that the home rule bill will not and cannot come into operation until parliament has had the fullest opportunity, by an amending bill, of altering, modifying, or qualifying its provisions in such a way as to secure the general consent both of ireland and of the united kingdom." the prime minister, further, paid a tribute to "the patriotic and public spirit which had been shown by the ulster volunteers," whose conduct has made "the employment of force, any kind of force, for what you call the coercion of ulster, an absolutely unthinkable thing." but a verbal acknowledgment of the public spirit shown by the u.v.f. in the first month of the war was a paltry recompense for the government's breach of faith, as mr. bonar law immediately pointed out in a stinging rejoinder. the leader of the opposition concluded his powerful indictment by saying that such conduct by the government could not be allowed to pass without protest, but that at such a moment of national danger debate in parliament on this domestic quarrel, forced upon them by ministers, was indecent; and that, having made his protest, neither he nor his party would take further part in that indecency. thereupon the whole unionist party followed mr. bonar law out of the chamber. but that was not the end of the incident. it had been decided, with sir edward carson's approval, that "ulster day," the second anniversary of the covenant, should be celebrated in ulster by special religious services. the intention had been to focus attention on the larger aspects of imperial instead of local patriotism; but what had just occurred in parliament could not be ignored, and it necessitated a reaffirmation of ulster's unchanged attitude in the domestic quarrel. mr. bonar law now determined to accompany sir edward carson to belfast to renew and to amplify under these circumstances the pledges of british unionists to ulster. the occasion was a memorable one in several respects. on the 17th of september sir edward carson had been quietly married in the country to miss frewen, and he was accompanied to belfast a few days later by the new lady carson, who then made acquaintance with ulster and her husband's followers for the first time. the scenes that invariably marked the leader's arrival from england have been already described; but the presence of his wife led to a more exuberant welcome than ever on this occasion; and the recent parliamentary storm, with its sequel in the visit of the leader of the unionist party, contributed further to the unbounded enthusiasm of the populace. there was a meeting of the council on the morning of the 28th, ulster day, at which carson told the whole story of the conferences, negotiations, conversations, and what not, that had been going on up to, and even since, the outbreak of war, in the course of which he observed that, if he had committed any fault, "it was that he believed the prime minister." he paid a just tribute to mr. bonar law, whose constancy, patience, and "resolution to be no party even under these difficult circumstances to anything that would be throwing over ulster, were matters which would be photographed upon his mind to the very end of his life." but while, naturally, resentment at the conduct of the government found forcible expression, and the policy that would be pursued "after the war" was outlined, the keynote of the speeches at this council meeting, and also at the overwhelming demonstration addressed by mr. bonar law in the ulster hall in the evening, was "country before party." as the unionist leader truly said: "this is not an anti-home rule meeting. that can wait, and you are strong enough to let it wait with quiet confidence." but before passing to the great issues raised by the war, introduced by a telling allusion to the idea that germany had calculated on ulster being a thorn in england's side, mr. bonar law gave the message to ulster which he had specially crossed the channel to deliver in person. he reminded the audience that hitherto the promise of support to ulster by the unionists of great britain, given long before at blenheim, had been coupled with the condition that, if an appeal were made to the electorate, the unionist party would bow to the verdict of the country. "but now," he went on, "after the way in which advantage has been taken of your patriotism, i say to you, and i say it with the full authority of our party, we give the pledge without any condition." during the two days which he spent in belfast mr. bonar law, and other visitors from england, paid visits to the training camps at newcastle and ballykinler, where the 1st brigade of the ulster division was undergoing training for the front. both now, and for some time to come, there was a good deal of unworthy political jealousy of the division, which showed itself in a tendency to belittle the recruiting figures from ulster, and in sneers in the nationalist press at the delay in sending to the front a body of troops whose friends had advertised their supposed efficiency before the war. these troops were themselves fretting to get to france; and they believed, rightly or wrongly, that political intrigue was at work to keep them ingloriously at home, while other divisions, lacking their preliminary training, were receiving preference in the supply of equipment. one small circumstance, arising out of the conditions in which "kitchener's army" had to be raised, afforded genuine enjoyment in ulster. men were enlisting far more rapidly than the factories could provide arms, uniforms, and other equipment. rifles for teaching the recruits to drill and manoeuvre were a long way short of requirements. it was a great joy to the ulstermen when the war office borrowed their much-ridiculed "dummy rifles" and "wooden guns," and took them to english training camps for use by the "new army." but this volume is not concerned with the conduct of the great war, nor is it necessary to enter in detail into the controversy that arose as to the efforts of the rest of ireland, in comparison with those of ulster, to serve the empire in the hour of need. it will be sufficient to cite the testimony of two authorities, neither of whom can be suspected of bias on the side of ulster. the chronicler of the _annual register_ records that: "in ulster, as in england, the flow of recruits outran the provision made for them by the war office, and by about the middle of october the protestant districts had furnished some 21,000, of which belfast alone had contributed 7,581, or 305 per 10,000 of the population--the highest proportion of all the towns in the united kingdom."[91] the second witness is the democratic orator who took a foremost part in the house of commons in denouncing the curragh officers who resigned their commissions rather than march against ulster. colonel john ward, m.p., writing two years after the war, in which he had not kept his eyes shut, said: "it would be presumptuous for a mere englishman to praise the gallantry and patriotism of scotland, wales, and ulster; their record stands second to none in the annals of the war. the case of the south of ireland, her most ardent admirer will admit, is not as any other in the whole british empire. to the everlasting credit of the great leader of the irish nationalists, mr. john redmond, his gallant son, and his very lovable brother--together with many real, great-souled irish soldiers whose loss we so deeply deplore--saw the light and followed the only course open to good men and true. but the patriotism and devotion of the few only show up in greater and more exaggerated contrast the sullen indifference of the majority, and the active hostility of the minority, who would have seen our country and its people overrun and defeated not only without regret, but with fiendish delight."[92] no generous-minded ulsterman would wish to detract a word from the tribute paid by colonel ward to the redmond family and other gallant catholic nationalists who stood manfully for the empire in the day of trial; but the concluding sentence in the above quotation cannot be gainsaid. and the pathetic thing was that mr. redmond himself never seems to have understood the true sentiments of the majority of those who had been his followers before the war. in a speech in the house on the 15th of september he referred contemptuously to a "little group of men who never belonged to the national constitutional party, who were circulating anti-recruiting handbills and were publishing little wretched rags once a week or once a month," which were not worth a moment's notice. the near future was to show that these adherents of sinn fein were not so negligible as mr. redmond sincerely believed. the real fact was that his own patriotic attitude at the outbreak of war undermined his leadership in ireland. the "separatism" which had always been, as ulster never ceased to believe, the true underlying, though not always the acknowledged, motive power of irish nationalism, was beginning again to assert itself, and to find expression in "handbills" and "wretched rags." it was discovering other leaders and spokesmen than mr. redmond and his party, whom it was destined before long to sweep utterly away. footnotes: [90] _morning post_, may 19th, 1913. [91] _the annual register_, 1914, p. 259. [92] "the army and ireland," _nineteenth century and after_, january 1921, by lieut.-colonel john ward, c.b., c.m.g., m.p. chapter xxi negotiations for settlement the position in which ulster was now placed was, from the political point of view, a very anxious one. had the war not broken out when it did, there was a very prevalent belief that the government could not have avoided a general election either before, or immediately after, the placing of home rule on the statute-book; and as to the result of such an election no unionist had any misgiving. even if the government had remained content to disregard the electorate, it would have been impossible for them to subject ulster to a dublin parliament. the organisation there was powerful enough to prevent it, by force if necessary, and the curragh incident had proved that the army could not be employed against the loyalists. but the whole outlook had now changed. the war had put off all thought of a general election till an indefinite future; the ulster volunteers, and every other wheel in the very effective machinery prepared for resistance to home rule, were now diverted to a wholly different purpose; and at the same time the hated bill had become an act, and the only alleviation was the promise, for what it might be worth, of an amending bill the scope of which remained undefined. while, therefore, the ulster leaders and people threw themselves with all their energy into the patriotic work to which the war gave the call, the situation so created at home caused them much uneasiness. no one felt it more than lord londonderry. indeed, as the autumn of 1914 wore on, the despondency he fell into was so marked that his friends could not avoid disquietude on his personal account in addition to all the other grounds for anxiety. he and lady londonderry, it is true, took a leading part in all the activities to which the war gave rise --encouraging recruiting, organising hospitals, and making provision of every kind for soldiers and their dependents, in ulster and in the county of durham. but when in london in november, lord londonderry would sit moodily at the carlton club, speaking to few except intimate friends, and apparently overcome by depression. he was pessimistic about the war. his only son was at the front, and he seemed persuaded he would never return. the affairs of ulster, to which he had given his whole heart, looked black; and he went about as if all his purpose in life was gone. he went with lady londonderry to mount stewart for christmas, and one or two intimate friends who visited him there in january 1915 were greatly disturbed in mind on his account. but the public in belfast, who saw him going in and out of the ulster club as usual, did not know anything was amiss, and were terribly shocked as well as grieved when they heard of his sudden death at wynyard on the 8th of february. the death of lord londonderry was felt by many thousands in ulster as a personal bereavement. if he did not arouse the unbounded, and almost delirious, devotion which none but sir edward carson ever evoked in the north of ireland, the deep respect and warm affection felt towards him by all who knew him, and by great numbers who did not, was a tribute which his modesty and integrity of character and genial friendliness of disposition richly deserved. he was faithfully described by carson himself to the ulster unionist council several months after his death as "a great leader, a great and devoted public servant, a great patriot, a great gentleman, and above all the greatest of great friends." ulster, meantime, had already had a foretaste of the sacrifices the war was to demand when the division should go to the front. in november 1914 captain the hon. arthur o'neill, m.p. for mid antrim, who had gone to the front with the first expeditionary force, was killed in action in france. there was a certain sense of sad pride in the reflection that the first member of the house of commons to give his life for king and country was a representative of ulster; and the constituency which suffered the loss of a promising young member by the death of this gallant life guardsman consoled itself by electing in his place his younger brother, major hugh o'neill, then serving in the ulster division, who afterwards proved himself a most valuable member of the ulster parliamentary party, and eventually became the first speaker of the ulster parliament created by the act of 1920. notwithstanding the bitter outbreak of party passion caused by the government's action in putting the home rule bill on the statute-book in september, the party truce was well maintained throughout the autumn and winter. and the most striking proof of the transformation wrought by the war was seen when mr. asquith, when constrained to form a truly national administration in may 1915, included sir edward carson in his cabinet with the office of attorney-general. mr. redmond was at the same time invited to join the government, and his refusal to do so when the british unionists, the labour leaders, and the ulster leaders all responded to the prime minister's appeal to their patriotism, did not appear in the eyes of ulstermen to confirm the nationalist leader's profession of loyalty to the empire; though they did him the justice of believing that he would have accepted office if he had felt free to follow his own inclination. his inability to do so, and the complaints of his followers, including mr. dillon, at the admission of carson to the cabinet, revealed the incapacity of the nationalists to rise to a level above party. carson, however, did not remain very long in the government. disapproving of the policy pursued in relation to our allies in the balkans, he resigned on the 20th of october, 1915. but he had remained long enough to prove his value in council to the most energetic of his colleagues in the cabinet. men like mr. churchill and mr. lloyd george, although they had been the bitterest of carson's opponents eighteen months previously, seldom omitted from this time forward to seek his advice in times of difficulty; and the latter of these two, when things were going badly with the allies more than a year later, endeavoured to persuade mr. asquith to include carson in a committee of four to be charged with the entire conduct of the war. it was, perhaps, fortunate that the ulster leader was not a member of the government when the rebellion broke out in the south of ireland at easter 1916. for this event suddenly brought to the front again the whole home rule question, which everybody had hoped might be allowed to sleep till the end of the war; and it would have been a misfortune if carson had not then been in a position of independence to play his part in this new act of the irish drama. the government had many warnings of what was brewing. but mr. birrell, the chief secretary, who in frivolity seemed a contemporary embodiment of nero, deemed cheap wit a sufficient reply to all remonstrances, and had to confess afterwards that he had utterly miscalculated the forces with which he had to deal. he was completely taken by surprise when, on the 20th of april, an attempt to land weapons from a german vessel, escorted by a submarine from which sir roger casement landed in the west of ireland, proved that the irish rebels were in league with the enemy; and even after this ominous event, he did nothing to provide against the outbreak that occurred in dublin four days later. the rising in the capital, and in several other places in the south of ireland, was not got under for a week, during which time more than 170 houses had been burnt, â£2,000,000 sterling worth of property destroyed or damaged, and 1,315 casualties had been suffered, of which 304 were fatal. the aims of the insurgents were disclosed in a proclamation which referred to the administration in ireland as a "long usurpation by a foreign people and government." it declared that the irish republican brotherhood--the same organisation that planned and carried out the phoenix park murders in 1882--had now seized the right moment for "reviving the old traditions of irish nationhood," and announced that the new irish republic was a sovereign independent state, which was entitled to claim the allegiance of every irish man and woman. the rebellion was the subject of debates in both houses of parliament on the 10th and 11th of may--mr. birrell having in the interval, to use a phrase of carlyle's, "taken himself and his incompetence elsewhere"--when mr. dillon, speaking for the nationalist party, poured forth a flood of passionate sympathy with the rebels, declaring that he was proud of youths who could boast of having slaughtered british soldiers, and he denounced the government for suppressing the rising in "a sea of blood." the actual fact was, that out of a large number of prisoners taken red-handed in the act of armed rebellion who were condemned to death after trial by court-martial, the great majority were reprieved, and thirteen in all were executed. whether such measures deserved the frightful description coined by mr. dillon's flamboyant rhetoric everybody can judge for himself, after considering whether in any other country or at any other period of the world's history, active assistance of a foreign enemy--for that is what it amounted to--has been visited with a more lenient retribution. on the same day that mr. dillon thus justified the whole basis of ulster's unchanging attitude towards nationalism by blurting out his sympathy with england's enemies, mr. asquith announced that he was himself going to ireland to investigate matters on the spot. these two events, mr. dillon's speech and the prime minister's visit to dublin--where he certainly exhibited no stern anger against the rebels, even if the stories were exaggerated which reported him to have shown them ostentatious friendliness--went far to transform what had been a wretched fiasco into a success. cowed at first by their complete failure, the rebels found encouragement in the complacency of the prime minister, and the fear or sympathy, whichever it was, of the nationalist party. from that moment they rapidly increased in influence, until they proved two years later that they had become the predominant power all over ireland except in ulster. in ulster the rebellion was regarded with mixed feelings. the strongest sentiment was one of horror at the treacherous blow dealt to the empire while engaged in a life-and-death struggle with a foreign enemy. but, was it unpardonably pharisaic if there was also some self-glorification in the thought that ulstermen in this respect were not as other men were? there was also a prevalent feeling that after what had occurred they would hear no more of home rule, at any rate during the war. it appeared inconceivable that any sane government could think of handing over the control of ireland in time of war to people who had just proved their active hostility to great britain in so unmistakable a fashion. but they were soon undeceived. mr. asquith, on his return, told the house of commons what he had learnt during his few days' sojourn in ireland. his first proposition was that the existing machinery of government in ireland had completely broken down. that was undeniable. it was the natural fruit of the birrell regime. mr. asquith was himself responsible for it. but no more strange or illogical conclusion could be drawn from it than that which mr. asquith proceeded to propound. this was that there was now "a unique opportunity for a new departure for the settlement of outstanding problems "--which, when translated from asquithian into plain english, meant that now was the time for home rule. the pledge to postpone the question till after the war was to be swept aside, and, instead of building up by sound and sensible administration what mr. birrel's abnegation of government had allowed to crumble into "breakdown," the rebels were to be rewarded for traffic with the enemy and destruction of the central parts of dublin, with great loss of life, by being allowed to point to the triumphant success of their activity, which was certain to prove the most effective of all possible propaganda for their political ideals in ireland. some regard, however, was still to be paid to the promise of an amending bill. the prime minister repeated that no one contemplated the coercion of ulster; that an attempt must be made to come to agreement about the terms on which the home rule act could be brought into immediate operation; and that the cabinet had deputed to mr. lloyd george the task of negotiating to this end with both parties in ireland. accordingly, mr. lloyd george, then secretary of state for war, interviewed sir edward carson on the one hand and mr. redmond and mr. devlin on the other, and submitted to them separately the proposals which he said the cabinet were prepared to make.[93] on the 6th of june carson explained the cabinet's proposals at a special meeting of the ulster unionist council held in private. his task was an extremely difficult one, for the advice he had to offer was utterly detestable to himself, and he knew it would be no less so to his hearers. and the latter, profound as was their trust in him as their leader, were men of singularly independent judgment and quite capable of respectfully declining to take any course they did not themselves approve. indeed, carson emphasised the fact that he could not, and had not attempted to, bind the council to take the same view of the situation as himself. at the same time he clearly and frankly stated what his own opinion was, saying: "i would indeed be a poor leader of a great movement if i hesitated to express my own views of any proposition put before you."[94] his speech, which took nearly two hours in delivery, was a perfect model of lucid exposition and convincing argument. he reviewed in close detail the course of events that had led to the present situation. he maintained from first to last the highest ground of patriotism. mentioning that numerous correspondents had asked why he did not challenge the nationalist professions of loyalty two years before at the beginning of the war, which had since then been so signally falsified, he answered: "because i had no desire to show a dissentient ireland to the germans. i am glad, even with what has happened, that we played the game, and if we had to do it again we would play the game. and then suddenly came the rebellion in dublin. i cannot find words to describe my own horror when i heard of it. for i am bound to admit to you that i was not thinking merely of ulster; i was thinking of the war; i was thinking, as i am always thinking, of what will happen if we are beaten in the war. i was thinking of the sacrifice of human lives at the front, and in gallipoli, and at kut, when suddenly i heard that the whole thing was interrupted by, forsooth, an irish rebellion--by what mr. dillon in the house of commons called a clean fight! it is not ulster or ireland that is now at stake: it is the british empire. we have therefore to consider not merely a local problem, but a great imperial problem--how to win the war." he then outlined the representations that had been made to him by the cabinet as to the injury to the allied cause resulting from the unsettled irish question--the disturbance of good relations with the united states, whence we were obtaining vast quantities of munitions; the bad effect of our local differences on opinion in allied and neutral countries. he admitted that these evil effects were largely due to false and hostile propaganda to which the british government weakly neglected to provide an antidote; he believed they were grossly exaggerated. but in time of war they could not contend with their own government nor be deaf to its appeals, especially when that government contained all their own party leaders, on whose support they had hitherto leaned. one of carson's chief difficulties was to make men grasp the significance of the fact that home rule was now actually established by act of parliament. the point that the act was on the statute-book was constantly lost sight of, with all that it implied. he drove home the unwelcome truth that simple repeal of that act was not practical politics. the only hope for ulster to escape going under a parliament in dublin lay in the promised amending bill. but they had no assurance how much that bill, when produced, would do for them. was it likely, he asked, to do more than was now offered by the government? he then told the council what mr. lloyd george's proposals were. the cabinet offered on the one hand a "clean cut," not indeed of the whole of ulster, but of the six most protestant counties, and on the other to bring the home rule act, so modified, into immediate operation. he pointed out that none of them could contemplate using the u.v.f. for fighting purposes at home after the war; and that, even if such a thing were thinkable, they could not expect to get more by forcible resistance to the act than what was now offered by legislation. but to carson himself, and to all who listened to him that day, the heartrending question was whether they could suffer a separation to be made between the loyalists in the six counties and those in the other three counties of the province. it could only be done, carson declared, if, after considering all the circumstances of the case as he unfolded it to them, the delegates from cavan, monaghan, and donegal could make the self-sacrifice of releasing the other counties from the obligation to stand or fall together. carson ended by saying that he did not intend to take a vote--he "could be no party to having ulstermen vote one against the other." what was to be done must be done by agreement, or not at all. he offered to confer separately with the delegates from the three omitted counties, and the council adjourned till the 12th of june to enable this conference to be held. in the interval a large number of the delegates held meetings of their local associations, most of which passed resolutions in favour of accepting the government's proposals. but there was undoubtedly a widespread feeling that it would be a betrayal of the loyalists of cavan, monaghan, and donegal, and even a positive breach of the covenant, to accept exclusion from the home rule act for only a portion of ulster. this was, it is true, a misunderstanding of the strict meaning of the covenant, which had been expressly conditioned so as not to extend to such unforeseen circumstances as the war had brought about[95]; but there was a general desire to avoid if possible taking technical points, and both carson himself and the council were ready to sacrifice the opportunity for a tolerable settlement should the representatives of the three counties not freely consent to what was proposed. in a spirit of self-sacrifice which deeply touched every member of the council, this consent was given. carson had obtained leave for lord farnham to return from the army in france to be present at the meeting. lord farnham, as a delegate from cavan, made a speech at the adjourned meeting on the 12th which filled his hearers with admiration. that he was almost heart-broken by the turn events had taken he made no attempt to conceal; and his distress was shared by those who heard his moving words. but he showed that he possessed the instinct of statesmanship which compelled him to recognise, in spite of the powerful pull of sentiment and self-interest in the opposite direction, that the course recommended by carson was the path of wisdom. with breaking voice he thanked the latter "for the clearness, and the fairness, and the manliness with which he has put the deplorable situation that has arisen before us, and for his manly advice as leader "; and he then read a resolution that had been passed earlier in the day by the delegates of the three counties, which, after recording a protest against any settlement excluding them from ulster, expressed sorrowful acquiescence, on grounds of the larger patriotism, in whatever decision might be come to in the matter by their colleagues from the six counties. it was the saddest hour the ulster unionist council ever spent. men not prone to emotion shed tears. it was the most poignant ordeal the ulster leader ever passed through. but it was just one of those occasions when far-seeing statesmanship demands the ruthless silencing of promptings that spring from emotion. many of those who on that terrible 12th of june were most torn by doubt as to the necessity for the decision arrived at, realised before long that their leader had never been guided by surer insight than in the counsel he gave them that day. the resolution adopted by the council was a lengthy one. after reciting the unaltered attachment of ulster to the union, it placed on record the appeal that had been made by the government on patriotic grounds for a settlement of the irish difficulty, which the council did not think it right at such a time of national emergency to resist; but it was careful to reserve, in case the negotiations should break down from any other cause, complete freedom to revert to "opposition to the whole policy of home rule for ireland." meantime the nationalist leaders had been submitting mr. lloyd george's proposals to their own people, and on the 10th of june mr. redmond made a speech in dublin from which it appeared that he was submitting a very different proposal to that explained by carson in belfast. for mr. redmond told his dublin audience that, while the home rule act was to come into operation at once, the exclusion of the six counties was to be only for the period of the war and twelve months afterwards. that would, of course, have been even less favourable to ulster than the terms offered by mr. asquith and rejected by carson in march 1914. exclusion for the period of the war meant nothing; it would have been useless to ulster; it was no concession whatever; and carson would have refused, as he did in 1914, even to submit it to the unionist council in belfast. mr. lloyd george, who must have known this, had told him quite clearly that there was to be a "definite clean cut," with no suggestion of a time limit. there was, however, an idea that after the war an imperial conference would be held, at which the whole constitutional relations of the component nations of the british empire would be reviewed, and that the permanent status of ireland would then come under reconsideration with the rest. in this sense the arrangement now proposed was spoken of as "provisional"; but both mr. lloyd george and the prime minister made it perfectly plain that the proposed exclusion of the six ulster counties from home rule could never be reversed except by a fresh act of parliament. but when the question was raised by mr. redmond in the house of commons on the 24th of july, in a speech of marked moderation, he explained that he had understood the exclusion, like all the rest of the scheme, to be strictly "provisional," with the consequence that it would come to an end automatically at the end of the specified period unless prolonged by new legislation; and he refused to respond to an earnest appeal by mr. asquith not to let slip this opportunity of obtaining, with the consent of the unionist party, immediate home rule for the greater part of ireland, more especially as mr. redmond himself had disclaimed any desire to bring ulster within the home rule jurisdiction without her own consent. the negotiations for settlement thus fell to the ground, and the bitter sacrifice which ulster had brought herself to offer, in response to the government's urgent appeal, bore no fruit, unless it was to afford one more proof of her loyalty to england and the empire. she was to find that such proofs were for the most part thrown away, and merely were used by her enemies, and by some who professed to be her friends, as a starting-point for demands on her for further concessions. but, although all british parties in turn did their best to impress upon ulster that loyalty did not pay, she never succeeded in learning the lesson sufficiently to be guided by it in her political conduct. footnotes: [93] mr. lloyd george's memory was at fault when he said in the house of commons on the 7th of february, 1922, that on the occasion referred to in the text he had seen sir edward carson and mr. redmond together. [94] the quotations from this speech, which was never published, are from a report privately taken by the ulster unionist council. [95] see _ante_, p. 105. chapter xxii the irish convention after the failure of mr. lloyd george's negotiations for settlement in the summer of 1916 the nationalists practically dropped all pretence of helping the government to carry on the war. they were, no doubt, beginning to realise how completely they were losing hold of the people of southern ireland, and that the only chance of regaining their vanishing popularity was by an attitude of hostility to the british government. frequently during the autumn and winter they raised debates in parliament on the demand that the home rule act should immediately come into operation, and threatened that if this were not done recruits from ireland would not be forthcoming, although the need for men was now a matter of great national urgency. they ignored the fact that mr. redmond was a consenting party to mr. asquith's policy of holding home rule in abeyance till after the war, and attempted to explain away their own loss of influence in ireland by alleging that the exasperation of the irish people at the delay in obtaining "self-government" was the cause of their alienation from england, and of the growth of sinn fein. in december 1916 the asquith government came to an end, and mr. lloyd george became prime minister. he had shown his estimate of sir edward carson's statesmanship by pressing mr. asquith to entrust the entire conduct of the war to a committee of four, of whom the ulster leader should be one; and, having failed in this attempt to infuse energy and decision into the counsels of his chief, he turned him out and formed a ministry with carson in the office of first lord of the admiralty, at that time one of the most vital in the government. colonel james craig also joined the ministry as treasurer of the household. the change of government did nothing to alter the attitude of the nationalists, unless, indeed, the return of carson to high office added to the fierceness of their attacks. on the 26th of february 1917--just when "unrestricted submarine warfare" was bringing the country into its greatest peril--mr. dillon called upon the government to release twenty-eight men who had been deported from ireland, and who were declared by mr. duke, the chief secretary, to have been deeply implicated in the easter rebellion of the previous year; and a week later mr. t.p. o'connor returned to the charge with another demand for home rule without further ado. the debate on mr. o'connor's motion on the 7th of march was made memorable by the speech of major william redmond, home on leave from the trenches in france, whose sincere and impassioned appeal for oblivion of old historic quarrels between irish catholics and protestants, who were at that moment fighting and dying side by side in france, made a deep impression on the house of commons and the country. and when this gallant officer fell in action not long afterwards and was carried out of the firing line by ulster soldiers, his speech on the 7th of march was recalled and made the peg on which to hang many adjurations to ulster to come into line with their nationalist fellow-countrymen of the south. such appeals revealed a curious inability to grasp the realities of the situation. men spoke and wrote as if it were something new and wonderful for irishmen of the "two nations" to be found fighting side by side in the british army--as if the same thing had not been seen in the peninsula, in the crimea, on the indian frontier, in south africa, and in many another fight. ulstermen, like everybody else who knew major redmond, deplored the loss of a very gallant officer and a very lovable man. but they could not understand why his death should be made a reason for a change in their political convictions. when major arthur o'neill, an ulster member, was killed in action in 1914, no one had suggested that nationalists should on that account turn unionists. why, they wondered, should unionists any more turn nationalists because a nationalist m.p. had made the same supreme sacrifice? all this sentimental talk of that time was founded on the misconception that ulster's attachment to the union was the result of personal prejudice against catholics of the south, instead of being, as it was, a deliberate and reasoned conviction as to the best government for ireland. this distinction was clearly brought out in the same debate by sir john lonsdale, who, when carson became a member of the cabinet, had been elected leader of the ulster party in the house of commons; and an emphatic pronouncement, which went to the root of the controversy, was made in reply to the nationalists by the prime minister. in the north-eastern portion of ireland, he said: "you have a population as hostile to irish rule as the rest of ireland is to british rule, yea, and as ready to rebel against it as the rest of ireland is against british rule--as alien in blood, in religious faith, in traditions, in outlook--as alien from the rest of ireland in this respect as the inhabitants of fife or aberdeen. to place them under national rule against their will would be as glaring an outrage on the principles of liberty and self-government as the denial of self-government would be for the rest of ireland." the government were, therefore, prepared, said mr. lloyd george, to bring in home rule immediately for that part of ireland that wanted it, but not for the northern part which did not want it. mr. redmond made a fine display of indignation at this refusal to coerce ulster; and, in imitation of the unionists in 1914, marched out of the house at the head of his party. next day he issued a manifesto to men of irish blood in the united states and in the dominions, calling on them to use all means in their power to exert pressure on the british government. it was clear that this sort of thing could not be tolerated in the middle of a war in which great britain was fighting for her life, and at a crisis in it when her fortunes were far from prosperous. accordingly, on the 16th of march mr. bonar law warned the nationalists that their conduct might make it necessary to appeal to the country on the ground that they were obstructing the prosecution of the war. but he also announced that the cabinet intended to make one more attempt to arrive at a settlement of the apparently insoluble problem of irish government. two months passed before it was made known how this attempt was to be made. on the 16th of may the prime minister addressed a letter in duplicate to mr. redmond and sir john lonsdale, representing the two irish parties respectively, in which he put forward for their consideration two alternative methods of procedure, after premising that the government felt precluded from proposing during the war any measures except such as "would be substantially accepted by both sides." these alternatives were: _(a)_ a "bill for the immediate application of the home rule act to ireland, but excluding therefrom the six counties of north-east ulster," or, _(b)_ a convention of irishmen "for the purpose of drafting a constitution ... which should secure a just balance of all the opposing interests." sir john lonsdale replied to the prime minister that he would take the government's first proposal to belfast for consideration by the council; but as mr. redmond, on the other hand, peremptorily refused to have anything to say to it, it became necessary to fall back on the other alternative, namely the assembling of an irish convention. the members chosen to sit in the convention were to be "representative men" in emerson's meaning of the words, but not in the democratic sense as deriving their authority from direct popular election. certain political organisations and parties were each invited to nominate a certain number; the churches were represented by their leading clergy; men occupying public positions, such as chairmen of local authorities, were given _ex-officio_ seats; and a certain number were nominated by the government. the total membership of this variegated assembly was ninety-five. the sinn fein party were invited to join, but refused to have anything to do with it, declaring that they would consider nothing short of complete independence for ireland. the majority of the irish people thus stood aloof from the convention altogether. as the purpose for which the convention was called was quickly lost sight of by many, and by none more than its chairman, it is well to remember what that purpose was. if it had not been for the opposition of ulster, the home rule act of 1914 would have been in force for years, and none of the many attempts at settlement would have been necessary. the one and only thing required was to reconcile, if possible, the aspirations of ulster with those of the rest of ireland. that was the purpose, and the only purpose, of the convention; and in the letter addressed to sir john lonsdale equally with mr. redmond, the prime minister distinctly laid it down that unless its conclusions were accepted "by both sides," nothing could come of it. to leave no shadow of doubt on this point mr. bonar law, in reply to a specific question, said that there could be no "substantial agreement" to which ulster was not a party. it is necessary to emphasise this point, because for such a purpose the heterogeneous conglomeration of nationalists of all shades that formed the great majority of the convention was worse than useless. the convention was in reality a bi-lateral conference, in which one of the two sides was four times as numerous as the other. yet much party capital was subsequently made of the fact that the nationalist members agreed upon a scheme of home rule--an achievement which had no element of the miraculous or even of the unexpected about it. notwithstanding that the sinn fein party had displayed their contempt for the convention, and under the delusion that it would "create an atmosphere of good-will" for its meeting, the government released without condition or reservation all the prisoners concerned in the easter rebellion of 1916. it was like playing a penny whistle to conciliate a cobra. the prisoners, from whose minds nothing was further than any thought of good-will to england, were received by the populace in dublin with a rapturous ovation, their triumphal procession being headed by mr. de valera, who was soon afterwards elected member for east clare by a majority of nearly thirty thousand. four months later, the chief secretary told parliament that the young men of southern ireland, who had refused to serve in the army, were being enrolled in preparation for another rebellion. it was only after some hesitation that the ulster unionist council decided not to hold aloof from the convention, as the sinn feiners did. carson accompanied sir john lonsdale to belfast and explained the explicit pledges by ministers that participation would not commit them to anything, that they would not be bound by any majority vote, and that without their concurrence no legislation was to be founded on any agreement between the other groups in the convention; he also urged that ulster could not refuse to do what the government held would be helpful in the prosecution of the war. the invitation to nominate five delegates was therefore accepted; and when the membership of the convention was complete there were nineteen out of ninety-five who could be reckoned as supporters in general of the ulster point of view. among them were the primate, the moderator of the general assembly, the duke of abercorn, the marquis of londonderry, mr. h.m. pollock, chairman of the belfast chamber of commerce, one labour representative, mr j. hanna, and the lord mayors of belfast and derry. it was agreed that mr. h.t. barrie, member for north derry, should act as chairman and leader of the ulster group, and he discharged this difficult duty with unfailing tact and ability. there was some difficulty in finding a suitable chairman, for no party was willing to accept any strong man opposed to their own views, while an impartial man was not to be found in ireland. eventually the choice fell on sir horace plunkett as a gentleman who, if eagerly supported by none, was accepted by each group as preferable to a more formidable opponent. sir horace made no pretence of impartiality. whatever influence he possessed was used as a partisan of the nationalists. he was not, like the speaker of the house of commons, a silent guardian of order; he often harangued the assembly, which, on one occasion at least, he addressed for over an hour; and he issued manifestos, _questionnaires_, and letters to members, one of which was sharply censured as misleading both by mr. barrie and the bishop of raphoe. the procedure adopted was described by the chairman himself as "unprecedented." it was not only that, but was unsuitable in the last degree for the purpose in view. when it is borne in mind what that purpose was, it is clear that the only business-like method would have been to invite the ulster delegates at the outset to formulate their objections to coming under the home rule act of 1914, and then to see whether mr. redmond could make any concessions which would persuade ulster to accept something less than the permanent exclusion of six counties, which had been their _minimum_ hitherto. the procedure actually followed was ludicrously different. the object, as stated by the chairman, was "to avoid raising contentious issues in such a way as to divide the convention on party lines,"[96] which, to say the least, was a curious method of handling the most contentious problem in british politics. a fine opportunity was offered to amateur constitution-mongers. anyone was allowed to propound a scheme for the future government of ireland, which, of course, was an encouragement to endless wide-ranging debate, with the least conceivable likelihood of arriving at definite decisions. neither of the leaders of the two parties whose agreement was essential if the convention was to have any result took the initiative in bringing forward proposals. mr. redmond was invited to do so, but declined. mr. barrie had no reason to do so, because the ulster scheme for the government of ireland was the legislative union. so it was left to individuals with no official responsibility to set forth their ideas, which became the subject of protracted debates of a general character. it was further arranged that while contentious issues--the only ones that mattered--should be avoided, any conclusions reached on minor matters should be purely provisional, and contingent on agreement being come to ultimately on fundamentals. month after month was spent in thus discussing such questions as the powers which an irish parliament ought to wield, while the question whether ulster was to come into that parliament was left to stand over. committees and sub-committees were appointed to thresh out these details, and some of them relieved the tedium by wandering into such interesting by-ways of irrelevancy as housing and land purchase, all of which, in gilbertian phrase, "had nothing to do with the case." the ulster group raised no objection to all this expenditure of time and energy. for they saw that it was not time wasted. from the standpoint of the highest national interest it was, indeed, more useful than anything the convention could have accomplished by business-like methods. the summer and autumn of 1917, and the early months of 1918, covered a terribly critical period of the war. the country was never in greater peril, and the attitude of the nationalists in the house of commons added to the difficulties of the government, as mr. bonar law had complained in march. it was to placate them that the convention had been summoned. it was a bone thrown to a snarling dog, and the longer there was anything to gnaw the longer would the dog keep quiet. the ulster delegates understood this perfectly, and, as their chief desire was to help the government to get on with the war, they had no wish to curtail the proceedings of the convention, although they were never under the delusion that it could lead to anything in ireland. having regard to the origin of this strange assembly of irishmen it might have been supposed that its ingenuity would be directed to finding some modification of mr. asquith's home rule act which ulster could accept. that act was the point of departure for its investigation, and the quest was _ex hypothesi_ for some amendment that would not be an enlargement of the authority to be delegated to the subordinate parliament, or any further loosening of the tie with great britain. any proposal of the latter sort would be in the opposite direction from that in which the convention was intended to travel. yet this is precisely what was done from the very outset. the act of 1914 was brushed aside as beneath contempt; and the ulster delegates had to listen with amazement week after week to proposals for giving to the whole of ireland, including their own province, a constitution practically as independent of great britain as that of the dominions. but what astonished the ulstermen above everything was to find these extravagant demands of the nationalists supported by those who were supposed to be representatives of southern unionism, with lord midleton, a prominent member of the unionist party in england, at their head. the only material point on which lord midleton differed from the extremists led by the bishop of raphoe was that he wished to limit complete fiscal autonomy for ireland by reserving the control of customs duties to the imperial parliament. save in this single particular he joined forces with the nationalists, and shocked the unionists of the north by giving his support to a scheme of home rule going beyond anything ever suggested at westminster by any radical from gladstone to asquith. this question of the financial powers to be exercised by the hypothetical irish parliament occupied the convention and its committees for the greater part of its eight months of existence. in january 1918 lord midleton and mr. redmond came to an agreement on the subject which proved the undoing of them both, and produced the only really impressive scene in the convention. for some time mr. redmond had given the impression of being a tired man who had lost his wonted driving-force. he took little or no part in the lobbying and canvassing that was constantly going on behind the scenes in the convention; he appeared to be losing grip as a leader. but he cannot be blamed for his anxiety to come to terms with lord midleton; and when he found, no doubt greatly to his surprise, that a unionist leader was ready to abandon unionist principles and to accept dominion home rule for ireland, subject to a single reservation on the subject of customs, he naturally jumped at it, and assumed that his followers would do the same. but, while mr. redmond had been losing ground, the influence of the catholic bishop of raphoe had been on the increase, and that able and astute prelate was entirely opposed to the compromise on which mr. redmond and lord midleton were agreed. on the evening of the 14th of january it came to the knowledge of mr. redmond that when the question came up for decision next day, he would find mr. devlin, his principal lieutenant, in league with the ecclesiastics against him. he was personally too far committed to retrace his steps; to go forward meant disaster, for it would produce a deep cleavage in the nationalist ranks; and, as the state of affairs was generally known to members of the convention, the sitting of the following day was anticipated with unusual interest. there was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement when the chairman took his seat on the 15th. mr. redmond entered a few seconds later and took his usual place without betraying the slightest sign of disturbed equanimity. the bishop of raphoe strode past him, casting to left and right swift, challenging glances. mr. devlin slipped quietly into his seat beside the leader he had thrown over, without a word or gesture of greeting. all over the room small groups of members engaged in whispered conversation; an air of mysterious expectancy prevailed. the ulster members had been threatened that it was to be for them a day of disaster and dismay--a little isolated group, about to be deserted by friends and crushed by enemies. the chairman, in an agitated voice, opened proceedings by inviting questions. there was no response. a minute or so of tense pause ensued. then mr. redmond rose, and in a perfectly even voice and his usual measured diction, stated that he was aware that his proposal was repudiated by many of his usual followers; that the bishops were against him, and some leading nationalists, including mr. devlin; that, while he believed if he persisted he would have a majority, the result would be to split his party, a thing he wished to avoid; and that he had therefore decided not to proceed with his amendment, and under these circumstances felt he could be of no further use to the convention in the matter. for a minute or two the assembly could not grasp the full significance of what had happened. then it broke upon them that this was the fall of a notable leader, although they did not yet know that it was also the close of a distinguished career. mr. redmond's demeanour throughout what must have been a painful ordeal was beyond all praise. there was not a quiver in his voice, nor a hesitation for word or phrase. his self-possession and dignity and high-bred bearing won the respect and sympathy of the most strenuous of political opponents, even while they recognised that the defeat of the nationalist leader meant relief from pressure on themselves. mr. redmond took no further part in the work of the convention; his health was failing, and the members were startled by the news of his death on the 6th of march. not a single vote was taken in the convention until the 12th of march, 1918, when it had been sitting for nearly seven months, and two days later the question which it had been summoned to consider, namely, the relation of ulster to the rest of ireland, was touched for the first time. the first clause in the bishop of raphoe's scheme, establishing a home rule constitution for all ireland, having been carried with lord midleton's help against the vote of the nineteen representatives of ulster, the latter proposed an amendment for the exclusion of the province, and were, of course, defeated by the combined forces of nationalism and southern unionism. thus, on the only issue that really mattered, there was no such "substantial agreement" as the government had postulated as essential before legislation could be undertaken; and on the 5th of april the convention came to an end without having achieved any useful result, except that it gave the government a breathing space from the irish question to get on with the war. it served, however, to bring prominently forward two of the ulster representatives whose full worth had not till then been sufficiently appreciated. mr. h.m. pollock had, it is true, been a valued adviser of sir edward carson on questions touching the trade and commerce of belfast. but in the convention he made more than one speech which proved him to be a financier with a comprehensive grasp of principle, and an extensive knowledge of the history and the intricate details of the financial relations between great britain and ireland. lord londonderry (the 7th marquis), who during his father's lifetime had represented an english constituency in the house of commons and naturally took no very prominent part in ulster affairs, although he made many excellent speeches on home rule both in parliament and on english platforms, and was colonel of a regiment of u.v.f., gave proof at once, on succeeding to the peerage in 1915, that he was desirous of doing everything in his power to fill his father's place in the ulster movement. he displayed the same readiness to subordinate personal convenience, and other claims on his time and energy, to the cause so closely associated historically with his family. but it was his work in the convention that first convinced ulstermen of his capacity as well as his zeal. several of lord londonderry's speeches, and especially one in which he made an impromptu reply to mr. redmond, impressed the convention with his debating power and his general ability; and it gave the greatest satisfaction in ulster when it was realised that the son of the leader whose loss they mourned so deeply was as able as he was willing to carry on the hereditary tradition of service to the loyalist cause. in another respect, too, the convention had an indirect influence on the position in ulster. when it appeared likely, in january 1918, that a deadlock would be reached in the convention, the prime minister himself intervened. a letter to the chairman was drafted and discussed in the cabinet; but the policy which appeared to commend itself to his colleagues was one that sir edward carson was unable to support, and he accordingly resigned office on the 21st, and was accompanied into retirement by colonel craig, the other ulster member of the ministry. sir john lonsdale, who for many years had been the very efficient honorary secretary and "whip" of the ulster parliamentary party, and its leader while carson was in office, had been raised to the peerage at the new year, with the title of lord armaghdale, so that the ulster leadership was vacant for carson to resume when he left the government, and he was formally re-elected to the position on the 28th of january. it was fortunate for ulster that the old helmsman was again free to take his place at the wheel, for there was still some rough weather ahead. the official report of the convention which was issued on the 10th of april was one of the most extraordinary documents ever published in a government blue book.[97] it consisted for the most part of a confused bundle of separate notes and reports by a number of different groups and individuals, and numerous appendices comprising a mass of miscellaneous memoranda bristling with cross-references. the chairman was restricted to providing a bald narrative of the proceedings without any of the usual critical estimate of the general results attained; but he made up for this by setting forth his personal opinions in a letter to the prime minister, which, without the sanction of the convention, he prefixed to the report. as it was no easy matter to gain any clear idea from the report as to what the convention had done, its proceedings while in session having been screened from publicity by drastic censorship of the press, many people contented themselves with reading sir horace plunkett's unauthorised letter to mr. lloyd george; and, as it was in some important respects gravely misleading, it is not surprising that the truth in regard to the convention was never properly understood, and the ulster unionist council had solid justification for its resolution censuring the chairman's conduct as "unprecedented and unconstitutional." in this personal letter, as was to be expected of a partisan of the nationalists, sir horace plunkett laid stress on the fact that lord midleton had "accepted self-government for ireland "--by which was meant, of course, not self-government such as ireland always enjoyed through her representation, and indeed over-representation, in the imperial parliament, but through separate institutions. but if it had not been for this support of separate institutions by the southern unionists there would not have been even a colourable pretext for the assertion of sir horace plunkett that "a larger measure of agreement has been reached upon the principles and details of irish self-government than has ever yet been attained." the really surprising thing was how little agreement was displayed even among the nationalists themselves, who on several important issues were nearly equally divided. it was soon seen how little the policy of lord midleton was approved by those whom he was supposed to represent. although it was exceedingly difficult to obtain accurate information about what was going on in the convention, enough became known in dublin to cause serious misgiving to southern unionists. the council of the irish unionist alliance, who had nominated lord midleton as a delegate, asked him to confer with them on the subject; but he refused. on the 4th of march, 1918, a "call to unionists," a manifesto signed by twenty-four influential southern unionists, appeared in the press. a southern unionist committee was formed which before the end of may was able to publish the names of 350 well-known men in all walks of life who were in accord with the "call," and to announce that the supporters of their protest against lord midleton's proceedings numbered upwards of fourteen thousand, of whom more than two thousand were farmers in the south and west. this committee then took steps to purge the irish unionist alliance by making it more truly representative of southern unionist opinion. a special meeting of the council of the organisation on the 24th of january, 1919, brought on a general engagement between lord midleton and his opponents. the general trend of opinion was disclosed when, after the defeat of a motion by lord midleton for excluding ulster unionists from full membership of the alliance, sir edward carson was elected one of its presidents, and lord farnham was chosen chairman of the executive committee. the executive committee was then entirely reconstituted, by the rejection of every one of lord midleton's supporters; and the new body issued a statement explaining the grounds of dissatisfaction with lord midleton's action in the convention, and declaring that he had "lost the confidence of the general body of southern unionists." thereupon lord midleton and a small aristocratic clique associated with him seceded from the alliance, and set up a little organisation of their own. footnotes: [96] _report of the proceedings of the irish convention_ (cd. 9019), p. 10. [97] cd. 9019. chapter xxiii nationalists and conscription while the irish convention was toilfully bringing to a close its eight months' career of futility, the british empire was in the grip of the most terrible ordeal through which it has ever passed. on the 21st of march, 1918, the assembled irishmen in dublin were discussing whether or not proportional representation should form part of the hypothetical constitution of ireland, and on the same day the germans well-nigh overwhelmed the 5th army at the opening of the great offensive campaign which threatened to break irretrievably the allied line by the capture of amiens. the world held its breath. englishmen hardly dared to think of the fate that seemed impending over their country. irishmen continued complacently debating the paltry details of the bishop of raphoe's clauses. irishmen and englishmen together were being killed or maimed by scores of thousands in a supreme effort to stay the advance of the boche to paris and the sea. it happened that on the very day when the report of the convention was laid on the table of the house of commons, the prime minister made a statement of profound gravity, beginning with words such as the british parliament can never before have been compelled to hear from the lips of the head of the government. for the moment, said mr. lloyd george, there was a lull in the storm; but more attacks were to come, and- the "fate of the empire, the fate of europe, and the fate of liberty throughout the world may depend on the success with which the very last of these attacks is resisted and countered." mr. asquith struck the same note, urging the house- "with all the earnestness and with all the solemnity of which i am capable, to realise that never before in the experience of any man within these walls, or of his fathers and his forefathers, has this country and all the great traditions and ideals which are embodied in our history--never has this, the most splendid inheritance ever bequeathed to a people, been in greater peril, or in more need of united safeguarding than at this present time." not demosthenes himself, in his most impassioned appeal to the athenians, more fitly matched moving words to urgent occasion than these two statesmen in the simple, restrained sentences, in which they warned the commons of the peril hanging over england. but was eloquent persuasion really required at such a moment to still the voice of faction in the british house of commons? let those who would assume the negative study the official parliamentary report of the debate on the 9th of april, 1918. they will find a record which no loyal irishman will ever be able to read without a tingling sense of shame. the whole body of members, with one exception, listened to the prime minister's grave words in silence touched with awe, feeling that perhaps they were sitting there on the eve of the greatest tragedy in their country's history. the single exception was the nationalist party. from those same benches whence arose nineteen years back the never-forgotten cheers that greeted the tale of british disaster in south africa, now came a shower of snarling interruptions that broke persistently into the prime minister's speech, and with angry menace impeded his unfolding of the government's proposals for meeting the supreme ordeal of the war. what was the reason? it was because ireland, the greater part of which had till now successfully shirked its share of privation and sacrifice, was at last to be asked to take up its corner of the burden. the need for men to replace casualties at the front was pressing, urgent, imperative. many indeed blamed the government for having delayed too long in filling the depleted ranks of our splendid armies in france; the moment had come when another day's delay would have been criminal. as mr. lloyd george pointed out, the battle that was being waged in front of amiens "proves that the enemy has definitely decided to seek a military decision this year, whatever the consequences to himself." the germans had just called up a fresh class of recruits calculated to place more than half a million of efficient young men in the line. the collapse of russia had released the vast german armies of the east for use against england and france. it was under such circumstances that the prime minister proposed "to submit to parliament to-day certain recommendations in order to assist this country and the allies to weather the storm. they will involve," continued mr. lloyd george, "extreme sacrifices on the part of large classes of the population, and nothing would justify them but the most extreme necessity, and the fact that we are fighting for all that is essential and most sacred in the national life." the age limit for compulsory military service was to be raised from forty-two to fifty, and ireland was to be included under the new military service bill now introduced. england, scotland, and wales had cheerfully submitted to conscription when first enacted by mr. asquith in 1916, and to all the additional combings of industry and extension of obligation that had been required in the past two years. agriculture and other essential industries were being starved for want of labour, and men had actually been brought back from the sorely pressed armies to produce supplies imperatively needed at home. but from all this ireland had hitherto been exempt. to escape the call of the country a man had only to prove that he was "ordinarily resident in ireland"; for conscription did not cross the irish sea. from most of the privations cheerfully borne in great britain the irishman had been equally free. food rationing did not trouble him, and, lest he should go short of accustomed plenty, it was even forbidden to carry a parcel of butter across the channel from ireland. horse-racing went on as usual. emigration had been suspended during the war, so that ireland was unusually full of young men who, owing to the unwonted prosperity of the country resulting from war prices for its produce, were "having the time of their lives." mr. bonar law, in the debates on the military service bill, gave reasons for the calculation that there were not far short of 400,000 young men of military age, and of "al" physique, in ireland available for the army. no wonder that mr. lloyd george said it would be impossible to leave this reservoir of man-power untouched when men of fifty, whose sons were already with the colours, were to be called up in great britain! but the bare suggestion of doing such a thing raised a hurricane of angry vituperation and menace from the nationalists in the house of commons. when mr. lloyd george, in conciliatory accents, observed that he had no wish to raise unnecessary controversy, as heaven knew they had trouble enough already, "you will get more of it," shouted mr. flavin. "you will have another battle front in ireland," interjected mr. byrne. mr. flavin, getting more and more excited, called out, with reference to the machinery for enrolment explained by the prime minister--"it will never begin. ireland will not have it at any price"; and again, a moment later, "you come across and try to take them." mr. devlin was fully as fierce as these less prominent members of his party, and after many wrathful interruptions he turned aside the debate into a discussion about a trumpery report of one of the sub-committees of the irish convention. it was truly a sad and shameful scene to be witnessed in the house of commons at such a moment. it would have been so even if the contention of the nationalists had been reasonably tenable. but it was not. they maintained that only an irish parliament had the right to enforce conscription in ireland. but at the beginning of the war they had accepted the proviso that it should run its course before home rule came into operation. and even if it had been in operation, and a parliament had been sitting in dublin under mr. asquith's act, which the nationalists had accepted as a settlement of their demands, that parliament would have had nothing to do with the raising of military forces by conscription or otherwise, this being a duty reserved, as in every federal or quasi-federal constitution, for the central legislative authority alone. but it was useless to point this out to the infuriated nationalist members. mr. william o'brien denounced the idea of compelling irishmen to bear the same burden as their british fellow-subjects as "a declaration of war against ireland"; and he and mr. healy joined mr. dillon and his followers in opposing with all their parliamentary skill, and all their voting power, the extension to ireland of compulsory service. mr. healy, whose vindictive memory had not forgotten the curragh incident before the war, could not forbear from having an ungenerous fling at general gough, who had just been driven back by the overwhelming numerical superiority of the german attack, and who, at the moment when mr. healy was taunting him in the house of commons, was re-forming his gallant 5th army to resist the enemy's further advance. in comparison with this mr. healy's stale gibe at "carson's army," however inappropriate to the occasion, was a venial offence. carson himself replied in a gentle and conciliatory tone to mr. healy's coarse diatribe. "my honourable friend," he said, "talked of carson's army. you may, if you like, call it with contempt carson's army. but it has just gone into action for the fourth time, and many of them have paid the supreme sacrifice. they have covered themselves with glory, and, what is more, they have covered ireland with glory, and they have left behind sad homes throughout the small hamlets of ulster, as i well know, losing three or four sons in many a home." on behalf of ulster carson gave unhesitating support to the government. he and his colleagues from ulster had always voted against the exemption of ireland from the military service acts. it was true, no doubt, as the nationalists jeeringly maintained, that conscription was no more desired in ulster than in any other part of the united kingdom. of course it was not; it was liked nowhere. but carson declared that "equality of sacrifice" was the principle to be acted upon, and ulster accepted it. he "would go about hanging his head in shame," if his own part of the united kingdom were absolved from sacrifice which the national necessity imposed on the inhabitants of great britain. the bill was carried through by the 16th of april in the teeth of nationalist opposition maintained through all its stages. mr. bonar law announced emphatically that the government intended to enforce the compulsory powers in ireland; but he also said that yet another attempt was to be made to settle the constitutional question by bringing in "at an early date" a measure of home rule which the government hoped might be carried at once and "without violent controversy." after the experience of the past this seemed an amazingly sanguine estimate of the prospects of any proposals that ingenuity could devise. but what the nature of the measure was to have been was never made known; for the bill was still in the hands of a drafting committee when a dangerous german intrigue in ireland was discovered; and the lord-lieutenant made a proclamation on the 18th of may announcing that the government had information "that certain of the king's subjects in ireland had entered into a treasonable communication with the german enemy, and that strict measures must be taken to put down this german plot."[98] on the same day one hundred and fifty sinn feiners were arrested, including mr. de valera and mr. arthur griffith, and on the 25th a statement was published indicating the connection between this conspiracy and casement's designs in 1916. the government had definitely ascertained some weeks earlier, and must have known at the very time when they were promising a new home rule bill, that a plan for landing arms in ireland was ripe for execution.[99] indeed, on the 12th of april a german agent who had landed in ireland was arrested, with papers in his possession showing that de valera had worked out a detailed organisation of the rebel army, and expected to be in a position to muster half a million of trained men.[100] such was the fruit of the government's infatuation which, under the delusion of "creating an atmosphere of good-will" for the convention, had released a few months previously a number of dangerous men who had been proved to be in league with the germans, and who now took advantage of this clemency to conspire afresh with the foreign enemy. it was not surprising that mr. bonar law said it was impossible for the government, under these circumstances, to proceed with their proposals for a new home rule bill. on the other hand, no sooner was the military service act on the statute-book than the government began to recede from mr. bonar law's declaration that they would at all costs enforce it in ireland. they intimated that if voluntary recruiting improved it might be possible to dispense with compulsion. but although mr. shortt--who succeeded mr. duke as chief secretary in may, at the same time as lord wimborne was replaced in the lord-lieutenancy by field-marshal lord french--complained on the 29th of july that the nationalists had given no help to the government in obtaining voluntary recruits in ireland, and, "instead of taking sinn fein by the throat, had tried to go one better,"[101] the compulsory powers of the military service act remained a dead letter. the fact was that the nationalists had followed up their fierce opposition to the bill by raising a still more fierce agitation in ireland against conscription. in this they joined hands with sinn fein, and the whole weight of the catholic church was thrown into the same scale. from the altars of that church the thunderbolts of ecclesiastical anathema were loosed against the government, and--what was more effective--against any who should obey the call to arms. the government gave way before the violence of the storm, and the lesson to be learnt from their defeat was not thrown away on the rebel party in ireland. there was, naturally, widespread indignation in england at the spectacle of the youth of ireland taking its ease at home and earning extravagantly high war-time wages while middle-aged bread-winners in england were compulsorily called to the colours; but the marvellously easy-going disposition of englishmen submitted to the injustice with no more than a legitimate grumble. in june 1918, while this agitation against conscription was at its height, the hostility of the nationalists took a new turn. a manifesto, intended as a justification of their resistance to conscription, was issued in the form of a letter to mr. wilson, president of the united states, signed by mr. dillon, mr. devlin, mr. william o'brien, mr. healy, the lord mayor of dublin, and some others, including leaders of sinn fein. it was a remarkable document, the authorship of which was popularly attributed to mr. t.m. healy. if it ever came under the eye of mr. wilson, a man of literary taste and judgment, it must have afforded him a momentary diversion from the cares of his exalted office. a longer experience than his of diplomatic correspondence would fail to produce from the pigeon-holes of all the chanceries a rival to this extraordinary composition, the ill-arranged paragraphs of which formed an inextricable jumble of irrelevant material, in which bad logic, bad history, and barren invective were confusedly intermingled in a torrent of turgid rhetoric. the extent of its range may be judged from the fact that shakespeare's allusions to joan of arc were not deemed too remote from the subject of conscription in ireland during the great war to find a place in this amazing despatch. for the amusement of anyone who may care to examine so rare a curiosity of english prose, it will be found in full in the appendix to this volume, where it may be compared by way of contrast with the restrained rejoinder sent also to president wilson by sir edward carson, the lord mayor of belfast, the mayor of derry, and several loyalist representatives of labour in ulster. in the nationalist letter to president wilson reference was made more than once to the sympathy that prevailed in ireland in the eighteenth century with the american colonists in the war of independence. the use made of it was a good example of the way in which a half-truth may, for argumentative purposes, be more misleading than a complete falsehood. "to-day, as in the days of george washington"--so mr. wilson was informed--"nearly half the american forces have been furnished from the descendants of our banished race." no mention was made of the fact that the members of the "banished race" in washington's army were presbyterian emigrants from ulster, who formed almost the entire population of great districts in the american colonies at that time.[102] the late mr. whitelaw reid told an edinburgh audience in 1911 that more than half the presbyterian population of ulster emigrated to america between 1730 and 1770, and that at the date of the revolution they made more than one-sixth of the population of the colonies. the declaration of independence itself, he added- "is sacredly preserved in the handwriting of an ulsterman, who was secretary of congress. it was publicly read by an ulsterman, and first printed by another. washington's first cabinet had four members, of whom one was an ulsterman."[103] it is, of course, true that not all ulster presbyterians of that period were the firm and loyal friends of great britain that their descendants became after a century's experience of the legislative union. but it is the latter who best in ireland can trace kinship with the founders of the united states, and who are entitled--if any irishmen are--to base on that kinship a claim to the sympathy and support of the american people. footnotes: [98] _annual register_, 1918, p, 87. [99] ibid., p. 88 [100] ibid. [101] _annual register_, 1918, p. 90. [102] see lecky's _history of england in the eighteenth century_, vol. iv, p. 430. [103] see lecture to the edinburgh philosophical institution by whitelaw reid, reported in _the scotsman_, november 2nd, 1911. chapter xxiv the ulster parliament on the 25th of november, 1918, the parliament elected in december 1910 was at last dissolved, a few days after the armistice with germany. the new house of commons was very different from the old. seventy-two sinn fein members were returned from ireland, sweeping away all but half a dozen of the old nationalist party; but, in accordance with their fixed policy, the sinn fein members never presented themselves at westminster to take the oath and their seats. that quarter of the house of commons which for thirty years had been packed with the most fierce and disciplined of the political parties was therefore now given over to mild supporters of the coalition government, the only remnant of so-called "constitutional nationalism" being mr. t.p. o'connor, mr. devlin, captain redmond, and two or three less prominent companions, who survived like monuments of a bygone age. ulster unionists, on the other hand, were greatly strengthened by the recent redistribution act. sir edward carson was elected member for the great working-class constituency of the duncairn division of belfast, instead of for dublin university, which he had so long represented, and twenty-two ardent supporters accompanied him from ulster to westminster. in the reconstruction of the government which followed the election, carson was pressed to return to office, but declined. colonel james craig, whose war services in connection with the ulster division were rewarded by a baronetcy, became parliamentary secretary to the ministry of pensions, and the marquis of londonderry accepted office as parliamentary under-secretary of state in the air ministry. although the termination of hostilities by the armistice was not in the legal sense the "end of the war," it brought it within sight. no one in january 1919 dreamt that the process of making peace and ratifying the necessary treaties would drag on for a seemingly interminable length of time, and it was realised, with grave misgiving in ulster, that the home rule act of 1914 would necessarily come into force as soon as peace was finally declared, while as yet nothing had been done to redeem the promise of an amending bill given by mr. asquith, and reiterated by mr. lloyd george. the compact between the latter and the unionist party, on which the coalition had swept the country, had made it clear that fresh irish legislation was to be expected, and the general lines on which it would be based were laid down; but there was also an intimation that a settlement must wait till the condition of ireland should warrant it.[104] the state of ireland was certainly not such as to make it appear probable that any sane government would take the risk of handing over control of the country immediately to the sinn feiners, whom the recent elections had proved to be in an overwhelming majority in the three southern provinces. by the law, not of england alone, but of every civilised state, that party was tainted through and through with high treason. it had attempted to "succour the king's enemies" in every way in its power. the government had in its possession evidence of two conspiracies, in which, during the late frightful war, these irishmen had been in league with the germans to bring defeat and disaster upon england and her allies, and the second of these plots was only made possible by the misconceived clemency of the government in releasing from custody the ring-leaders in the first. and these sinn fein rebels left the government no excuse for any illusion as to their being either chastened or contrite in spirit. contemptuously ignoring their election as members of the imperial parliament, where they never put in an appearance because it would require them to take an oath of allegiance to the crown, they openly held a congress in dublin in january 1919 where a declaration of independence was read, and a demand made for the evacuation of ireland by the forces of the crown. a "ministry" was also appointed, which purported to make itself responsible for administration in ireland. outrages of a daring character became more and more frequent, and gave evidence of being the work of efficient organisation. president wilson's coinage of the unfortunate and ambiguous expression "self-determination" made it a catch-penny cry in relation to ireland; but, in reply to mr. devlin's demand for a recognition of that "principle," mr. lloyd george pointed out that it had been tried in the convention, with the result that both nationalists and unionists had been divided among themselves, and he said he despaired of any settlement in ireland until irishmen could agree. nevertheless, in october 1919 he appointed a cabinet committee, with mr. walter long as chairman, to make recommendations for dealing with the question of irish government. but murders of soldiers and police had now become so scandalously frequent that in november a proclamation was issued suppressing sinn fein and kindred organisations. it did nothing to improve the state of the country, which grew worse than ever in the last few weeks of the year. on the 19th of december a carefully planned attempt on the life of the lord-lieutenant, lord french, proved how complete was the impunity relied upon by the organised assassins who, calling themselves an irish republican army, terrorised the country. it was in such conditions that, just before the close of the parliamentary session, the prime minister disclosed the intentions of the government. he laid down three "basic facts," which he said governed the situation: (1) three-fourths of the irish people were bitterly hostile, and were at heart rebels against the crown and government. (2) ulster was a complete contrast, which would make it an outrage to place her people under the rest of ireland.[105] (3) no separation from the empire could be tolerated, and any attempt to force it would be fought as the united states had fought against secession. on these considerations he based the proposals which were to be embodied in legislation in the next session. sir edward carson, who in the light of past experience was too wary to take all mr. lloyd george's declarations at their face value, said at once that he could give no support to the policy outlined by the prime minister until he was convinced that the latter intended to go through with it to the end. the bill to give effect to these proposals (which became the government of ireland act, 1920) was formally introduced on the 25th of february, 1920, and carson then went over to belfast to consult with the unionist council as to the action to be taken by the ulster members. the measure was a long and complicated one of seventy clauses and six schedules. its effect, stated briefly, was to set up two parliaments in ireland, one for the six protestant counties of ulster and the other for the rest of ireland. in principle it was the "clean cut" which had been several times proposed, except that, instead of retaining ulster in legislative union with great britain, she was to be endowed with local institutions of her own in every respect similar to, and commensurate with, those given to the parliament in dublin. in addition, a council of ireland was created, composed of an equal number of members from each of the two legislatures. this council was given powers in regard to private bill legislation, and matters of minor importance affecting both parts of the island which the two parliaments might mutually agree to commit to its administration. power was given to the two parliaments to establish by identical acts at any time a parliament for all ireland to supersede the council, and to form a single autonomous constitution for the whole of ireland. the council of ireland occupied a prominent place in the debates on the bill. it was held up as a symbol of the "unity of ireland," and the authors of the measure were able to point to it as supplying machinery by which "partition" could be terminated as soon as irishmen agreed among themselves in wishing to have a single national government. it was not a feature of the bill that found favour in ulster; but, as it could do no harm and provided an argument against those who denounced "partition," the ulster members did not think it worth while to oppose it. but when carson met the ulster unionist council on the 6th of march the most difficult point he had to deal with was the same that had given so much trouble in the negotiations of 1916. the bill defined the area subject to the "parliament of northern ireland" as the six counties which the ulster council had agreed four years earlier to accept as the area to be excluded from the home rule act. the question now to be decided was whether this same area should still be accepted, or an amendment moved for including in northern ireland the other three counties of the province of ulster. the same harrowing experience which the council had undergone in 1916 was repeated in an aggravated form.[106] to separate themselves from fellow loyalists in monaghan, cavan, and donegal was hateful to every delegate from the other six counties, and it was heartrending to be compelled to resist another moving appeal by so valued a friend as lord farnham. but the inexorable index of statistics demonstrated that, although unionists were in a majority when geographical ulster was considered as a unit, yet the distribution of population made it certain that a separate parliament for the whole province would have a precarious existence, while its administration of purely nationalist districts would mean unending conflict. it was, therefore, decided that no proposal for extending the area should be made by the ulster members. carson made it clear in the debates on the bill that ulster had not moved from her old position of desiring nothing except the union; that he was still convinced there was "no alternative to the union unless separation"; but that, while he would take no responsibility for a bill which ulster did not want, he and his colleagues would not actively oppose its progress to the statute-book. it did not, however, receive the royal assent until two days before christmas, and during all these months the condition of ireland was one of increasing anarchy. the act provided that, if the people of southern ireland refused to work the new constitution, the administration should be carried on by a system similar to crown colony government. carson gave an assurance that in ulster they would do their best to make the act a success, and immediate steps were taken in belfast to make good this undertaking. to the people of ulster the act of 1920, though it involved the sacrifice of much that they had ardently hoped to preserve, came as a relief to their worst fears. it was represented as a final settlement, and finality was what they chiefly desired, if they could get it without being forced to submit to a dublin parliament. the disloyal conduct of nationalist ireland during the war, and the treason and terrorism organised by sinn fein after the war, had widened the already broad gulf between north and south. the determination never to submit to an all-ireland parliament was more firmly fixed than ever. the act of 1920, which repealed mr. asquith's act of 1914, gave ulster what she had prepared to fight for, if necessary, before the war. it was the fulfilment of the craigavon resolution--to take over the government "of those districts which they could control."[107] the parliament of northern ireland established by the act was in fact the legalisation of the ulster provisional government of 1913. it placed ulster in a position of equality with the south, both politically and economically. the two legislatures in ireland possessed the same powers, and were subject to an equal reservation of authority to the imperial parliament. but with the passing of the act the long and consummate leadership of sir edward carson came to an end. if he had not succeeded in bringing the ulster people into a promised land, he had at least conducted an orderly retreat to a position of safety. the almost miraculous skill with which he had directed all the operations of a protracted and harassing campaign, avoiding traps and pitfalls at every step, foreseeing and providing against countless crises, frustrating with unfailing adroitness the manoeuvres both of implacable enemies and treacherous "friends," was fully appreciated by his grateful followers, who had for years past regarded him with an intensity of personal devotion seldom given even to the greatest of political leaders. but he felt that the task of opening a new chapter in the history of ulster, and of inaugurating the new institutions now established, was work for younger hands. hard as he was pressed to accept the position of first prime minister of ulster, he firmly persisted in his refusal; and on his recommendation the man who had been his able and faithful lieutenant throughout the long ulster movement was unanimously chosen to succeed him in the leadership. sir james craig did not hesitate to respond to the call, although to do so he had to resign an important post in the british government, that of parliamentary secretary to the admiralty, with excellent prospects of further promotion. as soon as the elections in "northern ireland," conducted under the system of proportional representation, as provided by the act of 1920, were complete, sir james, whose followers numbered forty as against a nationalist and sinn fein minority of twelve, was sent for by the viceroy and commissioned to form a ministry. he immediately set himself to his new and exceedingly difficult duties with characteristic thoroughness. the whole apparatus of government administration had to be built up from the foundation. departments, for which there was no existing office accommodation or personnel, had to be called into existence and efficiently organised, and all this preliminary work had to be undertaken at a time when the territory subject to the new government was beset by open and concealed enemies working havoc with bombs and revolvers, with which the government had not yet legal power to cope. but sir james craig pressed on with the work, undismayed by the difficulties, and resolved that the parliament in belfast should be opened at the earliest possible date. the marquis of londonderry gave a fresh proof of his ulster patriotism by resigning his office in the imperial government and accepting the portfolio of education in sir james craig's cabinet, and with it the leadership of the ulster senate; in which the duke of abercorn also, to the great satisfaction of the ulster people, consented to take a seat. mr. dawson bates, the indefatigable secretary of the ulster unionist council during the whole of the ulster movement, was appointed minister for home affairs, and mr. e.m. archdale became minister for agriculture. the first act of the house of commons of northern ireland was to choose major hugh o'neill as their speaker, while the important position of chairman of committees was entrusted to mr. thomas moles, one of the ablest recruits of the ulster parliamentary party, whom the general election of 1918 had sent to westminster as one of the members for belfast, and who had given ample evidence of his capacity both in the imperial parliament and on the secretarial staff of the irish convention of 1917. meantime, in the south the act of 1920 was treated with absolute contempt; no step was taken to hold elections or to form an administration, although it must be remembered that the flouted act conferred a larger measure of home rule than had ever been offered by previous bills. thus by one of those curious ironies that have continually marked the history of ireland, the only part of the island where home rule operated was the part that had never desired it, while the provinces that had demanded home rule for generations refused to use it when it was granted them. in ulster the new order of things was accepted with acquiescence rather than with enthusiasm. but the warmer emotion was immediately called forth when it became known that his majesty the king had decided to open the ulster parliament in person on the 22nd of june, 1921, especially as it was fully realised that, owing to the anarchical condition of the country, the king's presence in belfast would be a characteristic disregard of personal danger in the discharge of public duty. and when, on the eve of the royal visit, it was intimated that the queen had been graciously pleased to accede to sir james craig's request that she should accompany the king to belfast, the enthusiasm of the loyal people of the north rose to fever heat. at any time, and under any circumstances, the reigning sovereign and his consort would have been received by a population so noted for its sentiment of loyalty to the throne as that of ulster with demonstrations of devotion exceeding the ordinary. but the present occasion was felt to have a very special significance. the opening of parliament by the king in state is one of the most ancient and splendid of ceremonial pageants illustrating the history of british institutions. it was felt in ulster that the association of this time-honoured ceremonial with the baptism, so to speak, of the latest offspring of the mother of parliaments stamped the royal seal upon the achievement of ulster, and gave it a dignity, prestige, and promise of permanence which might otherwise have been lacking. no city in the united kingdom had witnessed so many extraordinary displays of popular enthusiasm in the last ten years as belfast, some of which had left on the minds of observers a firm belief that such intensity of emotion in a great concourse of people could not be exceeded. the scene in the streets when the king and queen drove from the quay, on the arrival of the royal yacht, to the city hall, was held by general consent to equal, since it could not surpass, any of those great demonstrations of the past in popular fervour. at any rate, persons of long experience in attendance on the royal family gave it as their opinion in the evening that they had never before seen so impressive a display of public devotion to the person of the sovereign. two buildings in belfast inseparably associated with ulster's stand for union, the city hall and the ulster hall, were the scenes of the chief events of the king's visit. the former, described by one of the english correspondents as "easily the most magnificent municipal building in the three kingdoms,"[108] was placed at the disposal of the ulster government by the corporation for temporary use as a parliament house. the council chamber, a fine hall of dignified proportions with a dais and canopied chair at the upper end, made an appropriate frame for the ceremony of opening parliament, and the arrangements both of the chamber itself and of the approaches and entrances to it made it a simple matter to model the procedure as closely as possible on that followed at westminster. among the many distinguished people who assembled in the ulster capital for the occasion, there was one notable absentee. lord carson of duncairn--for this was the title that sir edward carson had assumed on being appointed a lord of appeal in ordinary a few weeks previously--was detained in london by judicial duty in the house of lords; and possibly reasons of delicacy not difficult to understand restrained him from making arrangements for absence. but the marked ovation given to lady carson wherever she was recognised in the streets of belfast showed that the great leader was not absent from the popular mind at this moment of vindication of his statesmanship. such an event as that which brought his majesty to belfast was naturally an occasion for bestowing marks of distinction for public service. sir james craig wisely made it also an occasion for letting bygones be bygones by recommending lord pirrie for a step in the peerage. among those who received honours were several whose names have appeared in the preceding chapters of this book. mr. william robert young, for thirty years one of the most indefatigable workers for the unionist cause in ulster, and colonel wallace, one of the most influential of carson's local lieutenants, were made privy councillors, as was also colonel percival-maxwell, who raised and commanded a battalion of the ulster division in the war. colonel f.h. crawford and colonel spender were awarded the c.b.e. for services to the nation during the war; but ulstermen did not forget services of another sort to the ulster cause before the germans came on the scene.[109] a knighthood was given to mr. dawson bates, who had exchanged the secretaryship of the ulster unionist council for the portfolio of a cabinet minister. these honours were bestowed by the king in person at an investiture held in the ulster hall in the afternoon. there must have been many present whose minds went back to some of the most stirring events of ulster's domestic history which had been transacted in the same building within recent years. did sir hamar greenwood, the chief secretary, as he stood in attendance on the sovereign in the resplendent uniform of a privy councillor, look in curiosity round the walls which he and mr. churchill had been prohibited from entering on a memorable occasion when they had to content themselves with an imported tent in a football field instead? did colonel wallace's thoughts wander back to the scene of wild enthusiasm in that hall on the evening before the covenant, when he presented the ancient boyne flag to the ulster leader? did those who spontaneously started the national anthem in the presence of the king without warrant from the prearranged programme, and made the queen smile at the emphasis with which they "confounded politics" and "frustrated knavish tricks," remember the fervour with which on many a past occasion the same strains testified to ulster's loyalty in the midst of perplexity and apprehension? if these memories crowded in, they must have added to the sense of relief arising from the conviction that the ceremony they were now witnessing was the realisation of the policy propounded by carson, when he declared that ulster must always be ruled either by the imperial parliament or by a government of her own. but the moment of all others on that memorable day that must have been suggestive of such reflections was when the king formally opened the first parliament of northern ireland in the same building that had witnessed the signing of the ulster covenant. without the earlier event the later could not have been. if 1921 could have been fully foreseen in 1912 it might have appeared to many covenanters as the disappointment of a cherished ideal. but those who lived to listen to the king's speech in the city hall realised that it was the dissipation of foreboding. however regarded, it was, as king george himself pronounced, "a profoundly moving occasion in irish history." the speech from the throne in which these words occurred made a deep impression all over the world, and nowhere more than in ulster itself. no people more ardently shared the touchingly expressed desire of the king that his coming to ireland might "prove to be the first step towards an end of strife amongst her people, whatever their race or creed." so, too, when his majesty told the ulster parliament that he "felt assured they would do their utmost to make it an instrument of happiness and good government for all parts of the community which they represented," the ulster people believed that the king's confidence in them would not prove to have been misplaced. happily, no prophetic vision of those things that were shortly to come to pass broke in to disturb the sense of satisfaction with the haven that had been reached. the future, with its treachery, its alarms, its fresh causes of uncertainty and of conflict, was mercifully hidden from the eyes of the ulster people when they acclaimed the inauguration of their parliament by their king. they accepted responsibility for the efficient working of institutions thus placed in their keeping by the highest constitutional authority in the british empire, although they had never asked for them, and still believed that the system they had been driven to abandon was better than the new; and they opened this fresh chapter in their history in firm faith that what had received so striking a token of the sovereign's sympathy and approval would never be taken from them except with their own consent. footnotes: [104] see letter from mr. lloyd george to mr. bonar law, published in the press on november 18th, 1918. [105] precisely twenty-four months later this outrage was committed by mr. lloyd george himself, with the concurrence of mr. austen chamberlain. [106] _ante_, p. 248. [107] see _ante_, p. 51. [108] _the morning post_, june 23rd, 1921. [109] see _ante_, chapter xviii. appendix a nationalist letter to president wilson to the president of the united states of america sir, when, a century and a half ago, the american colonies dared to assert the ancient principle that the subject should not be taxed without the consent of his representatives, england strove to crush them. to-day england threatens to crush the people of ireland if they do not accept a tax, not in money but in blood, against the protest of their representatives. during the american revolution the champions of your liberties appealed to the irish parliament against british aggression, and asked for a sympathetic judgment on their action. what the verdict was, history records. to-day it is our turn to appeal to the people of america. we seek no more fitting prelude to that appeal than the terms in which your forefathers greeted ours: "we are desirous of possessing the good opinion of the virtuous and humane. we are peculiarly desirous of furnishing you with the true state of our motives and objects, the better to enable you to judge of our conduct with accuracy, and determine the merits of the controversy with impartiality and precision." if the irish race had been conscriptable by england in the war against the united colonies is it certain that your republic would to-day flourish in the enjoyment of its noble constitution? since then the irish parliament has been destroyed, by methods described by the greatest of british statesmen as those of "black-guardism and baseness." ireland, deprived of its protection and overborne by more than six to one in the british lower house, and by more than a hundred to one in the upper house, is summoned by england to submit to a hitherto-unheard-of decree against her liberties. in the fourth year of a war ostensibly begun for the defence of small nations, a law conscribing the manhood of ireland has been passed, in defiance of the wishes of our people. the british parliament, which enacted it, had long outrun its course, being in the eighth year of an existence constitutionally limited to five. to warrant the coercive statute, no recourse was had to the electorate of britain, much less to that of ireland. yet the measure was forced through within a week, despite the votes of irish representatives, and under a system of closure never applied to the debates which established conscription for great britain on a milder basis. to repel the calumnies invented to becloud our action, we venture to address the successors of the belligerents who once appealed to ireland. the feelings which inspire america deeply concern our race; so, in the forefront of our remonstrance, we feel bound to set forth that this conscription act involves for irishmen questions far larger than any affecting mere internal politics. they raise a sovereign principle between a nation that has never abandoned her independent rights, and an adjacent nation that has persistently sought to strangle them. were ireland to surrender that principle, she must submit to a usurped power, condone the fraudulent prostration of her parliament in 1800, and abandon all claim to distinct nationality. deep-seated and far-reaching are the problems remorselessly aroused by the unthinking and violent courses taken at westminster. thus the sudden and unlooked-for departure of british politicians from their past military procedure towards this island provokes acutely the fundamental issue of self-determination. that issue will decide whether our whole economic, social, and political life must lie at the uncontrolled disposition of another race whose title to legislate for us rests on force and fraud alone. ireland is a nation more ancient than england, and is one of the oldest in christendom. its geographical boundaries are clearly defined. it cherishes its own traditions, history, language, music, and culture. it throbs with a national consciousness sharpened not only by religious persecution, but by the violation of its territorial, juristic, and legislative rights. the authority of which its invaders boasted rests solely on an alleged papal bull. the symbols of attempted conquest are roofless castles, ruined abbeys, and confiscated cathedrals. the title of king of ireland was first conferred on the english monarch by a statute of the parliament held in ireland in 1542, when only four of our counties lay under english sway. that title originated in no english enactment. neither did the irish parliament so originate. every military aid granted by that parliament to english kings was purely voluntary. even when the penal code denied representation to the majority of the irish population, military service was never enforced against them. for generations england claimed control over both legislative and judicial functions in ireland, but in 1783 these pretensions were altogether renounced, and the sovereignty of the irish legislature was solemnly recognised. a memorable british statute declared it- "established and ascertained for ever, and shall at no time hereafter be questioned or questionable." for this, the spirit evoked by the successful revolt of the united states of america is to be thanked, and ireland won no mean return for the sympathy invited by your congress. yet scarcely had george iii signified his royal assent to that "scrap of paper," when his ministers began to debauch the irish parliament. no catholic had, for over a century, been allowed to sit within its walls; and only a handful of the population enjoyed the franchise. in 1800, by shameless bribery, a majority of corrupt colonists was procured to embrace the london subjugation and vote away the existence of their legislature for pensions, pelf, and titles. the authors of the act of union, however, sought to soften its shackles by limiting the future jurisdiction of the british parliament. imposed on "a reluctant and protesting nation," it was tempered by articles guaranteeing ireland against the coarser and more obvious forms of injustice. to guard against undue taxation, "exemptions and abatements" were stipulated for; but the "predominant partner" has long since dishonoured that part of the contract, and the weaker side has no power to enforce it. no military burdens were provided for, although britain framed the terms of the treaty to her own liking. that an obligation to yield enforced service was thereby undertaken has never hitherto been asserted. we therefore cannot neglect to support this protest by citing a main proviso of the treaty of union. before the destruction of the irish parliament no standing army or navy was raised, nor was any contribution made, except by way of gift, to the british army or navy. no irish law for the levying of drafts existed; and such a proposal was deemed unconstitutional. hence the 8th article of the treaty provides that- "all laws in force at the time of the union shall remain as now by law established, subject only to such alterations and regulations from time to time as circumstances may appear to the parliament of the united kingdom to require." where there was no law establishing military service for ireland, what "alteration or regulation" respecting such a law can legally bind? can an enactment such as conscription, affecting the legal and moral rights of an entire people, be described as an "alteration" or "regulation" springing from a pre-existing law? is the treaty to be construed as britain pleases, and always to the prejudice of the weaker side? british military statecraft has hitherto rigidly held by a separate tradition for ireland. the territorial military system, created in 1907 for great britain, was not set up in ireland. the irish militia was then actually disbanded, and the war office insisted that no territorial force to replace it should be embodied. stranger still, the volunteer acts (naval or military) from 1804 to 1900 (some twenty in all) were never extended to ireland. in 1880, when a conservative house of commons agreed to tolerate volunteering, the measure was thrown out by the house of lords on the plea that irishmen must not be allowed to learn the use of arms. for, despite the bill of rights, the privilege of free citizens to bear arms in self-defence has been refused to us. the constitution of america affirms that right as appertaining to the common people, but the men of ireland are forbidden to bear arms in their own defence. where, then, lies the basis of the claim that they can be forced to take them up for the defence of others? it will suffice to present such considerations in outline without disinterring the details of the past misgovernment of our country. mr. gladstone avowed that these were marked by "every horror and every shame that could disgrace the relations between a strong country and a weak one." after an orgy of martial law the scottish general, abercromby, commander-in-chief in ireland, wrote: "every crime, every cruelty that could be committed by cossacks or calmucks has been transacted here.... the abuses of all kinds i found can scarcely be believed or enumerated." lord holland recalls that many people "were sold at so much a head to the prussians." we shall, therefore, pass by the story of the destruction of our manufactures, of artificial famines, of the fomentation of uprisings, of a hundred coercion acts, culminating in the perpetual "act of repression" obtained by forgery, which graced queen victoria's jubilee year in 1887. in our island the suspension of the habeas corpus act, the repression of free speech, gibbetings, shootings, and bayonetings, are commonplace events. the effects of forced emigration and famine american generosity has softened; and we do not seek a verdict on the general merits of a system which enjoys the commendation of no foreigner except albert, prince consort, who declared that the irish "were no more worthy of sympathy than the poles." it is known to you how our population shrank to its present fallen state. grants of money for emigration, "especially of families," were provided even by the land act of 1881. previous poor law acts had stimulated this "remedy." so late as 1891 a "congested district" board was empowered to "aid emigration," although millions of irishmen had in the nineteenth century been evicted from their homes or driven abroad. seventy years ago our population stood at 8,000,000, and, in the normal ratio of increase, it should to-day amount to 16,000,000. instead, it has dwindled to 4,500,000; and it is from this residuum that our manhood between the ages of eighteen and fifty-one is to be delivered up in such measure as the strategists of the english war cabinet may demand. to-day, as in the days of george washington, nearly half the american forces have been furnished from the descendants of our banished race. if england could not, during your revolution, regard that enrolment with satisfaction, might she not set something now to ireland's credit from the racial composition of your army or navy? no other small nation has been so bereft by law of her children, but in vain for ireland has the bread of exile been thrown upon the waters. yet, while self-determination is refused, we are required by law to bleed to "make the world safe for democracy "--in every country except our own. surely this cannot be the meaning of america's message to mankind glowing from the pen of her illustrious president? in the 750 years during which the stranger sway has blighted ireland her people have never had occasion to welcome an unselfish or generous deed at the hands of their rulers. every so-called "concession" was but the loosening of a fetter. every benefit sprang from a manipulation of our own money by a foreign treasury denying us an honest audit of accounts. none was yielded as an act of grace. all were the offspring of constraint, tumult, or political necessity. reason and arguments fell on deaf ears. to england the union has brought enhanced wealth, population, power, and importance; to ireland increased taxation, stunted industries, swollen emigration, and callous officialism. possessing in this land neither moral nor intellectual pre-eminence, nor any prestige derived from past merit or present esteem, the british executive claims to restrain our liberties, control our fortunes, and exercise over our people the power of life and death. to obstruct the recent home rule bill it allowed its favourites to defy its parliament without punishment, to import arms from suspect regions with impunity, to threaten "to break every law" to effectuate their designs to infect the army with mutiny and set up a rival executive backed by military array to enforce the rule of a caste against the vast majority of the people. the highest offices of state became the guerdon of the organisers of rebellion, boastful of aid from germany. to-day they are pillars of the constitution, and the chief instrument of law. the only laurels lacking to the leaders of the mutineers are those transplanted from the field of battle! are we to fight to maintain a system so repugnant, and must irishmen be content to remain slaves themselves after freedom for distant lands has been purchased by their blood? heretofore in every clime, whenever the weak called for a defender, wherever the flag of liberty was unfurled, that blood freely flowed. profiting by irish sympathy with righteous causes britain, at the outbreak of war, attracted to her armies tens of thousands of our youth ere even the western hemisphere had awakened to the wail of "small nations." irishmen, in their chivalrous eagerness, laid themselves open to the reproach from some of their brethren of forgetting the woes of their own land, which had suffered from its rulers, at one time or another, almost every inhumanity for which germany is impeached. it was hard to bear the taunt that the army they were joining was that which held ireland in subjection; but fresh bitterness has been added to such reproaches by what has since taken place. nevertheless, in the face of persistent discouragements, irish chivalry remained ardent and aflame in the first years of the war. tens of thousands of the children of the gael have perished in the conflict. their bones bleach upon the soil of flanders or moulder beneath the waves of suvla bay. the slopes of gallipoli, the sands of egypt, mesopotamia and judasa afford them sepulture. mons and ypres provide their monuments. wherever the battle-line extends from the english channel to the persian gulf their ghostly voices whisper a response to the roll-call of the guardian-spirits of liberty. what is their reward? the spot on earth they loved best, and the land to which they owed their first duty, and which they hoped their sacrifices might help to freedom, lies unredeemed under an age-long thraldom. so, too, would it for ever lie, were every man and every youth within the shores of ireland to immolate himself in england's service, unless the clamour of a dominant caste be rebuked and stilled. yet proof after proof accumulates that british cabinets continue to be towards our country as conscienceless as ever. they deceive frankly nations throughout the world as to their irish policy, while withholding from us even the act of home rule which in 1914 was placed on the statute-book. the recent "convention," which they composed to initiate reform, was brought to confusion by a letter from the prime minister diminishing his original engagements. such insincere manoeuvres have left an indelible sense of wrong rankling in the hearts of ireland. capitulations are observed with french canadians, with the maltese, with the hindoos, with the mohammedan arabs, or the african boers; but never has the word of england, in any capital case, been kept towards the "sister" island. the parliaments of australia and of south africa--both of which (unlike our ancient legislature) were founded by british enactments--refused to adopt conscription. this was well known when the law against ireland was resolved on. for opposing the application of that law to irishmen, and while this appeal to you, sir, was being penned, members of our conference have been arrested and deported without trial. it was even sought to poison the wells of american sympathy by levelling against them and others an allegation which its authors have failed to submit to the investigation of any tribunal. to overlay malpractice by imputing to its victims perverse or criminal conduct is the stale but never-failing device of tyranny. a claim has also been put forward by the british foreign office to prevent you, mr. president, as the head of a great allied republic, from acquiring first-hand information of the reasons why ireland has rejected, and will resist, conscription except in so far as the military governor of ireland, field-marshal lord french, may be pleased to allow you to peruse his version of our opinions. america's present conflict with germany obstructs no argument that we advance. "liberty and ordered peace" we, too, strive for; and confidently do we look to you, sir, and to america--whose freedom irishmen risked something to establish--to lend ear and weight to the prayer that another unprovoked wrong against the defenceless may not stain this sorry century. we know that america entered the war because her rights as a neutral, in respect of ocean navigation, were interfered with, and only then. yet america in her strength had a guarantee that in victory she would not be cheated of that for which she joined in the struggle. ireland, having no such strength, has no such guarantee; and experience has taught us that justice (much less gratitude) is not to be wrung from a hostile government. what ireland is to give, a free ireland must determine. we are sadly aware, from recent proclamations and deportations, of the efforts of british authorities to inflame prejudice against our country. we therefore crave allowance briefly to notice the insinuation that the irish coasts, with native connivance, could be made a base for the destruction of american shipping. an official statement asserts that: "an important feature in every plan was the establishment of submarine bases in ireland to menace the shipping of all nations." on this it is enough to say that every creek, inlet, or estuary that indents our shores, and every harbour, mole, or jetty is watchfully patrolled by british authority. moreover, irish vessels, with their cargoes, crews, and passengers, have suffered in this war proportionately to those of britain. another state paper palliates the deportations by blazoning the descent of a solitary invader upon a remote island on the 12th of april, heralded by mysterious warnings from the admiralty to the irish command. no discussion is permitted of the tryst of this british soldier with the local coast-guards, of his speedy bent towards a police barrack, and his subsequent confidences with the london authorities. only one instance exists in history of a project to profane our coasts by making them a base to launch attacks on international shipping. that plot was framed, not by native wickedness, but by an english viceroy, and the proofs are piled up under his hand in british state papers. for huge bribes were proffered by lord falkland, lord-lieutenant of ireland, to both the royal secretary and the prince of wales, to obtain consent for the use of irish harbours to convenience turkish and algerine pirates in raiding sea-going commerce. the plot is old, but the plea of "increasing his majesty's revenues" by which it was commended is everlasting. nor will age lessen its significance for the citizens of that republic which, amidst the tremors and greed of european diplomacy, extirpated the traffic of algerine corsairs ninety years ago. british experts cherish lord falkland's fame as the sire of their most knightly cavalier, and in their eyes its lustre shines undimmed, though his excellency, foiled of marine booty, enriched himself by seizing the lands of his untried prisoners in dublin castle. moving are other retrospects evoked by the present outbreak of malignity against our nation. the slanders of the hour recall those let loose to cloak previous deportations in days of panic less ignoble. then it was the primate of all ireland, archbishop oliver plunkett, who was dragged to london and arraigned for high treason. poignant memories quicken at every incident which accompanied his degradation before the lord chief justice of england. a troop of witnesses was suborned to swear that his grace "endeavoured and compassed the king's death," sought to "levy war in ireland and introduce a foreign power," and conspired "to take a view of all the several ports and places in ireland where it would be convenient to land from france." an open trial, indeed, was not denied him; but with hasty rites he was branded a base and false traitor and doomed to be hanged, drawn, and quartered at tyburn. that desperate felon, after prolonged investigation by the holy see, has lately been declared a martyr worthy of universal veneration. the fathers of the american revolution were likewise pursued in turn by the venom of governments. could they have been snatched from their homes and haled to london, what fate would have befallen them? there your noblest patriots might also have perished amidst scenes of shame, and their effigies would now bedeck a british chamber of horrors. nor would death itself have shielded their reputations from hatchments of dishonour. for the greatest of englishmen reviled even the sacred name of joan of arc, the stainless maid of france, to belittle a fallen foe and spice a ribald stage-play. it is hardly thirty years since every irish leader was made the victim of a special statute of proscription, and was cited to answer vague charges before london judges. during 1888 and 1889 a malignant and unprecedented inquisition was maintained to vilify them, backed by all the resources of british power. no war then raged to breed alarms, yet no weapon that perjury or forgery could fashion was left unemployed to destroy the characters of more than eighty national representatives--some of whom survive to join in this address. that plot came to an end amidst the confusion of their persecutors, but fresh accusations may be daily contrived and buttressed by the chicanery of state. in every generation the irish nation is challenged to plead to a new indictment, and to the present summons answer is made before no narrow forum but to the tribunal of the world. so answering, we commit our cause, as did america, to "the virtuous and humane," and also more humbly to the providence of god. well assured are we that you, mr. president, whose exhortations have inspired the small nations of the world with fortitude to defend to the last their liberties against oppressors, will not be found among those who would condemn ireland for a determination which is irrevocable to continue steadfastly in the course mapped out for her, no matter what the odds, by an unexampled unity of national judgment and national right. given at the mansion house, dublin, this 11th day of june, 1918. laurence o'neill, lord mayor of dublin, chairman of a conference of representative irishmen whose names stand hereunder. joseph devlin, john dillon, michael johnson, william o'brien (lab.), t.m. healy, william o'brien, thomas kelly, and john macneill: {acting in the place e. de valera and a. griffith, deported 18th of may, 1918, to separate prisons in england, without trial or accusation--communication with whom has been cut off.} appendix b unionist letter to president wilson city hall, belfast, _august 1st_, 1918. to the president of the united states of america sir, a manifesto signed by the leader of the irish nationalist party and certain other irish gentlemen has been widely circulated in the united kingdom, in the form of a letter purporting to have been addressed to your excellency.[110] its purpose appears to be to offer an explanation of, and an excuse for, the conduct of the nationalist party in obstructing the extension to ireland of compulsory military service, which the rest of the united kingdom has felt compelled to adopt as the necessary means of defeating the german design to dominate the world. at a time when all the free democracies of the world have, with whatever reluctance, accepted the burden of conscription as the only alternative to the destruction of free institutions and of international justice, it is easily intelligible that those who maintain ireland's right to solitary and privileged exemption from the same obligation should betray their consciousness that an apologia is required to enable them to escape condemnation at the bar of civilised, and especially of american, opinion. but, inasmuch as the document referred to would give to anyone not intimately familiar with british domestic affairs the impression that it represents the unanimous opinion of irishmen, it is important that your excellency and the american people should be assured that this is very far from being the case. there is in ireland a minority, whom we claim to represent, comprising one-fourth to one-third of the total population of the island, located mainly, but not exclusively, in the province of ulster, who dissent emphatically from the views of mr. dillon and his associates. this minority, through their representatives in parliament, have maintained throughout the present war that the same obligations should in all respects be borne by ireland as by great britain, and it has caused them as irishmen a keen sense of shame that their country has not submitted to this equality of sacrifice. your excellency does not need to be informed that this question has become entangled in the ancient controversy concerning the constitutional status of ireland in the united kingdom. this is, indeed, sufficiently clear from the terms of the nationalist manifesto addressed to you, every paragraph of which is coloured by allusion to bygone history and threadbare political disputes. it is not our intention to traverse the same ground. there is in the manifesto almost no assertion with regard to past events which is not either a distortion or a misinterpretation of historical fact. but we consider that this is not the moment for discussing the faults and follies of the past, still less for rehearsing ancient grievances, whether well or ill founded, in language of extravagant rhetoric. at a time when the very existence of civilisation hangs in the balance, all smaller issues, whatever their merits or however they may affect our internal political problems, should in our judgment have remained in abeyance, while the parties interested in their solution should have joined in whole-hearted co-operation against the common enemy. there is, however, one matter to which reference must be made, in order to make clear the position of the irish minority whom we represent. the nationalist party have based their claim to american sympathy on the historic appeal addressed to irishmen by the british colonists who fought for independence in america a hundred and fifty years ago. by no irishmen was that appeal received with a more lively sympathy than by the protestants of ulster, the ancestors of those for whom we speak to-day--a fact that was not surprising in view of the circumstance that more than one-sixth part of the entire colonial population in america at the time of the declaration of independence consisted of emigrants from ulster. the ulstermen of to-day, forming as they do the chief industrial community in ireland, are as devoted adherents to the cause of democratic freedom as were their forefathers in the eighteenth century. but the experience of a century of social and economic progress under the legislative union with great britain has convinced them that under no other system of government could more complete liberty be enjoyed by the irish people. this, however, is not the occasion for a reasoned defence of "unionist" policy. our sole purpose in referring to the matter is to show, whatever be the merits of the dispute, that a very substantial volume of irish opinion is warmly attached to the existing constitution of the united kingdom, and regards as wholly unwarranted the theory that our political status affords any sort of parallel to that of the "small nations" oppressed by alien rule, for whose emancipation the allied democracies are fighting in this war. the irish representation in the imperial parliament throws a significant sidelight on this prevalent fiction. whereas england is only represented by one member for every 75,000 of population, and scotland by one for every 65,000, ireland has a member for every 42,000 of her people. with a population below that of scotland, ireland has 31 more members in the house of commons, and 89 more than she could claim on a basis of representation strictly proportionate to population in the united kingdom. speaking in dublin on the 1st of july, 1915, the late mr. john redmond gave the following description of the present condition of ireland, which offers a striking contrast to the extravagant declamation that represents that country as downtrodden by a harsh and unsympathetic system of government: "to-day," he said, "the people, broadly speaking, own the soil. to-day the labourers live in decent habitations. to-day there is absolute freedom in local government and local taxation of the country. to-day we have the widest parliamentary and municipal franchise. the congested districts, the scene of some of the most awful horrors of the old famine days, have been transformed. the farms have been enlarged, decent dwellings have been provided, and a new spirit of hope and independence is to-day among the people. in towns legislation has been passed facilitating the housing of the working classes--a piece of legislation far in advance of anything obtained for the town tenants of england. we have a system of old-age pensions in ireland whereby every old man and woman over seventy is safe from the workhouse and free to spend their last days in comparative comfort." such are the conditions which, in the eyes of nationalist politicians, constitute a tyranny so intolerable as to justify ireland in repudiating her fair share in the burden of war against the enemies of civilisation. the appeal which the nationalists make to the principle of "self-determination" strikes ulster protestants as singularly inappropriate. mr. dillon and his co-signatories have been careful not to inform your excellency that it was their own opposition that prevented the question of irish government being settled in accordance with that principle in 1916. the british government were prepared at that time to bring the home rule act of 1914 into immediate operation, if the nationalists had consented to exclude from its scope the distinctively protestant population of the north, who desired to adhere to the union. this compromise was rejected by the nationalist leaders, whose policy was thus shown to be one of "self-determination" for themselves, combined with coercive domination over us. it is because the british government, while prepared to concede the principle of self-determination impartially to both divisions in ireland, has declined to drive us forcibly into such subjection that the nationalist party conceive themselves entitled to resist the law of conscription. and the method by which this resistance has been made effective is, in our view, not less deplorable than the spirit that dictated it. the most active opponents of conscription in ireland are men who have been twice detected during the war in treasonable traffic with the enemy, and their most powerful support has been that of ecclesiastics, who have not scrupled to employ weapons of spiritual terrorism which have elsewhere in the civilised world fallen out of political use since the middle ages. the claim of these men, in league with germany on the one hand, and with the forces of clericalism on the other, to resist a law passed by parliament as necessary for national defence is, moreover, inconsistent with any political status short of independent sovereignty--status which could only be attained by ireland by an act of secession from the united kingdom, such as the american union averted only by resort to civil war. in every federal or other constitution embracing subordinate legislatures the raising and control of military forces are matters reserved for the supreme legislative authority alone, and they are so reserved for the imperial parliament of the united kingdom in the home rule act of 1914, the "withholding" of which during the war is complained of by the nationalists who have addressed your excellency. the contention of these gentlemen that until the internal government of ireland is changed in accordance with their demands, ireland is justified in resisting the law of conscription, is one that finds support in no intelligible theory of political science. to us as irishmen--convinced as we are of the righteousness of the cause for which we are fighting, and resolved that no sacrifice can be too great to "make the world safe for democracy"--it is a matter of poignant regret that the conduct of the nationalist leaders in refusing to lay aside matters of domestic dispute, in order to put forth the whole strength of the country against germany should have cast a stain on the good name of ireland. we have done everything in our power to dissociate ourselves from their action, and we disclaim responsibility for it at the bar of posterity and history. edward carson. james johnston, lord mayor of belfast. h.m. pollock, president belfast chamber of commerce. r.n. anderson, mayor of londonderry, and president londonderry chamber of commerce. john m. andrews, chairman ulster unionist labour association. james a. turkington, vice-chairman ulster unionist labour association, and secretary power-loom and allied trades friendly society, and ex-secretary power-loom tenters' trade union of ireland. thompson donald, hon. secretary ulster unionist labour association, and ex-district secretary shipwrights' association. henry fleming, hon. secretary ulster unionist labour association, member of boilermakers' iron and steel shipbuilders' society. footnotes: [110] see appendix a. index abercorn, james, 2nd duke of, at the belfast convention, 33; president of the ulster unionist council, 35; illness, 47, 85, 108; signs the covenant, 122; death, 144 abercorn, james, 3rd duke of, 257, 282 abercorn, mary, duchess of, president of the women's unionist council, 37 adair, gen. sir wm., at larne, 217 afghan campaign, 161 africa, south, war, 18 agar-robartes, hon. thomas, amendment on the home rule bill, 92, 94-97, 132 agnew, capt. andrew, viii, 193, 202, 210, 213, 214, 220 albert hall, meetings at, 14, 21, 34, 71 alexander, dr., bishop of derry, at the albert hall, 14 allen, c.e., 156 allen, w.j., 35 althorp, lord, 138 altrincham, election, 155 amending bill, 221, 223, 227; postponed, 228, 230; _see_ home rule america, war of independence, 273 amery, l.c.s., at belfast, 81; on the curragh incident, 182 amiens, threatened capture of, 266 anderson, r.n., mayor of londonderry, letter to president wilson, 273, 296-299 andrews, john m., letter to president wilson, 296-299 andrews, thomas, 33, 35, 48 anglo-german relations, 167, 201 _annual register_, viii, 18 note, 21, 54 note, 76, 78 note, 138, 154 note, 155 note, 157 note, 166 note, 167 note, 169 note, 170 note, 201 note, 222 note, 223 note, 238, 271 note, 272 note archdale, e.m., 35; chairman of the standing committee, 35; minister for agriculture, 282 armagh, military depot, 175, 176 armaghdale, lord, 263; signs the covenant, 122: _see_ lonsdale armistice, the, 275 army, british, sympathy with ulster loyalists, 187-189 arran, isle of, 175 asquith, rt. hon. h.h., on the opposition of ulster to home rule, 1, 2; at the albert hall, 21; hull, 24; reading, 24; bury st. edmunds, 25; opinion of sir e. carson's speech, 133; at ladybank, 154; manchester, 166; policy on the ulster question, 167-170; on the curragh incident, 180, 182; secretary of state for war, 184; promises an amending bill, 221; on the landing of arms, 221; at the buckingham palace conference, 227; on the postponement of the amending bill, 228, 230; defence of home rule bill, 235; in dublin, 244; on the settlement of the irish question, 245; on the national danger, 266 _attentive_, h.m.s., 178 austrian rifles, 198 baird, j.d., at belfast, 81 balfour, rt. hon. a.j., at belfast, 13, 81; on election tactics, 25; on exclusion of ulster, 95; resigns leadership of the unionist party, 60; how regarded in ulster, 61; message from, 115; the "peccant paragraphs," 181 balfour, lord, of burleigh, signs the british covenant, 170 ballycastle, 193 ballykinler, training camp, 237 ballymacarret, 225 ballymena, meeting at, 108 ballymoney, meeting at, 158 ballyroney, meeting at, 108 _balmerino_, s.s., 208, 209 balmoral, belfast, meeting at, 79-86, 101 bangor, 214, 219 barrie, h.t., 257 bates, richard dawson, secretary of the ulster unionist council, 35, 121; organises demonstration, 111; on board a tender, 214; minister for home affairs, 282; knighthood, 284 bedford, duke of, chairman of the british league for the support of ulster, 147 belfast, 46; convention of 1892, 32-34, 109; meetings at, 52, 78, 157; services on ulster day, 117; city hall, 119, 283; covenant signed, 119-122; drill hall, opened, 148; riots, 151; review of the ulster volunteer force at, 163; customs authorities, stratagem against, 217; reception of the king and queen, 283 belfast lough, 46, 175, 211, 212 _belfast newsletter_, 102 note, 111 benn, sir john, 53 beresford, lord charles, at belfast, 81, 109; at the ulster club, 125; liverpool, 127; member of a committee of the provisional government, 145 berwick, 149, 154 birrell, rt. hon. augustine, chief secretary for ireland, on the character of sinn feinism, 4; at ilfracombe, 54; on the home rule bill, 96; the right to fight, 138; member of a sub-committee on ulster, 175; conduct in the irish rebellion, 243; character of his administration, 245 blenheim, meeting at, 97 boyne, the, 2; battle of, 115; celebration, 224 bradford, 172, 174, 175 bristol, 150, 166; channel, 208 _britannic_, h.m.s., 224 british covenant, signing the, 170 british league for the support of ulster and the union, formation, 147 browne, robert, managing director of the antrim iron ore company, 193 brunner, sir john, president of the national liberal federation, 167 buckingham palace conference, 227 budden, captain, 196 budget, 19; "the people's," 20 "budget league," formed, 20 bull, sir william, 195 bury st. edmunds, 25 butcher, sir j.g., at belfast, 81 cambridge, h.r.h. duke of, 187 cambridgeshire, election, 155 campbell, james, lord chancellor of ireland, 57, 95, 109 canterbury, dean of, signs the british covenant, 170 carlyle, thomas, 137 carrickfergus, military depot, 175, 176 carson, lady, at belfast, 236, 284 carson, rt. hon. sir edward, viii; accepts leadership, 39-41; political views, 41; at the ulster hall, 42, 108; at the ulster unionist council meetings, 42, 246-248; relations with lord londonderry, 44, 53; on the parliament bill, 44; at the craigavon meeting, 48-51, 210; character of his speaking, 48; at the conference at belfast, 52; at dublin, 54; portrush, 55; refuses leadership of unionist party, 60; meetings in lancashire, 65; popularity, 66, 110, 148; at belfast, 73, 157, 224-226, 257, 278; criticism of w. churchill's speech, 74; on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 77; at the balmoral meeting, 81, 84; ovation, 85; attacks on, 87; on the home rule bill, 90, 96; at the londonderry house conference, 94; on the resistance of ulster, 98, 100; character of his leadership, 102; reads the ulster covenant, 105; tour of the province, 110, 114; opinion of the covenant, 111; presentation to, 115; speech on the covenant, 116; at the service in the ulster hall, 118; at the city hall, 120-124; signs the covenant, 121; at liverpool, 127; on the exclusion of ulster, 133, 168; death of his wife, 148; at opening of drill hall, 148; in scotland and england, 149; at durham, 153; chairman of the central authority, 156; indemnity guarantee fund, 156; inspection of the ulster volunteer force, 162, 164, 167, 223, 226; on the time limit for exclusion, 171; leaves the house of commons, 173; on the plot against ulster, 176; signs statement on the curragh incident, 186; interview with major f.h. crawford, 199, 210; congratulations from lord roberts, 220; at ipswich, 222; at the buckingham palace conference, 227; on the patriotism of ulster, 231-233; tribute to b. law, 236; second marriage, 236; tribute to lord londonderry, 241; appointed attorney-general, 242; resignation, 242; on the irish rebellion, 246; appointed first lord of the admiralty, 252; resignation, 263; re-elected leader of the ulster party, 263; member of the irish unionist alliance, 265; on the military service bill, 270; letter to president wilson, 273, 296-299; m.p. for duncairn, 275; declines office, 275; on the government of ireland act, 279; conclusion of his leadership, 280; lord of appeal in ordinary, 284; unable to be present at the opening of the ulster parliament, 284 casement, sir roger, 7, 158; in league with germany, 243 cassel, felix, at belfast, 81 castlereagh, viscount, 109, 230; at belfast, 81; signs the covenant, 121 cavan, 248, 279 cave, rt. hon. george, 188; at belfast, 81; letter to _the times_, 152 cecil, lord hugh, at belfast, 81, 109; at the balmoral meeting, 86; on the resistance of ulster, 96 chamberlain, rt. hon. austen, candidate for the leadership of the unionist party, 60; message from, 115; at skipton, 167; on the policy of the government, 168 chamberlain, rt. hon. joseph, at belfast, 13; views on home rule, 16, 128; tariff policy, 18; his advice to sir e. carson, 167 chambers, james, signs the covenant, 121 chichester, capt. the hon. a.c., commander in the ulster volunteer force, 163 childers, mr. erskine, on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 76 china expeditionary force, 161 chubb, sir george hayter, signs the british covenant, 170 churchill, mrs., at belfast, 73 churchill, lord randolph, at belfast, 13, 81; at the ulster hall meeting, 30, 40, 62; saying of, 31, 42; reception at larne, 74; views on home rule, 128; _life of,_ 138 churchill, rt. hon. winston s., at manchester, 19; _life of lord randolph churchill_, 30, 138; at dundee, 54, 154; views on home rule, 62; projected visit to belfast, 62-69; letter to lord londonderry, 69; change of plan, 69; reception at belfast, 73; departure from, 74; on home rule, 95; letters on the ulster menace, 99; on the resistance of ulster, 138, 141; the policy of exclusion, 152; at bradford, 172, 174, 175 city hall, belfast, 119, 283 clark, sir george, 156 clogher, bishop of, signs the covenant, 122 _clydevalley, s.s.,_ 211-213, 220; renamed, 214 coleraine, meeting at, 108, 114 comber, 82 copeland island, 212, 214, 220 _correspondence relating to recent events in the irish command_, 185 covenant, british, signing the, 170 covenant, ulster, draft, 104; terms, 105-107; series of demonstrations, 108-110; meeting in the ulster hall, 114; signing the, 120-124; anniversary, 158, 165, 236 cowser, richard, 210, 214 craig, charles, 96, 147; serves in the war, 234; taken prisoner, 234 craig, james, member of the ulster unionist council, 35; meeting at craigavon, 46; gift for organisation, 46; member of the commission of five, 53; on the resistance of ulster, 96; draft of the covenant, 103; organises the demonstration, 111; presentation of a silver key and pen to sir e. carson, 115; indemnity guarantee fund, 156; at the reviews of the u.v.f., 162, 164, 223; at bangor, 217; at the buckingham palace conference, 228; appointed q.m.g. of the ulster division, 234; treasurer of the household, 253; resignation, 263; baronetcy, 275; secretary to the ministry of pensions, 275; secretary to the admiralty, 281; resignation, 281; prime minister of the northern parliament, 281 craig, john, 103 craig, mrs., presents colours to the u.v.f., 223 craigavon, meeting at, 45-51, 80, 105, 149, 210 crawford, colonel f.h., viii; signs the covenant, 123, 191; commander in the u.v.f., 163; characteristics, 190; career, 191; secretary of the reform club, 191; advertises for rifles, 191; director of ordnance, 192; method of procuring arms, 192-200; schooner, 192; agreement with b.s., 197-200; interview with sir e. carson, 199, 210; voyage in s.s. _fanny_, 202-210; conveys arms from hamburg, 203-213; attack of malaria, 207; declines to obey unsigned orders, 209; at belfast, 210; purchases s.s. _clydevalley_, 211, 212; lands the arms, 214; at rosslare, 220; awarded the o.b.e., 284 crewe, election, 98, 99 crewe, marq. of, 18, 23, 175; on the amending bill, 223 cromwell, oliver, 136 crozier, dr., archbp. of armagh, member of provisional government, 145 crumlin, meeting at, 108 curragh incident, 174-189, 221 curzon, marq., on the parliament bill, 44; the home rule bill, 134; the loyalty of ulster, 141 _daily express, the_, 225 _daily mail, the_, 225 _daily news, the_, 114, 166 _daily telegraph, the_, 111, 225 d'arcy, dr., primate of all ireland, 118; signs the covenant, 121 darlington, 149 davis, jefferson, 137 democracy, axiom of, 15 derbyshire, election, 222 derry, relief of, 13, 85; meeting at, 108; election, 144; riots, 151 desborough, lord, signs the british covenant, 170 devlin, joseph, 6, 127, 172, 174, 275; with mr. w. churchill in belfast, 63, 68; the irish convention, 261; on the military service bill, 269; letter to president wilson, 273, 287-295; demands self-determination, 277 devonshire, 8th duke of, views on home rule, 128, 134; on the resistance of ulster, 136, 138; _life of_, 136 note, 139 note dicey, prof., signs the british covenant, 170 dickson, scott, at belfast, 81; at the balmoral meeting, 86 "die hards" party, 44 dillon, john, 6, 174; at the buckingham palace conference, 227; on the irish rebellion, 244; letter to pres. wilson, 273, 287-293 donaghadee, 214, 219 donald, thompson, letter to pres. wilson, 296-299 donegal, 248, 279 _doreen_, s.s., 207, 210; at lundy, 208 dorset regiment, transferred to holywood, 177, 178 dromore, meeting at, 108 dublin, insurrection, 4, 243; unionist demonstration at, 54; nationalist convention, meeting, 92; congress in, 276 dufferin and ava, dow. marchioness of, 113 duke, rt. hon. h.e., chief secretary for ireland, 253 duncairn, election, 275 dundalk, 178 dundee, 54, 154 dunleath, lord, 156 durham, sir e. carson at, 153 east fife, 25 edinburgh, 24, 101; ulstermen sign the covenant, 123; meeting at, 149; philosophical institution, lecture at the, 274 edward vii, king, death, 23 election, general, of 1886, 16; of 1895, 34; of jan. 1910, 21, 22, 42; of dec. 1910, 26; of 1918, 4 elections, result of, 99, 155, 222 emmet, robert, 7, 46, 142 enniskillen, meeting at, 108, 114; military depot, 175, 176 erne, earl of, member of the ulster unionist council, 35; at the craigavon meeting, 47; signs the covenant, 122 ewart, g.h., president of the belfast chamber of commerce, 157 ewart, sir william, member of the ulster unionist council, 35; signs the covenant, 121 _fanny_, s.s., voyage, viii, 202-213; alterations in her appearance, 206; rechristened, 207; transference of the cargo, 213 farnham, lord, at the ulster unionist council meeting, 248, 279; irish unionist alliance, 265 ferguson, john, & co., 196 fiennes, mr., at belfast, 73 finance bill, rejected, 19 finlay, sir robert, at belfast, 81; at the balmoral meeting, 86 fishguard, 213 flavin, mr., on the military service bill, 269 fleming, henry, letter to pres. wilson, 296-299 flood, henry, patriotism, 7 foyle, the, 87, 214 _freemason's journal, the_, 72, 287 french, f.m., viscount, member of the army council, 176; resignation, 184; lord lieutenant of ireland, 272; attempt on his life, 277 frewen, miss, marriage, 236; _see_ carson friend, general, 177 gambetta, lã©on, 9 george v, king, conference at buckingham palace, 228; opens the ulster parliament, 282, 286; reception in belfast, 283 george, rt. hon. d. lloyd, chancellor of the exchequer, budget, 19; at edinburgh, 24; on the exclusion of ulster, 152; anglo-german relations, 167, 201; opinion of sir e. carson's speech, 168; plot against ulster, 174; at ipswich, 222; the buckingham palace conference, 227; secretary of state for war, 245; negotiations for the settlement of the irish question, 245, 247, 250; prime minister, 252; on home rule, 254; alternative proposals, 255; statement on the war, 266, 268; military service bill, 268; letter to b. law, 276 note; basic facts on the irish question, 277; government of ireland act, 278 german rifles, 198 gibson, t.h., sec. of ulster unionist council, 35; resignation, 35 gilmour, captain, at belfast, 81 gladstone, rt. hon. w.e., 138; on the character of the nationalists, 5; conversion to home rule, 7, 12, 30; home rule bills, 13, 16, 17; personality, 17 glasgow, 22, 78; meeting at, 149 goschen, viscount, views on home rule, 16, 128 goudy, prof., signs the british covenant, 170 gough, general sir hugh, commanding the 3rd cavalry brigade, 180; at the war office, 181; return to the curragh, 181; driven back by the germans, 270 government of ireland act, 51, 278 graham, john washington, 194 grattan, henry, patriotism, 7 greenwood, sir hamar, at belfast, 73; chief secretary for ireland, 285 grey, earl, on the home rule bill, 134 grey, sir edward, on the home rule bill, 95; at berwick, 154 griffith, arthur, arrested, 271; deported, 295 griffith-boscawen, sir arthur, at belfast, 81 grimsby, election, 222 guest, capt. frederick, at belfast, 72 guinness, walter, supports exclusion of ulster, 95 gun-barrel proof act, 196 haldane, viscount, 130, 185 halifax, lord, 136, 141 hall, frank, 121 halsbury, earl of, 151 hamburg, col. crawford at, 198 hamilton, lord claud, at belfast, 81; provisional government, 145 hamilton, george c., m.p. for altrincham, 155 hamilton, gustavus, governor of enniskillen, 48 hamilton, marq. of, interest in the ulster movement, 109; signs the covenant, 122 hammersmith armoury, 195; seizure of arms at, 196 hanna, j., 257 harding, canon, 158 harland and wolff, messrs., 191 harrison, frederic, on the ulster question, 169 hartington, marq. of, views on home rule, 16 health insurance act, 222 healy, t.m., 18, 22; on the military service bill, 270; letter to pres. wilson, 273, 287-295 henry, denis, member of the ulster unionist council, 35 hickman, colonel thomas, member of provisional government, 145; career, 160; letter from lord roberts, 161, 195 hills, j.w., at belfast, 81 holland, bernard, _life of the eighth duke of devonshire_, 136 note, 139 note holywood, 46, 177, 178 home rule, 23-29; a separatist movement, 7; memorial against, 155 home rule bill, 13, 16, 17, 90-97, 131, 133, 149; political meetings, 97; under the "guillotine," 131; in the house of lords, 134; rejected, 135; time limit for exclusion, 171; passed, 222, 224; receives the royal assent, 235 home rule bill, amending bill, 221, 223, 227, 228, 230 hull, mr. asquith at, 24 ilfracombe, 54 indemnity guarantee fund, subscriptions, 156, 163 ipswich, election, 222 ireland, two nations, 2, 84; rebellions, 6; animosity of rival creeds, 9; condition, 17, 19, 298; insurrection, 27; fiscal autonomy, 76-78; financial clauses of the home rule bill, 91; prohibition of the importation of arms, 166; easter rebellion, 243; exemption from conscription, 268; german plot in, 271; agitation against conscription, 272; anarchy, 279 ireland, council of, 278 ireland, government of, act, 2, 278-280 ireland, northern, parliament, 280-282 irish convention, 255-262; members, 255, 257; report, 264, 266 _irish news, the_, 114 irish republican army, system of terrorism, 277 irish republican brotherhood, 243 irish unionist alliance, 30, 265; co-operation with the ulster unionist council, 37 islandmagee, 218 italian vetteli rifles, 197, 198, 201 james ii, king, 139, 141 johnston, james, lord mayor of belfast, letter to pres. wilson, 273, 296-299 kelly, sam, 209 kelly, thomas, letter to pres. wilson, 287-295 kennedy, sir robert, member of provisional government, 143 kettle, prof. t.m., on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 76 kiel, 204 kingstown, cruisers at, 178 kipling, rudyard, "ulster 1912," 79, 129; signs the british covenant, 170 kitchener, f.m. earl, 230, 238 kossuth, 136 labour party, 22, 26 ladybank, mr. asquith at, 154 lamlash, battleships at, 175 lane-fox, george, at belfast, 81 langeland, 204 lansdowne, marq. of, scheme of reform for the house of lords, 24; on the parliament bill, 44; message from, 115; on the ulster question, 169; the amending bill, 223; at the buckingham palace conference, 227 larne, 74, 81, 212, 214 law, rt. hon. a. bonar, leader of unionist party, 28, 60; on home rule, 28, 131; at the albert hall, 71; on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 78; at the balmoral meeting, 80-86; reception at larne, 81; his speech, 84; indictment against the government, 90, 172, 174, 235; on the resistance of ulster, 91, 95, 98; messages from, 115, 149; at wallsend, 154; bristol, 166; on the exclusion of ulster, 169, 171; demands inquiry into the curragh incident, 185; on the amending bill, 222; at the buckingham palace conference, 227; at belfast, 236; tribute to, 236; at the ulster hall, 237; warning to the nationalists, 255; on the military service bill, 269, 271 lecky, w.e.h., _history of england in the eighteenth century_, 274 note leeds, meeting at, 149 leo xiii, pope, 8 leslie, shane, _henry edward manning_, 8 note liberal party, policy, 16; victory in 1906, 18; majority, 19, 22; tactics, 20; number of votes, 22, 26; defeated in 1895, 34 liddell, r.m., 156 lincoln, abraham, 40; saying of, 15 linlithgow, election, 155 lisburn, meeting at, 108, 114 liverpool, 127 _liverpool daily courier, the_, extract from, 165 _liverpool daily post and mercury,_ 159 note llandudno, 212 lloyd, mr. george, at belfast, 81 logue, cardinal, 10 london school of economics, conference at, 76 londonderry house, conference at, 92, 94, 147 londonderry, marchioness of, member of the ulster women's unionist council, 37; on the covenant, 112; presents colours to the u.v.f., 223; work in the war, 240 londonderry, 6th marq. of, viii; on home rule, 28; ulster unionist council, 35; popularity, 43; character, 44; relations with sir e. carson, 44, 53; on the parliament bill, 44; conference at belfast, 52; at the ulster hall meeting, 62, 106, 108; the ulster unionist council meetings, 65, 67; reply to w. churchill, 69; at belfast, 73; at the balmoral meeting, 84; signs the covenant, 121; at the ulster club, 125; liverpool, 127; on the house of lords, 134; president of the ulster unionist council, 145; indemnity guarantee fund, 156; at the reviews of the u.v.f., 164, 223; on the curragh incident, 186; on the amending bill, 223; at enniskillen, 227; despondency, 240; death, 241; tribute to, 241 londonderry, 7th marq. of, viii; member of the irish convention, 257, 263; under-secretary of state in the air ministry, 275; resignation, 281; minister of education, 281 long, rt. hon. walter, 147; founder of the union defence league, 37; leader of the irish unionists, 38; at the ulster hall, 42; candidate for the leadership of the unionist party, 60; at belfast, 81, 224; at the balmoral meeting, 84, 86; the londonderry house conference, 92; message from, 115; on the policy of the government, 170; signs the british covenant, 170; chairman of a cabinet committee on the irish question, 277 lonsdale, sir john b., member of the ulster unionist council, 35; hon. sec. of the irish unionist party, 39; signs covenant, 122; indemnity guarantee fund, 156; leader of the ulster party, 254; at belfast, 257; raised to the peerage, 263; _see_ armaghdale lords, house of, rejection of the home rule bill, 17, 135; of the finance bill, 19, 21; forced to accept the parliament bill, 27; position under the parliament act, 134; debates on the home rule bill, 134 loreburn, lord, letters to _the times_, 152, 165 lough laxford, 203, 206, 207 lough, thomas, on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 76 lovat, lord, signs the british covenant, 170 lowther, rt. hon. james, at the buckingham palace conference, 227 loyal orange institution, 31 lundy, 208 lyons, w.h.h., 35 macdonnell, lord, on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 76 mackinder, h.j., at belfast, 81 macnaghten, sir charles, member provisional government, 145 macnaghten, lord, lord of appeal, 140, 145; signs the covenant, 122 macneill, john, letter to pres. wilson, 287-295 mahan, admiral, 130 maine, sir h., _popular government_, extract from, 14 malcolm, sir ian, at belfast, 81 manchester, 77, 166; election, 99 _manchester guardian, the_, 166 manning, cardinal, on home rule, 8 mary, h.m., queen, at the opening of the ulster parliament, 282; reception in belfast, 283 massereene, lady, presents colours to the ulster volunteer force, 223 massingham, mr., 166 masterman, rt. hon. c.f.g., 170, 222 mazzini, 136 mccalmont, col. james, ulster unionist council, 35; commander of a u.v.f regiment, 163 mccammon, mr., 121 mcdowell, sir alexander, criticism of the ulster covenant, 104 mcmordie, mr., lord mayor of belfast, at the service in the ulster hall, 118; receives sir e. carson, 120; at the ulster club, 125 meath election petition in 1892, 10 melbourne, lord, 136 mersey, the, 127 midleton, earl of, at the irish convention, 260; supports home rule, 262; secedes from the irish unionist alliance, 265 midlothian, election, 99 military service act, ii., 268-272 milner, viscount, signs the british covenant, 170; on the amending bill, 223 moles, thomas, viii; chairman of committee in the northern parliament, 282 molyneux, patriotism, 7 monaghan, 248, 279 montgomery, b.w.d., secretary of the ulster club, 103 montgomery, dr., 118 montgomery, major-gen., member of provisional government, 145 moore, william, ulster unionist council, 35; on the amendment to the home rule bill, 96; exclusion of ulster, 168 morley, viscount, _life of gladstone_, 17; on the resistance of ulster, 154; helps colonel seely to draft the "peccant paragraphs," 181, 183 _morning post, the_, 79, 225, 229, 283 note _motu proprio_, vatican decree, 11 mount stewart, 82, 225 _mountjoy_, the, 87, 214 _mountjoy ii_, s.s., cargo landed at larne, 214, 218 moyle, the, 193 musgrave channel, 211, 217 musgrave, henry, 156 _nation, the_, 158 national insurance bill, 53 nationalist party, in the house of commons, 22, 26; attitude on the war, 267; opposition to conscription, 269-273 nationalists, the, compared with the ulster unionists, 2; disloyalty, 4-6; policy, 6, 78, 141, 142; ancestry, 8; demand dissolution of the union, 14; attitude on the war, 231, 233, 252; members of the irish convention, 256-262; letter to pres. wilson, 273, 287-295; demand "self-determination," 291, 298 nationality, root of, 2; plea of 14, 15 navy, reduction of, 167, 201 _nec temere_, vatican decree, 11 neild, herbert, at belfast, 81 newcastle, 149, 153; training camp, 237 newman, cardinal, 5 newry, 177 newtownards, 225; meeting at, 108, 114 _nineteenth century, the_, 183 note, 239 note nonconformists, 9; opposition to home rule, 155 northcliffe, viscount, 225 norwich, ulster members at, 150 o'brien, william, 22; on the military service bill, 270; letter to pres. wilson, 273, 287-295 _observer, the_, 84, 115 note, 225 o'connell, daniel, 7 o'connor, t.p., 127, 174, 275; on home rule, 253 omagh, military depot, 175, 176 omash, miss, viii o'neill, capt. hon. arthur, 230; killed in the war, 241, 253 o'neill, major hugh, serves in the war, 242; speaker of the northern parliament, 282 o'neill, hugh, earl of tyrone, 7 o'neill, laurence, lord mayor of dublin, letter to pres. wilson, 273, 287-295 o'neill, hon. r.t., member of the ulster unionist council, 35 ormsby-gore, capt. the hon. w.g.a., at belfast, 81 o'shea, divorce, 17 paget, sir arthur, commander-in-chief in ireland, letter from colonel seely, 175; in london, 176; interviews with ministers, 177; instructions from the war office, 178, 180; conference with his officers, 179, 185; on the employment of troops in ulster, 186 parliament, assembled, 23, 131, 167; dissolved, 23, 275; adjourned, 99 parliament act, 23, 27, 43-45, 53, 91 _parliamentary debates_, viii, 29 _note,_ 142, 179 note, 181 note, 185 note parnell, charles, saying of, 6; leader of the nationalist party, 6; downfall, 17 _pathfinder_, h.m.s., 178 _patriotic_, r.m.s., 128 peel, sir robert, 138 peel, w., at belfast, 81 "people's budget," 20; rejection, 42 percival-maxwell, col., privy councillor, 284 phoenix park murders, 243 pirrie, lord, unpopularity in belfast, 63; peerage conferred, 284 pitt, rt. hon. william, 15 plunkett, sir horace, chairman of the irish convention, 257, 261; letter to lloyd george, 264 pollock, sir ernest, at belfast, 81 pollock, h.m., member of the irish convention, 257, 262 portadown, meeting at, 108, 114 portland, duke of, signs the british covenant, 170 portrush, 55, 193 presbyterian church, general assembly of the, 155 presbyterians, political views, 12 preston, george, subscription to the indemnity guarantee fund, 156 prisoners, release of, 256 protestants, irish, distrust of roman catholics, 9; dislike of clerical influence, 10 ramsay, sir w., signs the british covenant, 170 ranfurly, earl of, organises the ulster loyalist union, 30, 37; member of the unionist council, 35 raphoe, bishop of, member of the irish convention, 258, 260-262 rawlinson, j.f.p., at belfast, 81 reade, r.h., 35 reading, mr. asquith at, 24; election, 155 redistribution act, 275 redmond, capt., 275 redmond, john, 174; on the national movement, 7; policy, 22; on home rule, 27, 54; with mr. w. churchill in belfast, 63, 68; opinion of sir e. carson's speech, 133; protests against amending bill, 222; at buckingham palace conference, 227; conditional offer of help in the war, 231, 233; tribute to, 239; patriotism, 239; refuses office, 242; at dublin, 249; on the exclusion of ulster, 250; manifesto, 254; at the irish convention, 260-262; death, 262; on the condition of ireland, 298 redmond, major w., his speech in the house, 253; killed in the war, 253 reform club, belfast, 122, 124, 191 reid, whitelaw, 274 renan, e., on the root of nationality, 2 _reynolds's newspaper_, 89 richardson, gen. sir george, commander-in-chief of the u.v.f., 161, 197; career, 161; characteristics, 162; at belfast, 162, 217; reviews the u.v.f., 163-165 rifles, seized by government, 161, 195; purchase of, 198; packing, 201; landed in ulster, 219 roberts, f.m. earl, 130, 188; letter to col. hickman, 161, 195; signs british covenant, 170; congratulations to sir e. carson, 220; on the result of coercing ulster, 224 robertson, rt. hon. j.m., secretary to the board of trade, on fiscal autonomy for ireland, 76; at newcastle, 153 rochdale, unionist association at, 99 roe, owen, 7 roman catholics, irish, disloyalty 9; character of the priest, 10; methods of enforcing obedience, 10-12 rosebery, earl of, 15, 18; at glasgow, 22; on the characteristics of the ulster race, 101 rosslare, 220 royal irish rifles, the 5th, 57 russia, collapse of, 268 russian rifles, 198 s.b., the hebrew dealer in firearms, 197; agreement with major f.h. crawford, 197-200; honesty, 204 st. aldwyn, viscount, on the king's prerogative, 151 salisbury, marq. of, at belfast, 13, 81; message from, 109; views on home rule, 128 salvidge, mr., alderman of liverpool, 127, 128; signs the british covenant, 170 samuel, mr. herbert, at belfast, 54 sanderson, colonel, chairman of the ulster parliamentary party, 35, 38 _saturday review, the_, extract from, 70 sclater, edward, secretary of the unionist clubs, 53 scotland, the covenant, 103 _scotsman, the_, 101, 225, 274 note seely, col. sec. of state for war, letter to sir a. paget, 175; statement to gen. gough, 181; adds paragraphs, 181, 183; on the curragh incident, 182; resignation, 183, 184 seymour, adm. sir e., signs british covenant, 170 sharman-crawford, col., member of the ulster unionist council, 35; of the commission of five, 53 shaw, lord, _letters to isabel_, 18 note shiel park, meeting at, 128 shipyards, observance of ulster day, 117 shortt, rt. hon. e., chief secretary for ireland, 272 simon, sir john, 175 sinclair, rt. hon. thomas, at the ulster convention, 33; member of the ulster unionist council, 35, 67; on home rule, 38; member of a commission, 63; on the covenant, 104, 109; signs it, 121 sinn fein party, refuse to join the convention, 255; in league with germany, 271, 276; arrests, 271; members of parliament, 276, 276; treason of, 276; congress in dublin, 276; outrages, 277 sinn feinism, spirit of, 4 skipton, 167 smiley, kerr, 156 smith, rt. hon. f.e. (lord birkenhead), on the policy of ulster, 97, 98; on the covenant, 109; at the ulster club, 125; at liverpool, 127; at the inspection of the u.v.f., 162; "galloper" to gen. sir g. richardson, 163 smith, mr. harold, 109 solemn league and covenant, 104; _see_ ulster somme, battle of the, 234 _spectator, the_, 225 spender, col. w. bliss, u.v.f., 197, 203, 207, 215; awarded the o.b.e., 284 _standard, the_, 70, 118, 225 _star, the_, extract from, 89 stronge, sir james, member of the ulster unionist council, 35 stuart-wortley, mr., at belfast, 81 submarine warfare, 253 suffragists' campaign, 167 swift, patriotism, 7 tariff reform policy, 18, 19; controversy, 59, 155, 167 templetown, lord, founds the unionist clubs, 30, 31 thiepval, battle at, 234 _times, the_, 32, 64, 69, 71, 77, 79, 82, 84, 99, 110, 115, 124, 126, 139, 140, 153, 172, 182, 187, 225; letters in, 152, 165 tirah expedition, 161 tone, wolfe, 7, 46, 142 tramp steamer, diverts suspicion, 217 turkington, james a., letter to pres. wilson, 296-299 tuskar light, 210, 211 tyrone, contingent of orangemen, 57 ulster, use of the term, vii; opposition to home rule, 1, 2, 30; loyalty, 2-4, 33, 63, 139-143, 251; ancestry, 8; political views, 12; landlords and tenants, 12; mottoes, 13, 33; reluctant acceptance of a separate constitution, 14; organisations, 30-38; policy, 33, 51, 75, 77, 92, 93-100, 133, 136-143; military drilling, 57; characteristics of the people, 101; time limit for exclusion, 171; plot against, 174; emigrants in america, 274, 297; result of the government of ireland act, 280 ulster, british league for the support of, formed, 147 ulster club, belfast, 125 ulster, convention of 1892, 80, 109 ulster covenant, draft, 104; terms, 105-107; series of demonstrations, 108-110; meeting in the ulster hall, 114; signing the, 120-124; anniversary, 158, 165, 236 ulster day, 165, 236; religious observance, 107, 117 ulster division, 1st brigade, training, 237; recruiting, 238 ulster hall, 283; meetings, 30, 38, 40, 42, 62, 106, 108, 114, 237; service, 118, 158 ulster loyalist anti-repeal union, 37 ulster loyalist and patriotic union, 30 ulster movement, vii, 1 ulster parliament, appointment of ministers, 281-2; opened, 282-6 ulster provisional government, 53, 145, 156, 163; judiciary, 146; constitution, 226 ulster unionist clubs, founded, 30-1 ulster unionist council, vii, 35; meetings, 27, 42, 52, 62, 65-67, 106, 145, 156, 210, 226, 236, 246-249, 279; members, 35, 36; co-operation with the irish unionist alliance, 37; resolution adopted, 68-71; character, 75; scheme for the provisional government, 145; statement on the curragh incident, 186 ulster unionist members of parliament, 38; tour in scotland and england, 149 ulster unionists, letter to pres. wilson, 273, 296-299 ulster volunteer force, 58, 113, 137, 160; indemnity guarantee fund, 156, 163; growth, 158, 160; parades, 162, 163-165, 167, 223, 226; strength, 168; arming the, 192-200, 223; organisation, 215; despatch-riders' corps, 215; trial mobilisation, 216; presentation of colours, 223; volunteer for service in the war, 229; organisation and training of the division, 234 ulster women's unionist association, work of the, 166 ulster women's unionist council, formed, 37; meeting, 113 "ulster 1912," rudyard kipling's, 79, 129 "ulster's reward," william watson's, 129 union defence league, in london, 37 unionist associations of ireland, joint committee, 37 unionist party, administration, 18, 20; defeated, 18; number of votes, 22, 26, 99; dissensions on tariff reform, 69; members at belfast, 81 unionists, southern manifesto, 265; committee formed, 265; result of the government act, 282 valera, e. de, m.p. for east clare, 256; arrested, 277; deported, 295 vatican decrees, 11 vickers & co., messrs., 194 victoria, queen, 136 wallace, col. r.h., member of the ulster unionist council, 35; member of a commission, 53; grand master of the belfast lodges, 57; popularity, 57; career, 57; applies for leave to drill, 58; at the ulster unionist council meeting, 67, 72; presentation of a banner to sir e. carson, 115; command in the u.v.f., 163, 164; privy councillor, 284 wallsend, 154 walter, mr. john, 225 war, the great, 27, 228, 266 war office, treatment of gen. gough, 181 ward, lieut.-col. john, on the curragh incident, 182; "the army and ireland," 183 note, 238 warden, f.w., 72 note washington, george, 273, 291 watson, sir william, "ulster's reward," 129 waziri expedition, 161 _westminster gazette_, 114; cartoon, 87 whig revolution of 1688, 31 white paper, 175 note, 176 note, 177 note, 178 note, 179 note, 180 note, 181 note, 185, 187 note, 188 william iii, king, banner, 115 willoughby de broke, lord, 109 wilson, president, letter from the nationalists, 273, 287-295; from the unionists, 273, 296-299; phrase of "self-determination," 277 wimborne, lord, lord-lieutenant of ireland, resignation, 272 wolff, g., 35 wolseley, viscount, 187 women's unionist council, ulster, formed, 37; meeting, 113 workman and clark, messrs., 214 workman, frank, 157 wynyard, lord londonderry's death at, 241 yarmouth, 207 york, 149 york, archbp. of, on the home rule bill, 134 _yorkshire post, the_, 149, 163 young, rt. hon. john, member of the ulster unionist council, 35; at the meeting, 67; takes part in the campaign, 109; signs the covenant, 122 young, w.r., organises the ulster loyalist and patriotic union, 30, 37; signs the covenant, 122; privy councillor, 284 zhob valley field force, expedition, 161 distributed proofreaders. html version by al haines. the foolish lovers by st. john g. ervine new york 1920 to my mother who asked me to write a story without any "bad words" in it; and to mrs. j. o. hannay who asked me to write a story without any "sex" in it. the first book of the foolish lovers why, 'tis an office of discovery, love! _the merchant of venice._ love unpaid does soon disband. andrew marvell the first chapter i if you were to say to an ulster man, "who are the proudest people in ireland?" he would first of all stare at you as if he had difficulty in believing that any intelligent person could ask a question with so obvious an answer, and then he would reply, "why, the ulster people, of course!" and if you were to say to a ballyards man, "who are the proudest people in ulster?" he would reply ... if he deigned to reply at all ... "a child would know that! the ballyards people, of course!" it is difficult for anyone who is not a native of the town, to understand why the inhabitants of ballyards should possess so great a pride in their birthplace. it is not a large town ... it is not even the largest town in the county ... nor has it any notable features to distinguish it from a dozen other towns of similar size in that part of ireland. millreagh, although it is now a poor, scattered sort of place, was once of great importance: for the mail-boats sailed from its harbour to port michael until the steamship owners agreed that port michael was too much exposed to the severities of rough weather, and chose another harbour elsewhere. millreagh mourns over its lost glory, attributable in no way to the fault of millreagh, but entirely to the inscrutable design of providence which arranged that port michael, and not kirkmull, should lie on the opposite side of the irish sea; and every sunday morning, after church, and sometimes on sunday afternoon, the people walk along the breakwater to the lighthouse and remind each other of the days when their town was of consequence. "we spent a hundred and fifty thousand pounds on our harbour," they say to each other, "and then the scotch went and did the like of that!"--the like of that being their stupidity in living in an exposed situation. millreagh does not admit that it has suffered any more than a temporary diminishment of its greatness, and it makes optimistic and boastful prophecies of the fortune and repute that will come to it when the engineers make a tunnel between scotland and ireland. sometimes an article on the channel tunnel will appear in the _newsletter_ or the _whig_, and for weeks afterwards millreagh lives in a fever of expectancy; for whatever else may be said about the tunnel, this is certain to be said of it, that it will start, in ireland, from millreagh. on that brilliant hope, millreagh, tightening its belt, lives in a fair degree of happiness, eking out its present poverty by fishing and by letting lodgings in the summer. pickie, too, has much reputation, more, perhaps, than millreagh, for it is a popular holiday town and was once described in the _evening telegraph_ as "the blackpool of ireland." this description, although it was apt enough, offended the more pretentious people in pickie who were only mollified when the innocent reporter, in a later article, altered the description to, "the brighton of ireland." with consummate understanding of human character, he added, remembering the yacht club, that perhaps the most accurate description of pickie would be "the cowes of ireland." in this way, the reporter, who subsequently became a member of parliament and made much money, pleased the harmless vanity of the lower, the middle and the upper classes of pickie; and for a time they were "ill to thole" on account of the swollen condition of their heads, and it became necessary to utter sneers at "ham-and-egg parades" and "the tripper element" and to speak loudly and frequently of the superior merits of portrush, "a really nice place," before they could be persuaded to believe that pickie, like other towns, is inhabited by common human beings. ballyards never yielded an inch of its pride of place to millreagh or to pickie. "what's an oul' harbour when there's no boat in it?" ballyards said to millreagh; and, "sure, the man makes his livin' sellin' sausages!" it said to pickie when pickie bragged of the great grocer who had joined the yacht club in order that he might issue a challenge for the atlantic cup. tunnels and attractive seaboards were extraneous things that might bring fortune, but could not bring merit, to those lucky enough to possess them; but ballyards had character ... its men were meritable men ... and ballyards would not exchange the least of its inhabitants for ten tunnels. nor did ballyards abate any of its pride before the ancient and indisputable renown of dunbar, which distils a whiskey that has soothed the gullets of millions of men throughout the world. when patrickstown bragged of its long history ... it was once the home of the kings of ulster ... and tried to make the world believe that st. patrick was buried in its cathedral, ballyards, magnificently imperturbed, murmured: "your population is goin' down!"; nor does it manifest any respect for greenry, which has a member of parliament to itself and has twice the population of ballyards. "it's an ugly hole," says ballyards, "an' it's full of papishes!" millreagh and pickie openly sneer at ballyards, and greenry affects to be unaware of it, but the pride of ballyards remains unaltered, incapable of being diminished, incapable even of being increased ... for pride cannot go to greater lengths than the pride of ballyards has already gone ... and in spite of contention and denial, it asserts, invincibly persistent, that it is the finest and most meritabie town in ireland. when sceptics ask for proofs, ballyards replies, "we don't need proofs!" a drunken man said, on a particularly hearty saturday night, that ballyards was the finest town in the world, but the general opinion of his fellow-townsmen was that this claim, while very human, was excessively expressed. london, for example, was bigger than ballyards. so was new york!.... the drunken man, when he had recovered his sobriety, admitted that this was true, but he contended, and was well supported in his contention, that while london and new york might be bigger than ballyards, neither of these cities were inhabited by men of such independent spirit as the men of ballyards. a ballyards man, he asserted, was beholden to no one. once, and once only, a millreagh man said that a ballyards man thought he was being independent when he was being ill-bred; but ballyards people would have none of this talk, and, after they had severely assaulted him, they drove the millreagh man back to his "stinkin' wee town" and forbade him ever to put his foot in ballyards again. "you know what you'll get if you do. your head in your hands!" was the threat they shouted after him. and surely the wide world knows the story ... falsely credited to other places ... which every ballyards child learns in its cradle, of the man who, on being rebuked in a foreign city for spitting, said to those who rebuked him, "i come from the town of ballyards, an' i'll spit where i like!" ii it was his pride in his birthplace which sometimes made john macdermott hesitate to accept the advice of his uncle matthew and listen leniently to the advice of his uncle william. uncle matthew urged him to seek his fortune in foreign parts, but uncle william said, "bedam to foreign parts when you can live in ballyards!" uncle matthew, who had never been out of ireland in his life, had much knowledge of the works of english writers, and from these works, he had drawn a romantic picture of london. the english city, in his imagination, was a place of marvellous adventures, far mere wonderful than the ancient city of bagdad or the still more ancient city of damascus, wherein anything might happen to a man who kept his eyes open or, for the matter of that, shut. he never tired of reading mr. andrew lang's _historical mysteries_, and he liked to think of himself suddenly being accosted in the street by some dark stranger demanding to know whether he had a taste for adventure. uncle matthew was not quite certain what he would do if such a thing were to happen to him: whether to proclaim himself as eager for anything that was odd and queer or to threaten the stranger with the police. "you might think a man was going to lead you to a hidden place, mebbe, where there'd be a lovely woman waiting to receive you, and you blindfolded 'til you were shown into the room where she was ... and mebbe you'd be queerly disappointed, for it mightn't be that sort of a thing at all, but only some lad trying to steal your watch and chain!" he had heard very unpleasant stories of what he called the confidence trick, whereby innocent persons were beguiled by seemingly amiable men into parting with all their possessions!... "of course," he would admit, "you'd never have no adventures at all, if you never ran no risks, and mebbe in the end, you do well to chance things. it's a queer pity a man never has any adventures in this place. many's and many's a time i've walked the roads, thinking mebbe i'd meet someone with a turn that way, but i never in all my born days met anything queer or unusual, and i don't suppose i ever will now!" uncle matthew had spoken so sadly and so longingly that john had deeply pitied him. "did you never fall in love with no one, uncle matthew?" he asked. "och, indeed i did, john!" uncle matthew replied. "many's and many's the time! your uncle william used to make fun of me and sing _'shilly-shally with the wee girls, ha, ha, ha!'_ at me when i was a wee lad because i was always running after the young girls and sweethearting with them. he never ran after any himself: he was always looking for birds' nests or tormenting people with his tricks. he was a daft wee fellow for devilment, was your uncle william, and yet he's sobered down remarkably. sometimes, i think he got more romance out of his tormenting and nesting than i got out of my courting, though love's a grand thing, john, when you can get it. i was always falling in love, but sure what was the good? i never could be content with the way the girls talked about furniture and us setting up house together, when all the time i was wanting hard to be rescuing them from something. no wonder they wouldn't have me in the end, for, of course, it's very important to get good furniture and to set up a house somewhere nice and snug ... but i never was one for scringing and scrounging ... my money always melted away from the minute i got it ... and i couldn't bear the look of the furniture-men when you asked them how much it would cost to furnish a house on the hire-system!" he paused for a moment, reflecting perhaps on the pleasures that had been missed by him because of his inability to save money and his dislike of practical concerns. then in a brisker tone, as if he were consoling himself for his losses, he said, "oh, well, there's consolation for everyone somewhere if they'll only take the trouble to look for it, and after all i've had a queer good time reading books!" "mebbe, uncle matthew," john suggested, "if you'd left ballyards and gone to london, you'd have had a whole lot of adventures!" "mebbe i would," uncle matthew replied. "though sometimes i think i'm not the sort that has adventures, for there's men in the world would find something romantic wherever they went, and i daresay if lord byron were living here in ballyards, he'd have the women crying their eyes out for him. that was a terrible romantic man, john! lord byron! a terrible man for falling in love, god bless him!..." it was uncle matthew who urged john to read shakespeare--"a very plain-spoken, knowledgable man, shakespeare!"--and lord byron--"a terrible bad lord, john, but a fine courter of girls and a grand poet!"--and herrick--"a queer sort of minister, that man herrick, but a good poet all the same!"--and dickens. dickens was the incomparable one who filled dull streets with vital figures: sam weller and mr. pickwick and mr. micawber and mrs. nickleby and mr. mantalini and steerforth and david copperfield and barkis; and terrible figures: fagan and bill sykes and uriah heap and squeers and mr. murdstone and that fearful man who drank so much that he died of spontaneous combustion; and pathetic figures: sidney carton and little nell and oliver twist and nancy and dora and little dorritt and the little marchioness. "you'd meet the like of them any minute of the day in london," said uncle matthew. "you'd mebbe be walking up a street, the strand, mebbe, or in hyde park or whitechapel, and in next to no time at all, you'd run into the whole jam-boiling of them. london's the queer place for seeing queer people. never be content, john, when you're a man, to stay on in this place where nothing ever happens to anyone, but quit off out of it and see the world. there's all sorts in london, black men and yellow men, and i wouldn't be surprised but there's a wheen of red indians, too, with, feathers in their head!...." "i'd be afeard of them fellows," said john. "they'd scalp you, mebbe!" "ah, sure, the peelers wouldn't let them," said uncle matthew. "and anyway you needn't go near them. they keep that sort down by the docks and never let them near the places where the fine, lovely women live. london's the place to see the lovely women, john, all dressed up in silk dresses, for that's where the high-up women go ... in the season, they call it ... and they take their young, lovely daughters with them, grand wee girls with nice hair and fine complexions and a grand way of talking ... to get them married, of course. i read in a book one time, there was a young fellow, come of a poor family, was walking in one of the parks where the quality-women take their horses every day, and a young and lovely girl was riding up and down as nice as you like, when all of a sudden her horse ran away with her. the young fellow never hesitated for a minute, but jumped over the railings and stopped the horse, and the girl was that thankful and pleased, him and her was married after. and she was a lord's daughter, john! a very high-up lord! she belonged to a queer proud family, but she wasn't too proud to fall in love with him, and they had a grand time together!" "were they rich?" said john. uncle matthew nodded his head. "it would be a great thing now," he said, "if a lord's daughter was to take a fancy to you!..." "i'd have to be queer and adventurous for the like of that to happen to me, uncle matthew," john exclaimed. he had never seen a lord's daughter, but he had seen lady castlederry, a proud and beautiful woman, who seemed to be totally unaware of his existence when he passed by her on the road. "well, and aren't you as fond of adventure as anybody in the wide world?" uncle matthew retorted. "indeed, that's true," john admitted, "but then i never had any adventures in my born days, and you yourself would like to have one, but you've never had any!" uncle matthew sat quietly in his chair for a few moments. then he drew his nephew close to him and stroked his hair. "come here 'til i whisper to you," he said. "d'you know why i never had any adventures, john?" "no, uncle matthew, i do not!' "well, i'll tell you then, though i never admitted it to anyone else in the world, and i'll mebbe never admit it again. i never had any because i was afraid to have them!" "afeard, uncle matthew?" john exclaimed. he had net yet trimmed his tongue to say "afraid." "aye, son, heart-afraid. there's many a fine woman i'd have run away with, only i was afraid mebbe i'd be caught. you'll never have no adventures if you're afraid to have them, that's a sure and certain thing!" john struggled out of his uncle's embrace and turned squarely to face him. "i'm not afeard, uncle matthew," he asserted. "are you not, son?" "i'm not afeard of anything. i'd give anybody their cowardy-blow!..." "there's few people in the world can say that, john!" uncle matthew said. iii people often said of uncle matthew that he was "quare in the head," but john had never noticed anything queer about him. mrs. macdermott, finding her son in the attic where uncle matthew kept his books, reading an old, torn copy of smollett's translation of _gil blas_, had said to him, "son, dear, quit reading them oul' books, do, or you'll have your mind moidhered like your uncle matthew!" and willie logan, tormenting him once because he had refused to acknowledge his leadership, had called after him that his uncle matthew was astray in the mind. it was a very great satisfaction to john that just as willie logan uttered his taunt, uncle william came round mccracken's corner and heard it. uncle william, a hasty, robust man, had clouted willie logon's head for him and sent him home howling. "go home and learn your manners," he had shouted at the blubbering boy. "go home and learn your manners, you ill-bred brat, you!" uncle william had spoken very gravely and tenderly to john after that affair, as they walked home together. "never let anyone make little of your uncle matthew!" he had said to his nephew. "he's a well-read man, for all his queer talk, and many's a wise thing he says when you're not expecting it. i never was much of a one for trusting to books myself.... i couldn't give my mind to them somehow ... but i have a great respect for books, all the same. it isn't every man can spare the time for learning or has the inclination for it, but we can all pay respect to them that has, whatever sort of an upbringing we've got!" it was then that john macdermott learned to love his uncle william almost as much as he loved his uncle matthew. he had always liked uncle william ... for he was his uncle, of course, and a kind man in spite of his rough, quick ways and sharp words ... but uncle matthew had commanded his love. there had been times when he almost disliked uncle william ... the times when uncle william made fun of uncle matthew's romantic talk. john would be sitting in front of the kitchen fire, before the lamp was lit, listening while his uncle matthew told him stories of high, romantical things, of adventures in aid of beautiful women, and of life freely given for noble purposes, until he was wrought up into an ecstasy of selflessness and longing ... and then uncle william would come into the kitchen from the shop, stumbling, perhaps, in the dark, and swear because the lamp was not lit. once, after he had listened for a few moments to one of uncle matthew's tales, he had laughed bitterly and said, "i declare to my good god, but you'd be in a queer way, the whole pack of you, if i was to quit the shop and run up and down the world looking for adventures and women in distress. i tell you, the pair of you, it's a queer adventure taking care of a shop and making it prosper and earning the keep of the house. there's no lovely woman hiding behind the counter 'til the young lord comes and delivers her, but by the holy smoke, there's a terrible lot of hard work!" it had seemed to john then, as he contemplated his uncle matthew's doleful face and listened to his plaintive admission, "i know i'm no help to you!" that his uncle william was a cruel-hearted man, and in his anger he could have struck him. but now, after the affair with willie logan and the talk about uncle matthew, and remembering, too, that uncle william was always very gentle with uncle matthew, even though his words were sometimes rough, he felt that his heart had ample room inside it for this rough, bearded man who made so few demands on the affection of his family, and deserved so much. john knew that his uncle william and his mother shared the common belief that uncle matthew was "quare," but, although he had often thought about the matter, he could not understand why people held this opinion. it was true that uncle matthew had been dismissed from the ballyards national school, in which he had been an assistant teacher, but when john considered the circumstances in which uncle matthew had been dismissed, he felt satisfied that his uncle, so far from having behaved foolishly, had behaved with great courage and chivalry. uncle matthew, so the story went, had been in belfast a few days after the day on which queen victoria had died, and had stopped in royal avenue for a few moments to read an advertisement which was exhibited in the window of a haberdasher's shop. these are the words which he read in the advertisement: * * * * * we mourn our departed queen * * * * * mourning orders promptly executed * * * * * when he had read through the advertisement twice, uncle matthew broke the haberdasher's window! he was seized by a policeman, and in due time was brought before the magistrates who, in addition to fining him and compelling him to pay for the damage he had done, caused the resident magistrate to admonish him not merely for breaking the window and interfering with the business of a respectable merchant, but also for offering a frivolous excuse for his behaviour. uncle matthew had said that he broke the window as a protest against a counterjumper's traffic in a nation's grief. "i loved the queen, sir," he said, "and i couldn't bear to see her death treated like that!" this was more than the magistrates could endure, and the resident magistrate made an impatient gesture and said, "tch, tch, tch!" with his tongue against his palate. he went on to say that uncle matthew's loyalty to the throne was very touching, very touching, indeed, especially in these days when a lot of people seemed to have very little respect for the royal family. he thought that his brother-magistrates would agree with him. ("hear, hear!" and "oh, yes, yes!" and an "ulster was always noted for its loyalty to the queen!" from his brother-magistrates.) but all the same, there had to be moderation and reason in everything. it would never do if people were to go about the country breaking other people's windows in the name of patriotism. it was bad enough to have a pack of nationalists and papists going about the country, singing disloyal songs and terrorising peaceable, lawabiding loyalists, without members of respected protestant and unionist families like the prisoner ... for uncle matthew was in the dock of the custody court and had spent the night in a cell ... imitating their behaviour in the name of loyalty. he had taken into the consideration the fact that the prisoner had acted from the best motives and not from any feeling of disaffection to the throne, and also the fact that he belongs to a respectable family, and so he would not send him to gaol. he gave him the option of paying a fine, together with costs and the bill for repairing the window, or of going to prison for one calendar month; and he warned the public that any other person who broke a window, however loyal he might be, would be sent to gaol without the option of a fine. uncle matthew had turned to where uncle william was sitting with the family solicitor in the well of the court, and uncle william had nodded his head comfortingly. then the warder had opened the door in the side of the dock, and uncle matthew had stepped out of the place of shame into the company of the general public. the solicitor had attended to the payment of the fine and the cost of repairing the fractured glass, and then uncle william had led uncle matthew away. someone had tittered at uncle matthew as they passed up the steps of the court towards the door, and uncle william, disregarding the fact that he was in a court of law, had turned on him very fiercely, and had said "damn your sowl!..." but a policeman, saying "s-s-sh!", had bustled him out of the court before he could complete his threat. and an old woman, with a shawl happed about her head, had gazed after uncle matthew and said, "the poor creature! sure, he's not right!" the arrest and trial of uncle matthew had created a great scandal in ballyards, and responsible people went about saying that he had always been "quare" and was getting "quarer." willie logan's father had even talked of the asylum. whose windows, he demanded, were safe when, a fellow like that was let loose on the town? uncle william had gone to see mr. logan ... no one knew quite what he said to that merchant ... but it was evident ever after that he had accepted uncle william's advice to keep a civil tongue in his head. the reverend mr. mccaughan, who was manager of the ballyards national school, went specially to the house of mr. cairnduff, the headmaster of the school, to consult him on the subject. he said that something would have to be done about the matter. the macdermotts, he said, were a highly-respected family ... a macdermott had been an elder of the church for generations past... and he would be very sorry, very sorry, indeed to do anything to upset them, but it was neither right nor reasonable to expect parents to rest content while their children were taught their lessons by a man who was both queer in his manner and very nearly a criminal ... for after all, he had spent a night in a prison-cell and had stood in the dock where thieves and forgers and wife-beaters and even murderers had stood! mr. cairnduff was in complete agreement with mr. mccaughan. he, too, had the greatest respect for the macdermotts ... no man could help having respect for them ... and he might add that he had the greatest possible respect for matthew macdermott himself ... a well-read and a kindly man, though a wee bit, just a _wee_ bit unbalanced mebbe!... "aye, but it's that wee bit that makes all the difference, mr. cairnduff!" said the minister, interrupting the schoolmaster. "it is," mr. cairnduff agreed. "you're right there, mr. mccaughan. you are, indeed. all the same, though, i would not like to be a party to anything that would hurt the feelings of a macdermott, and if it could be arranged in some way that matthew should retire from the profession through ill-health or something, with a wee bit of a pension, mebbe, to take the bad look off the thing... well, i for one would not be against it!" "you've taken the words out of my mouth," said the minister. "i had it in my mind that if something of the kind could be arranged!..." "it would be the best for all concerned," said mr. cairnduff. but it had not been possible to arrange something of the kind. the member for the division was not willing to use his influence with the national board of education in uncle matthew's behalf. he remembered that uncle matthew, during an election, had interrupted him in a recital of his services to the queen, by a reminder that he was only a militia man, and that rough, irreverent lads, who treated an election as an opportunity for skylarking instead of improving their minds, had followed him about his constituency, jeering at him for "a mileeshy man." uncle matthew, too, had publicly declared that parnell was the greatest man that had ever lived in ireland and was worth more than the whole of the ulster unionist members of parliament put together... which was, of course, very queer doctrine to come from a member of an ulster unionist and protestant family. the member for the division could not agree with mr. mccaughan and mr. cairnduff that the macdermotts were a bulwark of the constitution. matthew macdermott's brother... the one who was dead... had been a queer sort of a fellow. lady castlederry had complained of him more than once!... no, he was sorry that, much as he should like to oblige mr. mccaughan and mr. cairnduff, he could not consent to use his influence to get the board to pension matthew macdermott.... "that man's a blether!" said the minister, as he and the schoolmaster came away from the member's house. "he won't use his influence with the board because he hasn't got any. we'd have done better, mebbe, to go to a nationalist m.p. those fellows have more power in their wee fingers than our men have in their whole bodies. i wonder, now, could we persuade matthew to send in his resignation. i can't bear to think of the board dismissing him!" uncle william solved their problem for them. "don't bother your heads about him," he said when they informed him of their trouble. "i'll provide for him right enough. he'll send in his resignation to you the night, mr. mccaughan. i'm sure, we're all queer and obliged to you for the trouble you have taken in the matter." "ah, not at all, not at all," they said together. "and i'll not forget it to either of you, you can depend on that. i daresay matthew'll be a help to me in the shop!..." thus it was that, unpensioned and in the shadow of disgrace, uncle matthew left the service of the national board of education. john admitted to himself, though he would hardly have admitted it to anyone else, that his uncle matthew's behaviour had been very unusual. he could not, when invited to do so, imagine either mr. mccaughan or mr. cairnduff breaking the windows of a haberdasher's shop because of an advertisement which showed, in the opinion of some reputable people, both feeling and enterprise. nevertheless, he did not consider that uncle matthew, on that occasion, had proved himself to be lacking in mental balance. he said that it was a pity that people were not more ready than they were to break windows, and he was inclined to think that uncle matthew, instead of being forcibly retired from the school, ought to have been promoted to a better position. "if you go on talking that way," his mother said to him, "people'll think you're demented mad!" "i wouldn't change my uncle matthew for the whole world," john stoutly replied. "no one's asking you to change him," mrs. macdermott retorted. "all we're asking you to do, is not to go about imitating him with his romantic talk!" iv john did not wish to imitate his uncle matthew ... he did not wish to imitate anyone ... for, although he could not discover that "quareness" in him which other people professed to discover, yet when he saw how inactive uncle matthew was, how dependent he was on uncle william and, to a less extent, on mrs. macdermott, and how he seemed to shrink from things in life, which, when he read about them in books, enthralled him, john felt that if he were to model his behaviour on that of anyone else, it must not be on the behaviour of uncle matthew. uncle william had a quick, decided manner ... he knew exactly what he wanted and often contrived to get what he wanted. john remembered that his uncle william had said to him once, "john, boy, if i want a thing and i can't get it, i give up wanting it!" "but you can't help wanting things, uncle william," john had protested. "no, boy, you can't" uncle william had retorted, "but the almighty god's given you the sense to understand the difference between wanting things you can get and wanting things you can't get, and he leaves it to you to use your sense. do you never suppose that i want something strange and wonderful to happen to me the same as your uncle matthew there, that sits dreaming half the day over books? what would become of you all, your ma and your uncle matthew and you, if i was to do the like of that i? where would your uncle matthew get the money to buy books to dream over if it wasn't for me giving up my dreams?..." john's heart had suddenly filled with pity for his uncle william whom he saw as a thwarted man, an angel expelled from heaven, reduced from a proud position in a splendid society to the dull work of one who maintains others by small, but prolonged, efforts. he felt ashamed of himself and of uncle matthew ... even, for a few moments, of his mother. here was uncle william, working from dawn until dark, denying himself this pleasure and that, refusing to go to the "shore" with them in the summer on the assertion that he was a strong man and did not need holidays ... doing all this in order that he might maintain three people in comfort and ... yes, idleness! mrs. macdermott might be excluded from the latter charge, for she attended to the house and the cooking, but how could uncle matthew and himself expect to escape from it? uncle matthew had more hope than he had, for uncle matthew sometimes balanced the books for uncle william, and did odds and ends about the shop. he would write out the accounts in a very neat hand and would deliver them, too. but john made no efforts at all. he was the complete idler, living on his uncle's bounty, and making no return for it. he was now in his second year of monitorship at the school where his uncle matthew had been a teacher, and was in receipt of a few pounds per annum to indicate that he was more than a pupil; but the few pounds were insufficient to maintain him ... he knew that ... and even if they had been sufficient, he was well aware of the fact that his uncle william had insisted that the whole of his salary should be placed in the post office savings bank for use when he had reached manhood.... he made a swift resolve, when this consciousness came upon him: he would quit the school and enter the business, so that he could be of help to his uncle william. "will you let me leave the school, uncle?" he said. "i'm tired of the teaching, and i'd like well to go into the shop with you!" uncle william did not answer for a little while. he was adding up a column of figures in the day-book, and john could hear him counting quietly to himself. "and six makes fifty-four... six and carry four!" he said entering the figures in pencil at the foot of the column. "what's that you say, john, boy?" "i want to leave school and come into the shop and help you," john answered. "god love you, son, what put that notion into your head?" "i don't want to be a burden to you, uncle william!" "a burden to me!" uncle william swung round on the high office stool and regarded his nephew intently. "man, dear, you're no burden to me! look at the strength of me! feel them muscles, will you?" he held out his tightened arm as he spoke. "do you think a wee fellow like you could be a burden to a man with muscles like them, as hard as iron?" but john was not to be put off by talk of that sort. "you know rightly what i mean," he said. "you never get no rest at all, and here's me still at the school!..." "ah, wheesht with you, boy!" uncle william interrupted. "what sort of talk is this? you will not leave the school, young man! the learning you're getting will do you a world of benefit, even if you never go on with the teachering. you're a lucky wee lad, so you are, to be getting paid to go to school. there was no free learning when i was a child, i can tell you. your grandda had to pay heavy for your da and your uncle matthew and me. every monday morning, we had to carry our fees to the master. aye, and bring money for coal in the winter or else carry a few sods of turf with us if we hadn't the money for it. that was what children had to do when i was your age, john. i tell you there's a queer differs these times between schooling from what there was when i was a scholar, and you'd be the great gumph if you didn't take advantage of your good fortune!" "but i'd like to _help_ you, uncle william. do you not understand me? i want to be doing something for you!" john insisted. "i understand you well enough, son. you've been moidhering your mind about me, but sure there's no call for you to do that. no call at all! now, not another word out of your head! i've said my say on that subject, and i'll say no more. go on with your learning, and when you've had your fill of it, we'll see what's to be done with you. how much is twelve and nine?" "twenty-one, uncle william!" "twenty-one!" said uncle william, at his day-book again. "nine and carry one!..." in this way uncle william settled john's offer to serve in the shop, and restored learning and literature to his affection and esteem. john had not given in so easily as the reader may imagine. he had insisted that his uncle william worked much too hard, had even hinted that uncle matthew spent more time over books than he spent over "_the_ books," the day-book and the ledger; but his uncle william had firmly over-ruled him. "books are of more account to your uncle matthew than an oul' ledger any day," he said, "and it'll never be said that i prevented him from reading them. we all get our happiness in different ways, john, and it would be a poor thing to prevent a man from getting his happiness in his way just because it didn't happen to be your way. books are your uncle matthew's heart's-idol, and i wouldn't stop him from them for the wide world!" "but he does nothing, uncle william," john said, intent on justice, even when it reflected on his beloved uncle. "i know, but sure the heart was taken out of him that time when he was arrested for breaking the man's window. it was a terrible shock to him, that, and he never overed it. you must just let things go on as they're going. i don't believe you'll foe content to be a teacher. not for one minute do i believe that. but whatever you turn out to be, it'll be no harm to have had the extra schooling you're getting, so you'll stay on a monitor for a while longer. and now quit talking, do, or you'll have me deafened with your clatter!" uncle william always put down attempts to combat his will by assertions of that sort. "are you angry with me, uncle william?" john anxiously asked. "angry with you, son?" he swung round again on the high stool. "come here 'til i show you whether i am or not!" and then uncle william gathered him up in his arms and crushed the boy's face into his beard. "god love you, john," he said, "how could i be angry with you, and you your da's son!" "i love you queer and well, uncle," john murmured shyly. "do you, son? i'm glad to hear that." "aye. and i love my uncle matthew, too!..." "that's right. always love your uncle matthew whatever you do or whatever happens. he's a man that has more need of love nor most of us. your da loved him well, john!" "did he?" "aye, he did, indeed!" uncle william put his pen down on the desk, and leaning against the ledger, rested his head in the cup of his hand. "your da was a strange man, john," he said, "a queer, strange man, with a powerful amount of knowledge in his head. that man could write latin and greek and french and german, and he was the first man in ballyards to write the irish language ... and them was the days when people said irish was a papist language, and would have nothing to do with it. your da never paid no heed to anyone... he just did what he wanted to do, no matter what anyone said or who was against him. many's the time i've heard him give the minister his answer, and the high-up people, too. when lord castlederry came bouncing into the town, ordering people to do this or to do that, just because the queen's grandson was coming to the place, your da stood up fornenst him and said, as bold as brass, 'the people of this town are not englishmen, my lord, to be ordered about like dogs! they're ballyards men, and a ballyards man never bent the knee to no one!' that was what your da said to him, and lord castlederry never forgot it and never forgave it neither, but he could do no harm to us, for the macdermotts owned land and houses in ballyards before ever a castlederry put his foot in the place. he was a proud man your da, with a terrible quick temper, but as kindly-natured a man as ever drew breath. your ma thinks long for him many's a time, though i think there were whiles he frightened her. your uncle matthew and me is poor company for her after living with a man like that." "am i like my da, uncle william! my ma says sometimes i am ... when she's angry with me!" "sometimes you're like him and sometimes you're like her. you'll be a great fellow, john, if you turn out to be like your da. i tell you, boy, he was a man, and there's few men these times ... only a lot of oul' jinny-joes, stroking their beards and looking terrible wise over ha'penny bargains!" "and then he died, uncle william!" "aye, son, he died. you were just two years old when he died, a little, wee child just able to walk and talk. i mind it well. he called me into the bedroom where he was lying, and he bid the others leave me alone with him. your ma didn't want to go, but he wouldn't let her stay, and so she went, too. 'william,' he said, when the door was shut behind them, 'i depend on you to look after them all!' them was his very words, john, 'i depend on you to look after them all!' i couldn't answer him, so i just nodded my head. he didn't say anything more for a wee while, but lay back in the bed and breathed hard, for he was in pain, and couldn't breathe easy. then, after a wee while, he looked round at me, and he said, 'i'm only thirty-one, william, and i'm dying. and oul' peter clancy up the street, that's been away in the head since he was a child, is over sixty years of age!... i thought he was going to spring out of the bed when he said that, the temper come over him so quick and sudden, but i held him down and begged him to control himself, and he quietened himself. i heard him saying, half under his breath, 'and god thinks he knows how to rule the world!' he died that night, rebellious to the end!... he said he depended on me to look after you all, and i've tried hard, john, as hard as i could!" his voice quavered, and he turned away from his nephew. "your da was my hero," he said. "i'd have shed my heart's blood for him. it was hard that him that was the best of us should be the first to go!" john stood by his uncle's side, very moved by his distress, but not knowing what to do to comfort him. "my da would be queer and proud of you, uncle william," he said at last, "queer and proud if he could see you!" but uncle william did not answer nor did he look round. v it was understood, after that conversation between john and his uncle william, that the boy should remain at school for a year or two longer, working as a monitor, not in order that he might become a schoolmaster, but so that he might equip his mind with knowledge. mrs. macdermott wished her son to become a minister. it would be the proudest day of her life, she said, if she could see john standing in a pulpit, preaching a sermon. who knew but that he might be one day be the minister of the ballyards first presbyterian church itself, the very church in which his family had worshipped their god for generations. john, however, had no wish to be a minister. "you have to be queer and good to be one," he said, "and i'm not as good as all that!" "well, mebbe, you'll get better as you get older," mrs. macdermott insisted. "i might get worse," he replied. "it would be a fearful thing to be a minister, and then find out you wanted to commit a sin!" "ministers is like ourselves, john," mrs. macdermott said, "and i daresay mr. mccaughan sometimes wants to do wicked things, for all he's such a good man, and has to pray to god many's a while for the strength to resist temptation. that doesn't prove he's not fit to be a minister. it only shows he understands our nature all the more because he has temptations himself!" but john would not be convinced by her arguments. "i don't know, ma!" he said. "if i wanted to be wicked, i'm afraid i'd be it, so don't ask me to be a minister for i'd mebbe disgrace you with my carryings-on!" mrs. macdermott had been deeply hurt by his refusal to consider the ministry. "anybody'd think to hear you," she said, "that you'd made up your mind to lead a sinful life. as if a macdermott couldn't conquer his sins better nor anybody else!" his mother, he often observed, spoke more boastfully of the macdermotts than either his uncle william or his uncle matthew. john's final, overwhelming retort to her was this: "would my da have liked me to be a minister?" "i never knew what your da liked," she retorted; "i only knew what he did!..." "do you think he would have liked me to be a minister?" john persisted. "mebbe he wouldn't, but he's not here now!..." "you wouldn't do behind his back what you'd be afraid to do fornenst his face, would you?" "you've no right to talk to me that way. i'm your mother!..." "you knew rightly he wouldn't have liked it," john continued, inexorably. and then mrs. macdermott yielded. "you're your da over again," she complained. "he always had his way in the end, whatever was against him. what _do_ you want to be, then, when you grow up?" "i don't know yet, ma. i only know the things i don't want to be, and teaching is one of them. and a minister's another! mebbe i'll know in a wee while!" he did not like to tell her that in his heart he wished to go in search of adventures. his uncle matthew's imaginings had filled his mind with romantic desires, and he longed to leave ballyards and go somewhere ... anywhere, so long as it was a difficult and distant place ... where he would have to contend with dangers. there were times when he felt that he must instantly pack a bundle of clothes into a red handkerchief ... he could buy one at conn's, the draper's ... and run away from home and stow himself in the hold of a big ship bound for america or australia or some place like that ... and was only prevented from doing so by his fear that his mother and uncles would be deeply grieved by his flight. "it would look as if they hadn't been kind to me," he said in remonstrance to himself, "and that wouldn't be fair to them!" but although he did not run away from home, he still kept the strong desire in his heart to go out into a dangerous and bewildering world and seek fortune and adventures. "i want to fight things," he said to himself. "i want to fight things and, ... and win!" mixed up with his desire for adventure was a vision of a beautiful girl to whom he should offer his love and service. he could not picture her clearly to himself ... none of the girls in ballyards bore the slightest resemblance to her. sometimes, indeed, he thought that this beautiful girl was like lady castlederry ... only lady castlederry, somehow, although she was so very lovely, had a cold stupid look in her eyes, and he was very certain that this beautiful girl had bright, alert eyes. there had been a passage of love-making between aggie logan and him, conducted entirely by aggie logan. she had taken him aside one day, in the middle of a game of "i spy," and had said to him "will you court me, johnnie?" "no," he had replied. "do you not love me then?" she enquired. "no," he said again. "but i want you to court me," she persisted. "i don't care what you want," he retorted. "i won't court you because i don't want to court you. i don't like you. you're too much of a girner for me!" "i'm not a girner," she protested. "you are. you start crying the minute anything happens to you or if people won't do what you want them to do. i wouldn't marry a girner for the wide world!" "i won't girn any more if you'll court me," she promised. "i daresay," he replied skeptically. she considered for a moment or two. "well, if you won't court me," she said, "i'll let andy cairnduff court me!" "he can have you," said john, undismayed by the prospect of the schoolmaster's son as a rival. she stood before him for a little while, without speaking. then she turned and walked a little distance from him. she stopped, with her back turned towards him, and he knew by the way her head was bent, that she was thinking out a way of retaliating on him. the end of her pinafore was in her mouth!... she turned to him sharply, letting the pinafore fall from her lips, and pointing at him with her finger, she began to laugh shrilly. "ha, ha, ha!" she said. "i have you quarely gunked!" "gunked!" he exclaimed, unable to see how he had been hoaxed. "yes," she answered. "i gunked you nicely. you thought i wanted you to court me, but i was only having you on. ha, ha, ha!" he burst out laughing. "i that consoles you," he said; "you're welcome to it!" then she ran away and would not play "i spy" or "tig" any more. he had not told his mother of that passage of love with aggie logan. it did not occur to him to tell anything to his mother. his instinct, indeed, was not to tell things to her, to conceal them from her. vi if anyone had said to him that he did not love his mother as much as he loved his uncle matthew and his uncle william, he would have been very angry. not love his mother more than anyone else on earth!... only a blow could make a proper answer to such a charge. nevertheless his mother was associated in his mind with acts of repression, with forbidding and restraint. she seemed always to be telling him not to do things. when he wanted to go to the lough with willie logan to play robinson crusoe and his man friday or to light a bonfire in teeshie mcbratney's field with shavings from galpin's mill in the pretence that he was a red indian preparing for a war-dance, it was his mother who said that he was not to do it. he might fall into the water and get drowned, she said, or, he might fall into the fire and get roasted to death. as if he were not capable of controlling a raft or a bonfire!... he felt, too, that sometimes she punished him unjustly. when the logans and he had played buffalo bill and the red indians attacking the defenceless pale-face woman, he had had a fierce argument with willie logan about the part of buffalo bill. willie, being older, had claimed the part for himself, and, when denied the right to it, had declared that neither aggie nor he would play in the game. then a compromise had been arranged: willie was allowed to play the part of buffalo bill and to slay the red indian on condition that john, before being slain, should be allowed to scalp the helpless pale-face woman. he scalped her so severely, by tugging tightly at her long hair, that she began to cry, and willie, more conscious of the fact that he was aggie's brother than that he was buffalo bill, bore down upon john and gave him his "cowardy-blow." they fought a fierce and bitter fight, and in the end, willie went home with a bleeding nose, and john went home with a black eye. willie had not played the man over that affair. he went to his mother and complained of john's selfish and brutal behaviour, alleging that he had suffered terrible punishment in a chivalrous effort to protect his sister from ruffianly assault; and his mother, a thin, acidulous woman, whose voice was half snarl and half whine, carried her son's complaint to mrs. macdermott. mrs. macdermott had not stopped to enquire into the truth of the charge against john beyond asking if it were true that he had pulled aggie logan's hair and fought with willie logan. john had replied "yes, ma!" that was sufficient for mrs. macdermott, that and the testimony of john's discoloured eye, and she had beaten him with the leather tawse that was kept hanging from a nail at the side of the fireplace. "that my son should do the like of that!" she said over and over again until a cold fury of resentment against her had formed in his heart. it was true that he had pulled aggie's hair much harder than he ought to have done, but he had not intended to hurt her. what he had done, had been done, not out of malice, but in the excitement of the game; and it was not fair to beat him so severely for so little a thing as that. he would not cry ... he would not give his mother the satisfaction of hearing him cry, although the lashing he was receiving was hurting his bare pelt very sorely. she could keep on saying, "that my son should do the like of that!" but he would not mind her.... then, as if she understood his thoughts and perceived that he was unmoved by her outraged feelings, she had changed her complaint against him. glancing up at the portrait of her husband which was hanging over the fireplace, she said, "that your father's son should do the like of that!" compunction came to him then. he, too, looked up at the portrait of his father, and suddenly he wanted to cry. the pale face, made more pale in appearance by the thick, black beard, and having the faded look which photographs of the dead seem always to have, appeared to him to be alive and full of reproach, and the big burning eyes, aflame, they looked, with the consuming thing that took his life, had anger in them, anger against him!... he had not any regret for hurting aggie logan ... he did not believe that he had hurt her any more severely than was necessary for the purposes of the game, and even if he had hurt her, she ought to have borne it as part of the pretence ... he did not care whether he had hurt her or not, for she was a "cry-ba" at all times, ready to "girn" at anything ... but he had sorrow at the thought that he had done something of which his father might have disapproved. mrs. macdermott, with that penetration which is part of the nature of people who are accustomed to yield to stronger personalities had discovered that she could win john to her obedience by reminding him of his father; and she used her power without pity. "what would your father think of you, if he knew!" she would say. she was not a hard or a cruel woman ... she was very kind and loved her son with a long clutching love ... but her life with her husband had contained so many disturbances of comfortable courses, thrilling enough at the time, but terrifying when viewed in retrospect, that her nature, inclined to quiet, fixed ways and to acceptance, with slight resistance, of whatever came to her, made all the efforts that were possible to it to keep her life and her son's life in peace. she hated change of any sort, whether of circumstances or of friends, and she loved old, familiar things. the tradition of the macdermotts, their life in one place for generations and the respect with which they were greeted by their townsmen, gave immense pleasure to her, and her dearest dream was that john should continue in the place where his forefathers had lived, and that his son and his son's son should continue there, too! and so it was that she was always telling john not to do things. she loathed uncle matthew's romances and his talk of adventures in foreign parts, and she insisted that he was "away in the mind" when her son spoke of him to her. she tried to make the boy walk inconspicuously, to keep, always, in the background, to do only those things that were generally approved of. his quick temper, his haste with his fists, his habit of contradicting even those who were older than he was, his unwillingness to admit that he was in the wrong ... all these disturbed and frightened her. they would lead him into disputes and set him up in opposition to other people. his delight in the story of his father's encounter with lord castlederry troubled her, and she tried to convince her son that lord castlederry was a well-meaning man, but, as she knew, without success. she had delighted in her husband's great courage and self-sufficiency, his sureness, his strong decision and his unconquerable pride and independence ... but now, in contemplation, these things frightened her ... she wondered sometimes why it was that they had not frightened her in his lifetime ... and the thought that she might have to live again in contention and opposition roused all her strength to resist that fate. she had lived down much of the dislike that her husband had aroused. it was not necessary now to pretend that she did not see people, that she might escape from the mortification of being stared at, without a sign of recognition; and she would not lightly yield up her comfortable situation. if only she could only persuade john to become a minister! there was nothing in that to frighten her: there was everything to make her feel content and proud. when she took john to belfast, she made the holiday, so eagerly anticipated, a mortification to him. while they were in the train, she would tell him not to climb on to the seat of the carriage to look out of the window at the telegraph-poles flying past and the telegraph-wires rising and falling like birds ... she would tell him not to stand at the door in case it should fly open and he should fall out and be killed ... she would tell him, when the train reached the terminus in belfast, to take tight hold of her hand and not to budge from her side ... she would refuse to cross the lagan in the steam ferry-boat and insist on going round by tram-car across the queen's bridge ... she would tell him not to wander about in forster green's when he edged away from her to look at the coffee-mills in which the richly-smelling berries were being roasted. when she took him to linden's to tea ... linden's which made cakes for the queen and had the royal arms over the door of the shop! ... she spoiled the treat for him by refusing to let him sit on one of the stools at the counter and eat his "cookies" like a man: she made him sit by her side at a table ... an ordinary table such as anyone could sit on anywhere ... at home, even! his uncle william had taken him up to belfast one market-day, and that friday was made memorable to him forever because his uncle had said to him, "well, boy, what would you like to do?" and had consented, without demur, to cross the lagan in the ferry-boat. uncle william had not clutched at him all the time in fear lest he should fall into the river and be drowned, and had allowed him to stand at the end of the boat and watch the swirl of the water against the ferry-steps when they reached the antrim side. he had said to him, too, "i've a wee bit of business to attend to, boy, that'll not interest you much. would you like to stay here in the market for an hour by yourself while i go and do it?" would he like?... and not one word about taking great care of himself or of not doing this or doing that ... of keeping away from the horse-fair, and not going too near the cattle. uncle william trusted him, took it for granted that he was capable of looking after himself.... "very well, then," uncle william said, "i'll meet you here in an hour's time. no later, mind you, for i've a deal to do the day!" and for a whole hour, john had wandered about the market, not holding anyone's hand and free to go wherever he liked! he had walked through the old market where the horses were bought and sold ... had even stroked a mare's muzzle while some men bargained over it ... and then had crossed the road to the new market where he smelt the odour of flowers and fruit and listened to the country-women chaffering over their butter and eggs. he spent a penny without direction!... he bought a large, rosy american apple ... without being asked whether he would like to have that or an orange, or being told that he could not have an orange, but must have an apple because an apple in the morning was good for him... when he told his mother that night of the splendid time he had had by himself, she said, "you might have lost yourself!..." that chilled him, and he did not tell her of the gallant way in which he had rubbed his hand on a horse's side. he knew very well that she would say, "it might have kicked you!..." vii it was she who was most particular about the dyeing of his easter eggs and the ritual of hanging up his stocking on christmas eve. she had wanted to go on dyeing eggs for him at easter and hanging up his stocking on christmas eve, even when he was twelve years of age and could not be expected to tolerate such things any longer. he liked the easter ceremonial better, perhaps, than that of christmas. his mother would bid uncle matthew take him out of the town to the fields to gather whin-blossoms so that she could dye the eggs to a pretty brown colour. tea-leaves could be used to dye the eggs to a deeper brown than that of the whin-blossoms, but there was not so much pleasure in taking tea-leaves from the caddy as there was in plucking whin-blossoms from the furze-bushes. the logans bought their easter eggs, already dyed, from old mrs. dobbs, the dulce-woman, but john disliked the look of her eggs, apart from the fact that his mother would not permit him to buy them. mrs. dobbs used some artificial dyes which stained the eggshells a horrible purple or a less horrible red, and john had a feeling of sickness when he looked at them. mrs. macdermott said that if the eggs were to crack during the process of boiling, the dye would penetrate the meat and might poison anyone who ate it; and even if the shells remained uncracked, the dye would soil the fingers and perhaps soil the clothes. she wondered at mrs. logan!... and on easter monday, she and uncle matthew and uncle william would go to bryson's field where there was a low mound covered with short grass, and from the top of this mound, he would trundle his easter egg down the slope to the level ground until the shell was broken. then he would sit beside his mother and uncles, and eat the hard-boiled meat of the egg while uncle matthew explained to him that he was celebrating an ancient druidical rite. viii but he loved his mother very dearly when she came to him at night to put him to bed and listen to his prayers. he would kneel down in front of her, in the warmth of the kitchen so that he might not catch cold in the unheated bedroom, and would shut his eyes very tightly because god did not like to see little boys peeping through their distended fingers at him, and would say his verse: i lay my body down to sleep.... i pray the lord my soul to keep, and if i die before i wake, i pray the lord my soul to take. and having said that, he would add a general prayer for his family. "god bless my mother" ... he always said _"mother"_ in his prayers, although he said _"ma"_ in ordinary talk ... "and my uncle william and my uncle matthew and all my friends and relations, and make me a good boy for jesus' sake, amen. our father which art...." then he would scamper up the stairs to bed, and his mother would hap the clothes about him and tell him to go to sleep soon. she would bend over him and kiss him very tightly, and he would put his arms about her, too. "son, dear!" she would say. the second chapter i when john macdermott was seventeen years of age and entering into his fourth year of monitorship, his uncle william said to him, "john, boy, you're getting on to be a man now, and it's high time you began to think of what you're going to do with yourself when you are one!" "you're mebbe right," said john. "the next year'll be your last one at the monitoring, won't it?" uncle william continued. john nodded his head. "well, if i were you i'd make a plan of some sort during the next year or two, for it would never do for you to come to the years of discretion, and have to take to the teachering because you couldn't think of anything else to do. i can see well your heart's not in that trade." "it is not, indeed!" john said vigorously. "it's a terrible tiring job, teaching children, and some of them are that stupid you feel provoked enough to slap the hands off them! i'm nearly afraid of myself sometimes with the stupid ones, for fear i'd lose my temper with them and hurt them hard. mr. cairnduff says no one should be a teacher that has a bad temper, and dear knows, uncle william, i've a fearful temper! he's a quare wise man, mr. cairnduff: he doesn't let any of his monitors use the cane, for he says it's an awful temptation to be cruel, especially if you're young and impatient the way i am!" "is that so now?" said uncle william. "oh, it is, right enough. i know well there's times when a child's provoked me, that i want to be cruel to it ... and i'd hate to be cruel to any child. there's a wee girl in my class now.... lizzie turley's her name!..." "john turley's child?" "yes. god knows she's the stupidest child in the world!" "her da's a match, for her, then, for he's the stupidest man i've ever known. that fellow ought not to have been let have children!..." "it's not her fault, i know," john continued, "but you forget that when you're provoked. i've tried hard to teach that child ... vowed to myself i'd teach her ... to add up, but i'm afraid she's beaten me. she can subtract well enough ... that's the queer part about her ... but she cannot add up. you'll mebbe not believe me. uncle william, but that child can't put two and one together and be sure of getting the right answer. at first she couldn't add two and one together at all. she'd put down twelve for the answer as likely as not. but i worked hard with her, and i got her to add up to two and six make eight ... and there she stuck. i couldn't get her past that: she couldn't add two and seven together and get nine for the answer. but if you asked her to subtract two from nine, she'd say "seven" all right! that's a queer thing, now! isn't it?" "aye, it's queer enough!" "there's been times when i've wanted to hit that wee girl ... hit her with my shut fists ... and i don't like to feel that way about a child that's not all there ... or any child! i'm afraid i'm not fit to be a teacher, uncle william. you have to be very good and patient... and it's no use pretending you haven't. mr. cairnduff says it's more important for a teacher to be good than it is for a minister, and he's right, too. he says a child should never be slapped by the teacher that's offended with it, but by another teacher that knows nothing about the bother. he doesn't use the cane much himself, but there's some teachers likes using it. miss gebbie does... she carries a big bamboo about with her, and gives you a good hard welt across the hand with it, if you annoy her. i wouldn't like to be in that woman's grip, i can tell you. some women are fearful hard, uncle william!" "worse nor men, some of them," uncle william agreed. "mr. cairnduff told me one time of a teacher he knew that got to like the cane so much that he used to try and trip the children into making mistakes so's he could slap them for it. isn't it fearful, that?" "terrible, john!" "i'd be ashamed to death if i got that way. oh, i couldn't go on with the teaching, uncle william. i wouldn't be near fit for it." "well, never mind, john. there's one thing, the extra schooling you've had has done you no harm, and i daresay it's done you a lot of good. but you'll have to think of something to do!..." "yes, i will!" "do you never think of anything? is there any particular thing you'd like to do?" "there's a whole lot of things i've fancied i'd like to be, but after a wee while i always change my mind. the first time i went to belfast, i thought it would be lovely to be a tram-driver 'til i saw a navvy tearing up the street ... and then i thought a navvy had the best job in the world. you know, uncle william, it takes me a long while to find out what it is i want, but when i do find it out, i take to it queer and quick. i'll mebbe go footering about the world like a lost thing, and then all of a sudden i'll know what i want to do ... and i'll just do it!" "hmmm!" said uncle william. "it sounds queer and foolish, doesn't it?" "oh, i don't know, john. many's a thing sounds silly, but isn't." "it's true, anyway. i've noticed things like that about myself. it's ... it's like a man getting converted. one minute he's a guilty, hell-deserving sinner, the way john hutton says he was, footering about the world, drinking and guzzling and leading a rotten life ... and then all of a sudden, he's hauled up and made to give his testimony and do god's will for the rest of his life! i daresay i'll drift from one thing to another ... and then i'll know, just like a flash of lightning ... and i'll go and do it!" "that's a dangerous kind of a doctrine," said uncle william. "it's easier to get into the way of drifting nor it is to get out of it again. and you're a young lad to be thinking strange thoughts like that!" "i'm seventeen," john replied. "that's not young!" "it's not oul' anyway. anybody'd think to hear you, you had the years of methuselah. i suppose, now, you never thought of coming into the shop?" "i did think of it one time, but you wouldn't let me!..." "that was when you wanted to help me. but did you never think of it for your own sake? you see, john, you're the last of us, and this shop has been in our family for a long while ... it's a good trade, too, and you'll have no fear of hardship as long as you look after it, although the big firms in belfast are opening branches here. the macdermotts can hold their heads up against any big firm in the world, i'm thinking ... in this place, anyway. did you never feel you'd like to come into the shop?" john glanced about the shop, at the assistants who were serving customers with tea and groceries.... "no," he said, shaking his head, "i don't think i'd like it!" uncle william considered for a few moments. then he said, "no, i thought you wouldn't care for it. your da felt that way too. the shop wasn't big enough for him. all the same, there has to be shops, and there has to be people to look after that!" "oh, i know that right enough, uncle william. i'm not saying anything against them. they're all right for them that likes them!..." he paused for a while, and his uncle waited for him to proceed. "sometimes," he said at last, "i'm near in the mind to go and be a soldier!..." "for dear sake!" said uncle william impatiently. "or a sailor. i went down to the post office once and got a bill about the navy!..." "well, i would think you were demented mad to go and do the like of that," said uncle william. "you might as well be a peeler!" ii his mind turned now very frequently to the consideration of work other than that of teaching. he made a mental catalogue of the things that were immediately possible to him: teaching, the ministry of the presbyterian church, the shop ... and ruled them all out of his list. the thought of soldiering or of going to sea lingered in his mind for a long time ... because he associated soldiering and sailoring with travel in strange places ... but he abandoned that thought when he balanced the tradition of his class against the army, and navy. all the men of his acquaintance who had joined the army or the navy had done so, either because they were in disgrace or because they were unhappy at home. it was generally considered that in joining either of the services, they had brought shame upon their families, less, perhaps in the case of the navy than in the case of the army. in any event, his uncle william's statement that a macdermott could not endure to be ordered about by any one settled his mind for him on that subject. he would have to get his adventures in other ways. he might emigrate to america. he had a cousin in new york and one in chicago. he might go to canada or australia or south africa ... digging for gold or diamonds! there was nothing in ireland that attracted him ... all the desirable things were in distant places. farming in canada or australia had a romantic attraction that was not to be found in farming in ireland. he had _seen_ farmers in ireland ... and he did not wish to be like them! but, no matter how much he considered the question, he came no nearer to a solution of it. he would go out to the fields that lay on the shores of the lough, going one day to this side, and another day to that, and lie down in the sunshine and dream of a brilliant career. he might go into parliament and become a great statesman, like that man, lord salisbury, who had come to belfast once during the home rule agitation. or he might turn nationalist and divert himself by roaring in the house of commons against the english! he wished that he could write poetry ... if he could write poetry, he might become famous. there was an old exercise book at home, full of poems that he had made up when he was much younger, about ireland and the pope and love and ballyards ... but they were poor things, he knew, although mr. cairnduff, to whom he had shown them, had said that, considering the age john was when he wrote them, they might have been a great deal worse. mr. cairnduff had given generous praise to a long poem on the election of a nationalist for the city of derry, beginning with this wail: _oh, derry, derry, what have you done? sold your freedom to home rule's son!_ but neither uncle william nor uncle matthew had had much to say for it. uncle william said that his father would not have liked to think of his son writing a poem full of sentiments of that sort, and uncle matthew went upstairs to the attic and brought down, a copy of _romeo and juliet_ and presented it to him. but mrs. macdermott was pleased in a queer way. she hoped he was not going to take up politics, but she was glad that he was not a home ruler! sometimes, when he had been much younger than he now was ... john always thought of himself as a man of great age ... he had resolved that he would become a writer; but although he began many stories and solemn books ... there was one called, _the errors of rome_ in which the papists were to be finally and conclusively exposed ... none of them were ever finished. then had come a phase of preaching. his mother read the _christian herald_ every week, and john would get a table cloth, and wrap it round himself to represent a surplice ... for the church of ireland was more decorative than the presbyterian church ... and deliver the sermons of dr. talmage and mr. spurgeon in a loud sing-song voice that greatly delighted mrs. macdermott. that, too, had passed, very swiftly indeed, because of the alarming discovery that he was an atheist! he would never forget the sensation he had created in school when he had suddenly turned to willie logan and said, "willie, i don't believe there's a god at all. it's all a catch!..." willie, partly out of fright, but chiefly because of his incorrigible tendency to "clash," immediately reported him to miss gebbie, who had been a teacher even then ... it seemed to him sometimes that miss gebbie had always been a teacher and would never cease to be one ... and she had converted him to a belief in god's existence at the point of her bamboo.... then came a time of mere dreaming of a future in which some beautiful girl would capture all his mind and heart and service. he would rescue her from a dire situation ... he would invent some wonderful thing that would bring fame and fortune to him ... and he would offer all his fame and fortune to her. his visions of this girl, constantly recurring, prevented him from falling in love with any girl in ballyards. when he contrasted the girl of his dream with the girls he saw about him, he could not understand how anyone could possibly love a ballyards girl. aggie logan!... he would come away from the fields, pleased with his dreams, but still as far from a solution of his problem as ever. iii one evening, his uncle william came into the kitchen where john was reading _john halifax, gentleman_ to his mother. "i ought to go to belfast the morrow," he said, "but saturday's an awkward day for me. i was wondering whether to send john instead. he's nothing to do on saturdays, and it would be a great help to me!" john closed the book, "of course, i'll go, uncle william!" he said. mrs. macdermott coldly regarded them both. "you know rightly," she said, "that i'm as busy on saturday as you are, william. how can he go up to belfast when i can't go with him?" "i never said nothing about you going with him," uncle william retorted. "he's well able to go by himself!" _"go by himself!"_ mrs. macdermott almost shouted the words at her brother-in-law. "a lad that never was out of the town by his lone in his life before!" "he'll have to go by his lone some day, won't he? and he's a big lump of a lad now, and well able to look after himself!" "he'll not stir an inch from the door without me," mrs. macdermott declared in a determined voice. "think shame to yourself, william, to be putting such thoughts into a lad's head ... suggesting that he should be sent out in the world by himself at his age!..." uncle william shifted uneasily in his seat. "i'm not suggesting that he should be sent out into the world," he said. "i'm only suggesting that he should be sent to belfast for the day!..." "and what sort of a place is belfast on a saturday afternoon with a lot of drunk footballers flying about? he will not go, william. you can send matthew!..." uncle william made a gesture of impatience. "you know rightly, matthew's no good for a job of this sort!" "well, then, you'll have to go yourself. i'll keep an eye to the shop, forby my own work!..." john got up and put _john halifax, gentleman_ on the window-ledge. "you needn't bother yourself, ma," he said. "i'm going to belfast the morrow. what is it you want me to do, uncle william?" mrs. macdermott stared at him for a moment, then she got up and hurried out of the kitchen. they could hear her mounting the stairs, and then they heard the sound of her bedroom door being violently slammed. "women are queer, john," said uncle william, "but the queerest women of all are the women that are mothers. anybody'd think i was proposing to send you to the bad place, and dear knows, belfast's not that!" "what's the job you want me to do?" "come into the shop and i'll tell you!" john followed his uncle into the shop and they sat down together in the little counting house. "there's really nothing that a postcard couldn't do," uncle william said. "that was the excuse. i've been thinking about you, john, and i thought it was a terrible pity you should never get out and about by yourself a bit ... out of ballyards, i mean ... to look round you. it's no good to a lad to be always running about with his ma!" "you're a terrible schemer, uncle william," said john. "ah, g'long with you," his uncle answered. "here, pay heed to me now, while i tell you. this is what i want you to do!..." he showed a business letter to john and invited him to read it. then he explained the nature of the small commission he wished him to execute. "it'll not take you long," he said, "and then you can look about yourself in belfast. you'll want a few coppers in your pocket!" he put a coin into john's hand and then closed the lad's fingers over it. "it's great value to go down the quays and have a look at the ships," he went on, "and mebbe you could get a look over the shipyard! ... and perhaps when you're knocking about belfast, you'll see something you'd like to do!" iv in this way, his saturday trips to belfast began. he found them much less exhilarating then he had imagined they would be. he inspected the city hall in the company of a beadle and was informed, with great preciseness, of the cost of the building and of the price paid to each artist for the portraits of the lord mayors which were suspended from the walls of the council chamber. the beadle seemed to think that the portraits represented a waste of ratepayers' money, and he considered that if the corporation had given a contract to one artist for all the pictures, a great reduction in price could have been obtained.... the museum and the free library depressed him, precisely in the way in which museums and free libraries always depress people; but he found pleasure in the botanic gardens and the ormeau park. he devised an excellent scheme of walking, which enabled him to go through the botanic gardens, then, by side streets, to the lagan, where a ferryman rowed him across to the opposite bank and landed him in the ormeau park. he would walk briskly through the park, and then, when he had emerged from it, would cross the albert bridge, hurry along the sand quay, and stand at the queen's bridge to watch the crowds of workmen hurrying home from the shipyards. he never tired of watching the "islandmen," grimy from their labour, as they passed over the bridge in a thick, dusky stream to their homes. thousands and thousands of men and boys seemed to make an endless procession of shipbuilders, designers and rivetters and heater-boys. but it never occurred to him that there was something romantic in the enterprise and labours of these men, that out of their energies, great ships grew and far lands were brought near to each other. he liked to witness the dispersal of the shipyard's energies, but he did not think of the miracle which their assembled energies performed every day. by this narrow, shallow river lagan, a great company of men and boys and women met daily to make the means whereby races reached out to each other; and their ships sailed the seas of the world, carrying merchandise from one land to another, binding the east to the west and the south to the north, and making chains of friendship and kindliness between diverse peoples. it was an adventure to sail in a ship, in john's mind, but he did not know, had never thought or been told, that it is also an adventure to build a ship. the pleasure which he found in watching the "islandmen" crossing the queen's bridge was not related to their work: it was found in the spectacle of a great crowd. any crowd passing over the bridge would have pleased john equally well.... but the crowd of "islandmen" was soon dispersed; and john found that there was very little to do in belfast. he did not care for football matches, he had no wish to enter the city hall again, he could not walk through the botanic gardens and the ormeau park all day long, and he certainly did not wish to visit the museum or the free library again. he became tired of walking aimlessly about the streets. there was a wet saturday when, as he stood under the shelter of an awning in royal avenue, he resolved that he would return to ballyards by an early train. "it's an awful town, this, on a wet day!" he said to himself, unaware that any town in which a man is a stranger is unpleasant on a wet day ... and sometimes on a fine day. "somehow," he went on, "there seems to be more to do in ballyards on a wet day than there is in belfast on a wet day!" a sense of loneliness descended upon him as he gazed at the grey, dribbling skies and the damp pavements. the trams were full of moist, huddled men and women; the foot-passengers hurried homewards, their heads bent against the wind and rain; the bleak-looking newspaper boys, barefooted, pinched, hungry and cold, stood shivering in doorways, with wet, sticky papers under their arms; and wherever he looked, john saw only unfriendliness, haste and discomfort. there would not be a train to ballyards until late in the afternoon, and as he stood there, growing less cheerful each moment, he wondered how he could occupy the time of waiting. the wind blew down the street, sending the rain scudding in front of it, and chilling him, and, half unconsciously, he hurried across the road to take shelter in a side street where, it seemed to him, he would be less exposed. he walked along the street, keeping in the shadow of the houses, and presently he found himself before the old market of smithfield. "amn't i the fool," he said to himself, "not to have come here before?" for here, indeed, was entertainment for any man or woman or child. in this ancient market for the sale of discarded things, a lonely person could pass away the dull hours very agreeably. the auctioneers, wheedling and joking and bullying, could be trusted to amuse any reasonable man for a while, and when their entertainment was exhausted there were the stalls to visit and explore. he stood to listen to a loud-voiced man who was selling secondhand clothes, and then, turning away, found himself standing before a bookstall. piles of books, of all sizes and shapes and colours, lay on a long shutter that rested on trestles; and in the shop, behind the trestles, were great stacks of books reaching to the ceiling. he fingered the books with the affection with which he had seen his uncle matthew finger those in the attic at home. some of them had the dreary, dull look observable in books that have long passed out of favour and have lain disregarded in some dark and dusty corner; and some, though they were old, looked bright and pleasant as if they were confident that the affection which had been theirs for years would be continued to them by new owners. he picked up old volumes and spent much time in contemplating the inscriptions inside them ... fading inscriptions in a thin, genteel handwriting that had the careful look of writing done by people who were anxious that the record should not offend a schoolmaster's eye ... and as he read these inscriptions, a queer dejection settled on him. these books, dusty and disregarded, he told himself, represented love and thought that had perished. doubt and damp pessimism clutched hold of him. at the end of every brave adventure was smithfield market. he put down a book which contained an inscription to "charles dunwoody from his affectionate mother," and looked about him. everywhere, secondhand, rejected things were for sale: clothes, furniture, books, pictures ... the market was a mortuary of ambition and hope, the burial ground of little enterprises, confidently begun and miserably ended. here were the signs of disruption and dispersal, of things attempted but not achieved, of misfortune and failure, of things used and abandoned for more coveted things. john had imagined himself performing great feats to win the love and favour of some beautiful woman ... but now he saw his adventure in love ending in a loud-voiced auctioneer mouthing jokes over a ruined home. behind these piles of books and pictures and clothes and furniture, one might see young couples bravely setting out on their little ships of love to seek their fortunes, light-heartedly facing perils and dangers because of the high hope in their hearts ... and coming to wreck on a rough coast where their small cargoes were seized by creditors and brought to this place for sale, and they were left bare and hurt and discouraged... "oh, well!" said john, shrugging his shoulders and picking up a newer book. that would not happen to him. if he failed in one enterprise he would start off on another. if he made a fortune and lost it, he would make another one. if the things he built were to be destroyed ... well, he would start building again.... but the mood of pessimism still held him and he could not bear to look at the books any longer. an unhappy ghost hid behind the covers of each one of them. he hurried out of the market into the street. the rain had ceased to fall, but the streets were wet and dirty, and the air struck at him coldly. he glanced at his watch, and saw that he could not now catch the train by which he had intended to return to ballyards. "i'll go and get my tea somewhere," he said, and then, "i don't think i'll come to belfast again. i'm tired of the town!" he turned into royal avenue and passed across castle junction into donegall place where there was a shop in which new books were sold. the shop was closed now, but he was able to see books with handsome covers in the window and he stayed for a time reading the titles of them. there was a bustle of people about him, of newspaper boys and flower girls, bedraggled and cheerless-looking, and of young men and women tempted to the saturday evening parade in the chief street of the city in spite of the rain. the sound of voices in argument and barter and bright talk mingled with laughter and the noise of the tram-cars and carts clattering over the stony street. john liked the sound of belfast on a saturday night, the pleased sound of released people intent on enjoyment and with the knowledge that on the morrow there would still be freedom from labour, and as he stood in front of the bookshop, half intent on the books in the window and half intent on the crowd that moved about him, the gloom which had seized hold of him in smithfield began to relax its grip: and when two girls, jostled against him by the disordered movement of the crowd on the pavement, smiled at him in apology, he smiled back at them. he thrust himself through the crowd, breaking into a group of excited newspaper boys who were thrusting copies of the _evening telegraph_ and _ireland's saturday night_ at possible purchasers, and walked towards the city hall, but, changing his mind unaccountably, he turned down castle lane and presently found himself by the theatre royal. he had never been to a theatre in his life, but uncle matthew and uncle william, when they were young men, used frequently to come to belfast from ballyards to see a play, and they had told him of the great pleasure they had had at the "old royal." "i've a good mind to go there to-night," he said to himself, as he crossed the street to examine the playbills which were posted on the walls of the theatre. mr. f.r. benson's shakespearean company, he read on the bill by the stage-door, would perform _the merchant of venice_ that evening. the company would remain in belfast during the following week and would produce other plays by shakespeare. "i _will_ go," he said to himself. "i'll go somewhere now and have my tea, and then i'll hurry back!" he remembered that he had seen a volume of shakespeare's plays in the bookshop in donegall place and that uncle matthew had each of the plays in a separate volume in the attic at home. he had read _the merchant of venice_ a long time ago, but had only a vague recollection of it. in one of the school-books, portia's speech on mercy was printed, and he could say that piece off by heart. the jew had snarled at portia when she had said "then must the jew be merciful!" "on what compulsion must i?" he had demanded, and she had replied, "the quality of mercy is not strained...." the school-book did not print portia's statement that the jew must be merciful or the jew's snarling demand, "on what compulsion must i?"; but mr. cairnduff had explained the story of the play to the class and had told them of these two speeches, and john, interested by the story, had gone home and searched through the attic for the play, and there had read it through. his mind went back to the bookshop. "it must be fine to work in a place like that, with all the books you can want to read all round you," he said to himself while he hurried through corn market on his way to a restaurant. he stopped for a moment or two, as an idea suddenly presented itself to him. "i know what i'll do," he said aloud. "i'll start a bookshop myself. _new_ books ... not old ones. that sort of life would suit me fine!" v he ate his meal in great haste, and then hurried back to the theatre where a queue of people had already formed outside the entrance to the pit. soon after he joined the queue, the doors were opened, and in a little while he found himself sitting at the end of the second row. he had chosen this seat so that he might be able to hurry out of the theatre quickly, without disturbing anyone, if he should have to leave before the play was ended to catch the last train to ballyards. a boy about his own age was sitting next to him, and this boy asked john to let him have a look at his programme. "did you ever see this piece before?" john said to him, as he passed the programme to him. "i did not," he replied. "i'm not much of a one for plays. i generally go to the 'lhambra on a saturday, but somehow i didn't go there the night!" "that's a terrible place, that 'lhambra," said john. "what's terrible about it?" his neighbour replied. "i don't know. i was never there. this is the first time i've ever been in a theatre. but i've heard fearful things about that place, about women coming out and dancing with hardly any clothes on, and then kicking up their legs and all. i have an uncle went there once, and when the woman began kicking up her legs and showing off her clothes, he got up and stood with his back to the stage 'til she was done, he was that disgusted." john remembered how shocked uncle william had been when he told that story of himself. "your uncle must be very easy shocked," said the boy. "i can look at women kicking up their legs, and i don't think nothing of it at all. i like a good song and dance myself. i don't like plays much. gimme a woman that's nice-looking and can sing and dance a bit, and i wouldn't ask you for nothing nicer. is there any dancin' in this bit, do you know?" "i don't think so," said john. "i've never seen the piece before, but i've read it. i don't think there's any dancing in it!" "and no comic songs?..." "sure, you'll see for yourself in a wee minute!" john's neighbour considered. "i wonder would they give me my money back if i was to go to the pay-box and let on i was sick!" "they'd never do that," said john. "they'd know rightly you weren't sick by the look of you!" the boy returned the programme to john. "well, i wish they'd hurry up and begin," he murmured. the members of the orchestra came through a door beneath the stage and took their places, and the sound of fiddles being tuned was heard for a while. then the leader of the orchestra came to his place, and after a pause, the music began. "a fiddle's great value," john's neighbour whispered to him. "i'm a great hand at the jew's harp myself!..." the music ceased, the lights were lowered in the theatre and the footlights were raised, throwing a great soft yellow glow on the picture of the lakes of killarney which decorated the drop-curtain. then, the curtain was rolled up, and the performance began. he had been interested by the play when he read it, but now he was enthralled by it. he wished that the boy sitting next to him would not keep on asking for the programme every time a fresh character appeared on the stage and would refrain from making comments on the play while it was being performed. "them people wore quare clothes in them days!" he had whispered to john soon after the play began, and when shylock made his first entrance, he said, "ah, for jase' sake, look at the oul' sheeny!" "ssh!" said john. "don't talk!..." "sure, why?..." "ah, shut up," said john. he did not wish to talk during the intervals between the acts. he wished to sit still in his seat and perform the play over again in his mind. he tried to remember bassanio's description of portia: _in belmont is a lady richly left, and she is fair, and fairer than that word, of wondrous virtues...._ he could not think of the words that came after that ... except one sentence: _ ...and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece._ he repeated this sentence to himself many times, as if he were tasting each word with his tongue and with his mind, and once he said it aloud in a low voice. "eh?" said his neighbour. "i was just reciting a piece from the play," he explained. "what were you reciting?" "do you remember that piece: _and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece?"_ "no!" "in the first act? when the young fellow, bassanio, was telling antonio about his girl in belmont?" his neighbour turned to him eagerly. "i wonder did they just put that bit in about belmont," he said. "there's a place near belfast called belmont ... just beyond the hollywood arches there! do you know it?" john shook his head. "i wouldn't be surprised but they just put that bit in to make it look more like the thing. what was the piece you were reciting?" john repeated it to him again. "what's the sense of that?" the boy exclaimed. "oh, don't you see? it's ... it's ..." he did not know how to explain the speech. "it's poetry," he said lamely. "oh" said the boy. "portry. i see now. ah, well, i suppose they have to fill up the piece some way! do you think that woman, what's her name again?..." "portia?" "aye. d'you think she did live at belmont? some of them stories is true, you know, and there was quare things happened in the oul' ancient days in this neighbourhood, i can tell you. i wouldn't be surprised now!..." but before he could say any more, the lights were lowered again, and there was a hushing sound, and then the play proceeded. "oh, isn't it grand?" john said to his neighbour when the trial scene was over. but his neighbour remained unmoved. "d'you mean to tell me," he said, "that man didn't know his wife when he saw her in the coort?" "what man?" "that fellow what-you-may-call-him? the man that was married on the girl with the red dress on her!..." "bassanio?" "aye. d'you mean to tell me that fellow didn't know her again, and him only just after leaving her!..." john tried to explain. "it's a play," he said. "he's not supposed to recognize her!..." "och, what's the good of supposing a thing that couldn't be!" said john's neighbour. "any man with half an eye in his head could have seen who she was. i wish i'd gone to the 'lhambra. this is a damn silly play, this!" john was horrified. "silly," he said. "it's by shakespeare!" "i don't care who it's by," was the reply. "it's damn silly to let on a man doesn't know his own wife when he sees her. i suppose that's portry!" he sneered. john did not answer, and his neighbour went on. "well, if it is portry ... god help it, that's all!" but john did not care whether bassanio had recognized portia in the court scene or not. he left the theatre in an exalted mood in which he had little thought for the realities. next week he told himself, he would visit the royal again. he would see two plays on the following saturday, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. the bills for the following week's programme were already pasted on the walls of the theatre when he came out, and he risked the loss of his train by stopping to read one of them. _romeo and juliet_ was to be performed in the afternoon, and _julius caesar_ in the evening. he hurried down ann street and across the queen's bridge, and reached the railway station just in time to catch his train; and all the way across the bridge and all the way home in the train, one sentence passed continually through his mind: _...and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece._ vi while he ate his supper, he spoke to his mother and his uncles of his intention to open a bookshop. "i'm going to start a bookshop," he said. "i made up my mind in belfast to-day!" "a what?" mrs. macdermott demanded. "a bookshop, ma. i'll have every book you can think of in it!..." "in the name of god," his mother exclaimed, "who do you think buys books in this place?" "plenty of people, ma. mr. mccaughan!..." "mr. mccaughan never buys a book from one year's end to another," she interrupted. "and if he did, you can't support a shop on one man's custom. the people of this town doesn't waste their time on reading: they do their work!" john turned angrily on her. "it's not a waste of time to read books, ma. is it, uncle matthew?" "you may well ask him," she said before uncle matthew could answer. "what do you think, uncle william?" john went on. uncle william thought for a few moments. "i don't know what to think," he said. "it's not a trade i know much about, john, but i doubt whether there's a living in it in ballyards." "there's no living in it," mrs. macdermott exclaimed passionately, "and if there was, you shouldn't earn your living by it!" john gazed at her in astonishment. her eyes were shining, not with tears, though tears were not far from them, but with resentment and anger. "why, ma?" he said. "because books are the ruin of people's minds," she replied. "your da was always reading books, wild books that disturbed him. he was never done reading _the rights of man_. and look at your uncle matthew!..." she stopped suddenly as if she realised that she had said too much. uncle matthew did not speak. he looked at her mournfully, and then he turned away. "i don't want to say one word to hurt anyone's feelings," she continued in a lower tone, "but my life's been made miserable by books, and i don't want to see my son made miserable, too. and you know well, matthew," she added, turning to her brother-in-law, "that all your reading has done you no good, but a great deal of harm. and what's the use of books, anyway? will they help a man to make a better life for himself?" uncle matthew turned to her quickly. "they will, they will," he said, and his voice trembled with emotion. "people can take your work from you and make little of you in the street because you did what your heart told you to do, but you'll get your comfort in a book, so you will. i know what you're hinting at, hannah, but i'm not ashamed of what i did for the oul' queen, and i'd do it again, gaol or no gaol, if i was to be hanged for it the day after!" he turned to john. "i don't know what sort of a living you'll make out of selling books," he said, "and i don't care either, but if you do start a shop to sell them, let me tell you this, you'll never prosper in it if it doesn't hurt you sore to part with a book, for books is like nothing else on god's earth. you _have_ to love them ... you _have_ to love them!..." "you're daft," said mrs. macdermott. "mebbe i am," uncle matthew replied wearily. "but that's the way i feel, and no man can help the way he feels!" he sat down at the table, resting his head in his hands, and gazed hungrily at his nephew. "you can help putting notions into a person's head," said mrs. macdermott. "john might as well try to _write_ books as try to sell them in this town!" "_write_ books!" john exclaimed. "aye, write them!..." but uncle matthew would not let her finish her sentence. "and why shouldn't he write books if he has a mind to it?" he demanded. "wasn't he always the wee lad for scribbling bits of stories in penny exercise books?..." "he was ... 'til i beat him for it," she replied. "why can't you settle down here in the shop with your uncle william?" she said to her son. "it's a comfortable, quiet sort of a life, and it's sure and steady, and when we're all gone, it'll be yours for yourself. won't it, william?" "oh, aye!" said uncle william. "everything we have'll be john's right enough, but i doubt he's not fond of the shop!..." "what's wrong with the shop? it's as good as any in the town!" she coaxed john with her voice. "you can marry some nice, respectable girl and bring her here," she said, "and i'll gladly give place to her when she comes!" she rocked herself gently to and fro in the rocking-chair. "i'd like well to have the nursing of your children in the house that you yourself were born in!..." "och, ma, i'm not in the way of marrying!..." "you'll marry some time, won't you? and there's plenty would be glad to have you. aggie logan, though i can't bear the sight of her, would give the two eyes out of her head for you. of course you'll marry, and i'd be thankful glad to think of your son being born in this house. you were born in it, and your da, too, and his da, and his da's da. four generations of you in one house to be pleased and proud of, and i pray to god he'll let me live to see the fifth generation of the macdermotts born here, too. i'm a great woman for clinging to my home, and i love to think of the generations coming one after the other in the same house that the family's always lived in. how many people in this town can say they've always lived in the one house like the macdermotts?" "not very many," uncle william proudly replied. "no, indeed there's not, i tell you, john, son, the macdermotts are someone in this town, as grand in their way and as proud as lord castlederry himself. that's something to live up to, isn't it! the good name of your family! but if you go tramping the world for adventures and romances, the way your uncle matthew would have you do, you'll lose it all, and there'll be strangers in the house that your family's lived in all these generations. and mebbe you'll come here, when you're an oul' man and we're all dead and buried, and no one in the place'll have any mind of you at all, and you'll be lonelier here nor anywhere else. oh, it would be terrible to be treated like a stranger in your own town! and if you did start a bookshop and it failed on you, and you lost all your money, wouldn't it be worse disgrace than any not to be able to pay your debts in a place where everyone knows you ... to be made a bankrupt mebbe?" "ah, but, ma, the world would never move at all if everybody stopped in the one place!" john said. "the world'll move well enough," she answered. "god moves it, not you." john got up from the table and went, and sat on a low stool by the fire. "i don't know so much," he said. "i read in a book one time!..." "in a book!" mrs. macdermott sneered. "aye, ma, in a book!" john stoutly answered. "after all, you know the bible's a book!" mrs. macdermott had not got a retort to that statement, and john, aware that he had scored a point, hurriedly proceeded, "i was reading one time that all the work in the world was started by men that wrote books. there never was any change or progress 'til someone started to think and write!..." mrs. macdermott recovered her wits. "were they happy and contented men?" she demanded. "i don't know, ma," john replied. "the book didn't say that. i suppose not, or they wouldn't have wanted to make any alterations!" "let them that wants to make changes, make them," said mrs. macdermott. "there's no need for you to go about altering the world when you can stay at home here happy and content!" uncle matthew rose from the table and came towards mrs. macdermott. "what does it matter whether you're happy and contented or not, so long as things are happening to you?" he exclaimed. mrs. macdermott burst into bitter laughter. "you have little wit," she said, "to be talking that daft way. eh, william?" she added, turning to her other brother-in-law. "what do you think about it?" uncle william had lit his pipe, and was sitting in a listening attitude, slowly puffing smoke. "i'm wondering," he said, "whether it's more fun to be writing about things nor it is to be doing things!" john turned to him and tapped him on the knee. "i've thought of that, uncle william," he said, "and i tell you what! i'll go and do something, and then i'll write a book about it!" "what'll you do?" mrs. macdermott asked. "something," said john. "i can easily do _some_thing!" "and what about the bookshop?" said uncle matthew. "och, that was only a notion that came into my head," john answered. "i won't bother myself selling books: i'll write them instead!" he glanced about the kitchen. "i've a good mind to start writing something now!" he said. his mother sprang to her feet. "you'll do no such thing at this hour," she said. "it's nearly sunday morning. would you begin your career by desecrating god's day!" "if you start doing things," said uncle, reverting to john's declaration of work, "you'll mebbe have no time to write about them!" "oh, i'll have the time right enough. i'll make the time," john said. uncle william got up and walked towards the staircase. "where are you going, william?" mrs. macdermott asked. "to my bed," said uncle william. vii suddenly the itch to write came to john, and he began to rummage among the papers and books on the shelves for writing-paper. "what are you looking for?" his mother enquired. "paper to write on," he said. "you'll not write one word the night!..." "ah, quit, ma!" he said. "i must put down an idea that's come in my head. i'd mebbe forget it in the morning!" "the greatest writers in the world have sat up all night, writing out their thoughts," uncle matthew murmured. john did not pay any heed to his mother's scowls and remonstrances. he found sheets of writing-paper and placed them neatly on the table, together with a pen and ink. he looked at the materials critically. there was paper, there was ink and there was a pen with a new nib in it, and blotting paper!... he drew a chair up to the table and sat down in front of the writing paper. he contemplated it for a long time while mrs. macdermott put away the remnants of his supper, and his uncle matthew sat by the fire watching him. "what are you waiting for, john?" his uncle matthew asked. "inspiration," john replied. he sat still, scarcely moving even for ease in his chair, staring at the white paper until it began to dance in front of his eyes, but he did not begin to write on it. "are you still waiting for inspiration, john?" his uncle asked. "aye," he answered. "you don't seem to be getting any," mrs. macdermott said. he got up and put the writing materials away. "i'll wait 'til the morning," he replied. the third chapter i john wrote his first story during the following week, and when he had completed it, he made a copy of it on large sheets of foolscap in a shapely hand, and sewed the pages together with green thread. uncle matthew had purchased brass fasteners to bind the pages together, but uncle william said that a man might easily tear his fingers with "them things" and contract blood-poisoning. "and that would give him a scunner against your story, mebbe!" he added. john accepted uncle william's advice, not so much in the interests of humanity, as because he liked the look of the green thread. he had read the story to his uncles, after the shop was closed. they had drawn their chairs up to the fire, in which sods of turf and coal were burning, and the agreeable odour of the turf soothed their senses while they listened to john's sharp voice. mrs. macdermott would not join the circle before the fire. she declared that she had too much work to do to waste her time on trash, and she wondered that her brothers-in-law could find nothing better to do than to encourage a headstrong lad in a foolish business. she went about her work with much bustle and clatter, which, however, diminished considerably as john began to read the story, and ended altogether soon afterwards. "d'you like it, uncle william?" john said, when he had read the story to them. "aye," said uncle william. "i'm glad," john answered. "and you, do you like it, uncle matthew?" "i like it queer and well," uncle matthew murmured, "only!..." he hesitated as if he were reluctant to make any adverse comment on the story. "only what?" john demanded with some impatience. he had asked for the opinions of his uncles, indeed, but it had not occurred to him that they would not think as highly of the story as he thought of it himself. "well ... there's no love in it!" uncle matthew went on. "love!" "aye," uncle matthew said. "there's no mention of a woman in it from start to finish. i think there ought to be a woman in it!" mrs. macdermott, who had been silent now for some time, made a noise with a dish on the table. "och, sure, what does he know about love?" she exclaimed angrily. "a child that's not long left his mother's arms would know as much. mebbe, now you've read your oul' story, john, the whole of yous will sit up to the table and take your tea!" john, disregarding his mother, sat back in his chair and contemplated his uncle matthew. "i wonder now, are you right?" he exclaimed. "i am," uncle matthew replied. "the best stories in the world have women in them, and love-making! i never could take any interest in _robinson crusoe_ because he hadn't got a girl on that island with him, and i thought to myself many's a time, it was a queer mistake not to make friday a woman. he could have fallen in love with her then!" uncle william said up sharply. "aye, and had a wheen of black babies!" he said. "man, dear, matthew, think what you're saying! what sort of romance would there be in the like of that? i never read much, as you know, but i always had a great fancy for _robinson crusoe_. the way that man turned to and did things for himself ... i tell you my heart warmed to him. _i_ like your story, john, women or no women. sure, love isn't the only thing that men make!..." "it's the most important," said uncle matthew. "and why shouldn't a story be written about any other thing nor a lot of love?" uncle william continued, ignoring the interruption. "i daresay you'll get a mint of money for that story, john. i've heard tell that some of these writers gets big pay for their stories. pounds and pounds!" john crinkled his manuscript in his hand and regarded it with a modest look. "i don't suppose i'll get much for the first one," he said. "in fact, if they'll print it, i'll be willing to let them have it for nothing ... just for the satisfaction!" "that would be a foolish thing to do," uncle william retorted. "sure, if it's worth printing, it's worth paying for. that's the way i look at it, anyhow!" "i daresay i'll make more, when i know the way of it better!" john answered. "what paper will i send it to, do you think?" "send it to the best one," said uncle william. mrs. macdermott took a plate of toast from the fender where it had been put to keep warm. "send it to the one that pays the most," she suggested. "i thought you weren't listening, ma!" john exclaimed, laughing at her. "a body can't help hearing when people are talking at the top of their voices," she said tartly. "come on, for dear sake, and have your teas, the whole of yous!" ii it was uncle william who advised john to send the story to _blackwood's magazine_. he said that in his young days, people said _blackwood's magazine_ was the best magazine in the world. uncle matthew had demurred to this. "i'm not saying it's not a good one," he said, "but it's terribly bitter against ireland. the man that writes that magazine must have a bitter, blasting tongue in his head!" "never mind what it says about ireland," uncle william retorted. "sure, they're only against the papishes, anyway!..." "the papishes are as good as the protestants," uncle matthew exclaimed. "i daresay they are," uncle william admitted, "but i'm only saying that _blackwood's magazine_ is against _them:_ it's not against us; and i don't see why john shouldn't send his story to it. he's a protestant!" "if i wrote a story," uncle matthew went on, "i wouldn't send it to any paper that made little of my country, protestant or papish, no matter how good a paper it was nor how much it paid me for my story. ireland is as good as england any day!..." "it's better," said uncle william complacently. "sure, god himself knows the english would be on the dung-heap if it wasn't for us and the scotchmen. but that's no reason why john shouldn't send his story to _blackwood's magazine_. in one way, it's a good reason why he should send it there, for sure, if he does nothing else, he'll improve the tone of the thing. you do what i tell you, john!..." and so, accepting his uncle william's advice, john sent the manuscript of his story to the editor of _blackwood's magazine;_ and each morning, after he had done so, he eagerly awaited the advent of the postman. but the postman, more often than not, went past their door. when he did deliver a letter to them, it was usually a trading letter for uncle william. "them people get a queer lot of stories to read," uncle william said to console his nephew, disappointed because he had not received a letter of acceptance from the editor by saturday morning, four days after he had posted the manuscript. "it'll mebbe take them a week or two to reach yours!..." "they could have sent a postcard to say they'd got it all right," john replied ruefully. "that's the civil thing to do, anyway!" he remembered that the benson shakespearean company was still in belfast and that _romeo and juliet_ was to be performed in the afternoon, and _julius caesar_ in the evening; and he went up to the city by an earlier train than usual so that he might be certain of getting to the theatre in time to secure an end seat near the front of the pit. he had proposed to his uncle matthew that he should go to belfast, too, to see the plays, but uncle matthew shook his head and murmured that he was not feeling well. he had been listless lately, they had noticed, and uncle william, regarding him one afternoon as he stood at the door of the shop, had turned to john and said that he would be glad when the summer weather came in again, so that uncle matthew could go down to the shore and lie in the sun. "he's not a robust man, your uncle matthew!" he said. "i don't think he tholes the winter well!" "och, he's mebbe only a wee bit out of sorts," john answered. "i wish, he'd come to belfast with me!..." "he'll never go next or near that place again," uncle william replied. "he's never been there since that affair!..." "you'd wonder at a man letting a thing of that sort affect his mind the way uncle matthew let it affect his," john murmured. "when a man believes in a thing as deeply as he believed in the oul' queen," said uncle william, "it's a terrible shock to him to find out that other people doesn't believe in it half as much as he does ... or mebbe doesn't believe in it at all!" "i suppose you're right," said john. "i am," said uncle william. john was the first person to reach the door of the pit that afternoon. the morning had been rough and blusterous, and although the streets were dry, the cold wind blowing down from the hills made people reluctant to stand outside a theatre door. john, who was hardy and indifferent to cold, stood inside the shelter of the door and read the copy of _romeo and juliet_ which he had borrowed from his uncle matthew; and while he read the play he remembered his uncle's criticism of the story he had written for _blackwood's magazine_: that it ought to have had a woman in it! this play was full of love. romeo, sighing and groaning because his lady will not look kindly upon him, runs from his friends who "jest at scars that never felt a wound" ... and finds juliet! in _the merchant of venice_, bassanio and portia, lorenzo and jessica, gratiano and nerissa had all made love. even young gobbo, in a coarse, philandering way, had made love, too! in all the books he had read, women were prominent. queer and distressing things happened to the heroes; they were constantly in trouble and under suspicion of wrong-doing; poverty and persecution were common to them; frequently, they were misunderstood; but in the end, they had their consolations and their rights and rewards. love was the great predominating element in all these stories, the support and inspiration and reward of the troubled and tortured hero; and woman was the symbol of victory, of achievement. at the end of every journey, at the finish of every fight, there was a woman. uncle matthew had spoken wisely, john thought, when he said that you cannot leave women out of your schemes and plans. john had not thought of leaving women out of his schemes and plans. in all his romantic imaginings, a woman of superb beauty had figured in a dim way; but the woman had been a dream woman only, bearing no resemblance whatever to the visible women about him. he had so much regard for this woman of his imagined adventures ... she changed her looks as frequently as he changed the scene of his romances ... that he had no regard left for the women of his acquaintance. he nodded to the girls he knew when he met them in the street, but he had never felt any desire to "go up the road" with one of them. willie logan, as john knew, was "coortin' hard" and laying up trouble for himself by his diverse affections; and aggie logan, forgetful, perhaps, of the rebuff that john had given to her childish offers of love, had lately taken to hanging about the street when john was due to pass along it. she would pretend not to see him until he was close to her. then she would start and giggle and say, "oh, john, is that you? you're a terrible stranger these days!..." once while he was listening to her as she made some such remark as that, lady castlederry drove by in her carriage, and his eyes wandered from the sallow, giggling girl in front of him to the beautiful woman in the carriage; and aggie suffered severely by the comparison. and yet aggie had a quicker and more intelligent look than lady castlederry. the beautiful, arrogant woman was like the dream-woman of his romances ... and again, she was not like her; for the dream-women had not got lady castlederry's look of settled stupidity in her eyes. john had hurriedly quitted aggie's company on that occasion. he knew why aggie always contrived to meet him in the street, and he thought that she was a poor fool of a girl to do it. and her brother willie was a "great gumph of a fellow," to go capering up and down the road in the evenings after any girl that would say a civil word to him or laugh when he laughed!... all the same, women mattered to men. uncle matthew had said so, and uncle matthew was in the right of it. in the story-books, women surged into the hero's life, good women and bad women and even indifferent women. and, now, in these plays, he could see for himself that women mattered enormously. yet he had never been in love with a girl! he was not even in love with the dream-woman of his romances. she was his reward for honourable and arduous service ... that was all. he was not in love with her any more than he was in love with a sunday school prize. it was a reward for regular attendance and for accurate answers to biblical questions, and he was glad to have it. it rested on the bookshelf in the drawing-room, and sometimes, when there were visitors in the house, his mother would request him to take it down and show it to them. they would read the inscription and make remarks on the oddness of mr. mccaughan's signature and turn over the pages of the book ... and then they would hand it back to him and he would replace it on the shelf ... and no more was said about it. really, his dream-woman had not meant much more to him than that. she would be given to him when he had won his fight, and he would take her and be glad to get her ... he would be very proud of her and would exhibit her to his friends and say, "this is my beautiful wife!" and then!... oh, well, there did not appear to be anything else after that. the book always came to an end when the hero married the heroine. probably she and he had children ... but, beyond the fact that they lived happily ever afterwards, there did not appear to be much more to say about them.... somehow, it seemed to him now, as he stood in the shelter of the pit entrance to the theatre royal, reading _romeo and juliet_, that the heroine was different from his dream-woman. his dream-woman had always been very insubstantial and remote, but juliet was a real woman, alive and passionate, with a real father and a real mother. the odd thing about his dream-woman was that she did not appear to have any relatives ... at least he had never heard of any. she had not even got a name. she never spoke to him. always, when the adventure was ended, he went up to the dream-woman, waiting for him in a misty manner, and he took hold of her hand and led her away ... and while he was leading her away, the adventure seemed to come to an end ... the picture dissolved ... and he could not see any more. once, indeed, he had kissed his dream-woman ... he had kissed her exactly as he had kissed his great-aunt, miss clotworthy, who was famous for the fact that she had attended a sunday school in belfast as pupil and teacher for fifty-seven years without a break ... and the dream-woman had taken the kiss in the unemotional manner in which she took hold of his hand when he led her away ... and lost her!... there was something wrong with his dream-woman, he told himself. this man shakespeare, so everybody said, was the greatest poet england had produced ... perhaps the greatest poet the world had produced ... and he ought to know something of what women were like. whatever else juliet might be, she certainly was not like john's dream-woman. she did not stand at the end of the road waiting for romeo to come to her. she did not wait until the fight was fought and won. she did not offer a cold hand or cold lips to romeo. her behaviour was really more like that of aggie logan than that of the dream-woman!... aggie logan! that "girner" with the sallow look and the giggle! he could see her now, standing in the street waiting for him, dabbing at her mouth with the foolish handkerchief she always carried in her hand. what did she want to keep on dabbing at her mouth with her handkerchief for! men didn't dab at _their_ mouths.... nor did the dream-woman dab at hers.... but it was just possible ... indeed, it was very likely, that juliet dabbed at hers!... at that moment, the pit door opened, and john, having paid his shilling, passed into the theatre. iii he came away from the play in a disturbed and exalted state. suddenly and compellingly, he had become aware of the fact of women. while he sat in the front row of the pit, listening with his whole body to the play, something stirred in him and he became aware of women. the actress who played the part of juliet had turned towards the audience for a few moments during the performance and, so it seemed to him, had looked straight into his eyes. she did not avert her gaze immediately, nor did he avert his. he imagined that she was appealing to him ... he forgot that he was sitting in the pit of a theatre listening to a play written by a man who had died three hundred years ago ... and remembered only that he was a young man with aspirations and romantic longings, and that a young woman, in a pitiable plight, was gazing into his eyes ... and his heart reached out to her. he drew in his breath quickly, murmuring a soft "oh," and as he did so, his dream-woman fell dead and he did not even turn to look at her. when the play was over, he had sat still in his seat, more deeply moved than he had ever been before, overwhelmed by the disaster which had come upon the young lovers through the foolish brawls of their foolish elders; and it was not until an impatient woman had prodded him in the side that he returned to reality. "i beg your pardon, ma'am!" he said and got up and hurried out of the theatre into the street. he went along high street towards castle place, and as he walked along, he regarded each woman and girl that approached him with interest. "that one's nice-looking!" he said of a girl, and "that one's ugly!" he said of another. he wondered why it was that all the older women of the working-class were so misshapen and lacking in good looks, when so many of the girls of the working-class were shapely and pretty. mr. cairnduff had told him that belfast girls were prettier than london girls. "london girls aren't pretty at all," mr. cairnduff had said. "you'd walk miles in london before you'd see a pretty girl, but you wouldn't walk ten yards in belfast before you'd meet dozens!" and yet, all those pretty working-girls grew into dull, misshapen, displeasing women. "it's getting married that does it, i suppose," he said to himself. "they were all nice once, but they married and grew ugly!" he did not look long at the ugly and misshapen women. his eyes quickly searched through the crowds of passers-by for the pretty girls, and at them he looked with eagerness. "there's no doubt about it," he said to himself, "girls are nice to look at!" he found a restaurant in the street off high street. he climbed up some stairs, and then, pushing a door open, entered a large room, at the back of which was a smaller room. a girl was standing at a window, looking out on to the street, but she turned her head when she heard him entering. she smiled pleasantly as he sat down, and came forward to take his order. "it's turned out a brave day after all," she said. he said "aye" and smiled at her in return. she had thick, fair hair, and he remembered bassanio's description of portia: _and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece._ he had a curious desire to talk to the girl about the play he had just seen, and before he gave his order, he glanced about the room. she and he were the only persons in it. "you don't seem to be very busy," he said. "och, indeed, we're not," she replied. "we seldom are on a saturday. mrs. bothwall ... her that owns the place ... thought mebbe some football fellows might come here for their tea after the matches so's they needn't go home before starting for the empire or the alhambra: but, sure, none of them ever comes. we might as well be shut for the custom we get!" he ordered his tea, and she went to the small room at the back of the large room to prepare it. he thought it would be a good plan to ask the girl if she would care to have her tea with him, but a sudden shyness prevented him from doing so, and he was unable to say more than "thank you" when she put the teapot by his side. there was plenty for two on the table, he said to himself: a loaf and a bap and some soda-farls and a potato cake and the half of a barn-brack and butter and raspberry jam. he looked across the room to where the girl was again looking out of the window. he liked the way she stood, with one hand resting on her hip and the other on her cheek. he could see that she had small feet and slender ankles, and while he looked at her, she rubbed her foot against her leg and he saw for a moment or two the flash of a white petticoat.... "i was at the royal the day!" he called to her. she turned round quickly. "were you?" she said. "was it good?" "it was grand. i enjoyed it the best," he answered. she came towards him and sat down at a table near to his. "what piece was it you saw?" she asked. "it's benson's company, isn't it?" "yes. i saw _romeo and juliet_." "oh, that's an awful sad piece. i cried my eyes out one year when i saw it!" "it's a great play," john said. "i suppose you often go?" she went on. "last saturday was the first time i ever went to a theatre. i saw _the merchant of venice_. i'll go every saturday after this, when there's a good piece on. i'm going again to-night to see _julius caesar!_" "i'd love to see that piece!" "would you?" "aye, indeed i would. i'm just doting on the theatre. the last piece i saw was _the lights of london_. it was lovely." "i never saw that bit," john answered. "you see i live in ballyards and i only come up to town on saturdays." "by your lone?" she asked. he nodded his head. he poured out his tea, and then began to spread butter on a piece of soda-farl. "i'd be awful dull walking the streets by myself," she said, watching him as he did so. "i'm a terrible one for company. i can't bear being by myself!" "company's good," he said. "have you had your tea yet?" "i'll be having it in a wee while!" "i wish you'd have it with me!" he spoke hesitatingly. "oh, i couldn't!" she exclaimed. "sure, what's to hinder you?" his voice became bolder. "oh, i couldn't. i couldn't really!..." "you might as well have it with me as have it by yourself. and there's nobody'll see you. where's mrs. bothwell?" "she's away home with a headache!..." "then you're all by yourself here!" she nodded her head. "what time do you shut?" he went on. "half-six generally, but mrs. bothwell said i'd better shut at six the night!" he took a cup and saucer and a knife and plate from an adjoining table and put them down opposite his own. "come on," he said, "and have your tea!" "och, i couldn't," she protested weakly. he poured out some of the tea for her, "i suppose you take milk and sugar?" he said. "you're a terrible fellow," she murmured admiringly, and he could see that her eyes were shining with pleasure. "draw up to the table," he replied. she hesitated for a little while, and then she sat down. "this is not very like the thing," she murmured. "it doesn't matter whether it is or not," he replied. "what'll you have ... bread or soda-farl?" she helped herself. "you know," he said, "i was thinking it would be a good plan for the two of us to go to the theatre to-night!" "the two of us," she exclaimed. "me and you!" "aye! why not?" she put down her cup and laughed. "i never met anybody in my life that made so much progress in a short time as you do," she said. "what in the earthly world put that notion into your head?" "there's no notion about it," he exclaimed. "i'm asking you plump and plain will you come to the theatre with me to-night!..." "but it wouldn't be like the thing at all to go to the theatre with a boy that i never saw before and never heard tell of 'til this minute. i don't even know your name!..." "john macdermott," he said. "are you a catholic?" "no. i'm a presbyterian." "it's a catholic name," she mused. "i know a family by the name of macdermott, and they're desperate catholics. they live over in ballymacarrett. do you know them?" "i do not. there never was a person in our family was a catholic ... not that we have mind of. will you come with me?" "ooh, i couldn't!" "i'll not take 'no' for an answer!" he said, "and i'll not put another bite in my mouth 'til you say 'yes.' d'you hear me?" "you've an awful abrupt way of talking," she replied. "what's abrupt about it?" he demanded. "well, queer then!" she said. "i see nothing abrupt or queer about it. are you coming or are you not?" "as if you were used to getting what you wanted, the minute you wanted it," she went on, disregarding his question and intent on explaining the queerness of his speech. "i'd be afeard to be _your_ wife, you'd be such a bossy man!" "ah, quit!" he said. "will you come?" "i might!..." "will you?" "well, perhaps!..." "will you or will you not?" "you're an awful man," she protested. "will you come?" "all right, then," she replied, "but!..." "i'll have some more tea," said john. he looked round the room while she poured the tea into his cup. "are there any more cakes or buns?" he asked. "yes, would you like some?" "bring a plate full," he said. "bring some with sugar on the top and jam in the middle!" "florence cakes?" "aye!" "you've a sweet tongue in your head!" she went to the small room as she spoke. "i have," he exclaimed. "and i daresay you have, too!" iv "you never told me your name," he said, when she returned with the plate of cakes. "give a guess!" she teased. he looked at her for a moment. "maggie!" he said. "how did you know?" "i didn't know," he answered. "you look like a maggie. what's your other name?" "carmichael!" "maggie carmichael!" he exclaimed. "it's a nice name!" "i'm glad you like it," she said. v he sat back in his chair while she went to prepare for the theatre. how lucky it was that he had asked his uncle william for more money that morning "in case i need it!" if he had not done so, he would not have been able to offer to take maggie to the theatre.... they would go in by the early door. there was certain to be a crowd outside the ordinary door on a saturday night. what a piece of luck it was that he had chosen to take his tea in this place instead of the restaurant to which he usually went. mrs. bothwell's headache, too, that was a piece of luck, for him, although not, perhaps, for her. he liked the look of maggie. he liked her bright face and her laugh and her beautiful, golden hair. what was that bit again? _in belmont is a lady richly left, and she is fair and fairer than that word of wondrous virtue...._ and then again: _...and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece._ maggie came out of the small room, ready for the street, and he sat and watched her as she shut the door behind her. "i believe i'm in love," he said to himself. "i believe i am!" "are you ready?" he said aloud. "i've only to draw the blinds and then lock the door!" she replied. "i'll draw them for you," he said, going over to the windows and drawing down the blinds as he spoke. "did you ever see _the merchant of venice_?" he asked when he had done so. "no," she said. "there's a bit in it that makes me think of you," he went on. "oh, now, don't start plastering me," she exclaimed gaily. "i mean it," he said, and he quoted the lines about portia's sunny locks. "that's poetry." she said. "it is!" he replied. "it's queer and nice!" she opened the door leading to the stairs, and then went back to the room to turn out the light. the room was in semi-darkness, save where a splash of yellow light from the staircase fell at the doorway. he turned towards her as she made her way to the door, and put out his hand to her. she took hold of it, and as she did so, he caught her quickly to him and drew her into his arms and kissed her soft, warm lips. "you're an awful wee fellow," she said, freeing herself from his embrace and smiling at him. he did not answer her, but his heart was singing inside him. _i love her. i know i love her. i love her. i love her. i know i love her._ they went down the stairs together, and as they emerged into the street, he put his arm in hers and drew, her close to him. almost he wished that they were not going to the theatre, that they might walk like this, arm in arm, for the remainder of the evening. he could still feel the warmth of her lips on his, and he wished that they could go to some quiet place so that he might kiss her again. but he had asked her to go to the theatre, and he did not wish to disappoint her. they entered the theatre by the early door, and sat in the middle of the front row of the pit. there was a queer silence in the theatre, for the ordinary doors had not yet opened, and the occasional murmur of a voice echoed oddly. john put his arm in maggie's and wound his fingers in hers, and felt the pressure of her hand against his hand. when the ordinary doors of the theatre were opened and the crowd came pouring in, he hardly seemed aware of the people searching for good seats. maggie had tried to withdraw her hand from his when she heard the noise of the people hurrying down the stone steps, but he had not released her, and she had remained content. and so they sat while the theatre quickly filled. presently an attendant with programmes and chocolates came towards them, and he purchased a box of chocolates for her. "you shouldn't have done that," she said, making the polite protest. "i've always heard girls are fond of sweeties," he replied. he put the box of chocolates in her lap, and opened the programme and handed it to her. "it's a long piece," she said, "with a whole lot of acts and scenes in it. that's the sort of piece i like ... with a whole lot of changes in it!" "do you?" he said. "yes. i came here one time to see a piece that was greatly praised in the _whig_ and the _newsletter_, and do you know they used the same scene in every act! i thought it was a poor miserly sort of a play. the bills said it was a london company, but i don't believe that was true. they were just letting on to be from london. they couldn't have had much money behind them when they couldn't afford more nor the one scene, could they!" "mebbe you're right," he answered. the members of the orchestra came into the theatre, and after a while the music began. the lights in the theatre were diminished and then were extinguished, and the curtain went up. john snuggled closer to maggie. vi he was scarcely aware of the performance on the stage, so aware was he of the nearness of maggie. he heard applause, but he did not greatly heed it. he was in love. he had never been in love before, and he had always thought of it as something very different from this, something cold and austere and aloof, and very dignified ... not at all like this warm, intimate, careless thing. he slipped his hand from maggie's and slowly put his arm round her waist. she did not resist him, and when he drew her more closely to him so that their heads were nearly touching, she yielded to him without demur. he could feel her heart beating where his hand pressed against her side, and he heard the slow rise and fall of her breath as she inhaled and exhaled. he could not get near enough to her. he wanted to draw her head down on to his shoulder, to put both his arms about her, to feel again his lips on her lips.... he started suddenly. someone was tapping him, on the shoulder. he turned round to meet the gaze of an elderly, indignant woman who was seated immediately behind him. "sit still," she said in a loud whisper. "i can't see the stage for you two ducking your heads together!" vii he took his arm away from maggie's waist, and edged a little away from her. he felt angry and humiliated. he told himself that he did not care who saw him putting his arm about maggie's waist, but was aware that this was not true, that he deeply resented being overlooked in his love-making. he did not wish anyone to behold him in this intimate relationship with maggie, and he was full of fury against the woman behind him because she had seen him fondling her. for of course the woman knew that he had his arm about maggie ... and now her neighbours would know, too. the whole theatre would know that he had been embracing the girl!... well, what if they did know? let them know! there was no harm in a fellow putting his arm round a girl's waist. it was a natural thing for a fellow to do, particularly if the girl were so pretty and warm and loving as maggie carmichael. the woman herself had no doubt had a man's arm round her waist once upon a time. he did not care who knew!... all the same!... no, he did not care!... he slipped his hand into maggie's hand again, and then quickly withdrew it. she was holding a sticky chocolate in her fingers!... he lost all interest in the play now. it would be truer, perhaps, to say that he had not begun to be interested in it, and now that he tried to follow it, he could not do so. his mind constantly reverted to the indignant woman behind him. he imagined her looking, first this way and then that, in her efforts to see the stage, getting angrier and more angry as she was thwarted in her desire, and then, in her final indignation, leaning forward to tap on his shoulder and beg him to keep his head apart from maggie's so that she might conveniently see the stage. his sense of violated privacy became stronger. his love for maggie, for he accepted it now as a settled fact, was not a thing for prying eyes to witness: it was a secret, intimate thing in which she and he alone were concerned. he hated the thought that anyone else in the theatre should know that maggie and he were sweethearts, newly in love and warm with the glow of their first affection. and then, when he had slipped his hand back into hers, he had encountered a sticky chocolate! while he was burning with feeling for her and with resentment against the old woman's intrusion into their love affair, maggie had been chewing chocolate quite unconcernedly. in that crisis of their love, she had remained unmoved. when he had released her hand, she had simply put it into the box of chocolates and taken out a sticky sweet and had eaten it with as little emotion as if he had not been present at all, as if his ardent, pressing arm had not been suddenly withdrawn from her waist because of that angry intruder into their happiness. she had taken his hand when he gave it to her, and had released it again when he withdrew it, without any appearance of desire or reluctance. he had imagined that she would take his hand eagerly and yield it up unwillingly, that she would try to restrain him when he endeavoured to take his hand away from hers ... but she had not done so. perhaps she did not love him as he loved her. perhaps she did not love him at all. after all, he had met her for the first time about three hours earlier in the evening. only three hours ago! it was hard to believe that he had not loved her for centuries, had not often felt her heart beating beneath the pressure of his hand, had not frequently put his lips to her lips and been enchanted by her kisses. why, he had only kissed her once. only once! once only!... he looked at her as she sat by his side, gazing intently at the stage. he could see a protuberance in her cheek, made by a piece of chocolate, and as he looked at her, it seemed to him to be a terrible thing that this girl did not love him. his love had gone out to her, quickly, insurgently and fully, and perhaps she thought no more of him than she might think of any chance friend who offered to take her to see a play. she might have spent many evenings in this very theatre with other men. had she not told him that afternoon that she hated to be alone! he had put his arm about her waist in a public place and had been humiliated for doing so, but nothing of this had meant much to maggie. she was quite willing to let him embrace her ... perhaps she thought that she ought to allow him to hug her as a return for the treat at the theatre ... or perhaps she liked to feel a man's arm about her waist and did not much care who the man might be. some girls were like that. willie logan had told him that carrie furlong was the girl of any fellow who liked to walk up the road with her. she did not care with whom she went; all that she cared about was that she should have some boy in her company. she would kiss anybody. was maggie carmichael like that? would she kiss this one or that one, just as the mood took her?... oh, no, she could not be like that. it was impossible for him to fall in love with a girl who distributed kisses as carelessly and impassionately as a boy distributes handbills. he felt certain that he could not fall in love with a girl of that sort, that some instinct in him would prevent him from going so. other fellows might make a mistake of that kind ... willie logan, for example ... but a macdermott could not make one. maggie must be in love with him ... she must have fallen in love with him as suddenly as he had fallen in love with her ... otherwise she could not have consented so readily to accompany him to the theatre. when he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, she had yielded to him so naturally, as if she had been in his arms many times before!... perhaps, though, the ease with which she had yielded to him denoted that she had had much experience!... oh, no, no! no, no! she was his girl, not anybody else's girl. he could not have her for a sweetheart, if she shared her love with other men. he must have her entirely to himself!... oh, what a torturing, doubt-raising, perplexing thing this love was! a few hours ago he had known nothing whatever of it ... had merely imagined cold, austere, wrong things about it ... and now it had hold of him and was hurting him. every particle of his mind was concentrated on this girl by his side ... a stranger to him. he knew nothing of her except her name and that she was employed as a waitress in a restaurant. she was a stranger to him ... and yet a fierce, unquenchable love for her was raging in his heart. each moment, the flames of his passion increased in strength. when he looked away from her, he could see her in his mind's eye. each of the players on the stage looked like maggie.... and there she was, all unaware of this strong emotion in him, placidly sitting in her seat, gazing at the actors! do women feel love as strongly as men do? he asked himself as he looked at her, and as he did so she turned, her head to him, conscious perhaps of his stare, and when her eyes met his in the glowing dusk of the theatre, she smiled, and, seeing her smile, he forgot his doubt and remembered only the great joy of loving her. viii he insisted on taking her to her home, although she stoutly declared that this was unnecessary. she lived at stranmillis, she said, and the journey there and back would make him miss his train; but he swore that he had plenty of time, and would not listen to her dissuasions. when they reached the terminus at the botanic gardens, she tried to insist that he should return to town in the tram by which they had come out, but he said that he must walk with her for a while. she would not let him accompany her to the door of her home ... he must leave her at a good distance from it ... and to this he agreed, for he knew what the etiquette of these matters is. he put his arm in hers, again drawing her close to him, and, listening to her laughter, he walked in gladness by her side. it was she who stopped. "i'll say 'good-night' to you here," she said. "not yet," he replied. "you'll miss your train," she warned him. he did not heed her warning, but drew her into the shadow and held her tightly to him. "don't!" she stammered, but could not speak any more because of the strength of his kisses. very long he held her thus, his arms tightly round her and her lips closebound to his, and then with a great sigh of pleasure, he released her. "you're a desperate fellow," she said, half scared, and she laughed a little. she glanced about her for a moment. "i must run now," she said, holding out her hand. "not yet," he said again. "oh, but i must. i must!" she insisted. "good-night!" he took her hand. "good-night," he replied, but did not let her hand go. she laughed nervously. "what's wrong with you?" she said. "i ... i'm in love with you, maggie!" he murmured, almost inarticulately. her laughter lost its nervousness. "you're a boy in a hurry and a half!" she said. "i know. kiss me, maggie!" she held up her face to him. "there, then!" she said. he kissed her again, and then again, and yet again. "you're hurting me," she exclaimed ruefully. "it's because i love you so much, maggie!" he said. "well, let me go now!..." she stood away from him. "you have me all crumpled up," she said. "i'll be a terrible sight when i get in! anybody'd think you'd never kissed a girl before in your life!" "i haven't," he replied. "you what?" "i haven't. i've never kissed any other girl but you!" "you don't expect me to believe a yarn like that?" she said. "it's the god's truth," he answered. "well, nobody'd think it from the way you behave!" he regarded her in silence for a few moments. then he said, "have you ever kissed anyone before?" "i'm twenty-two." she replied. he had not thought of her age, but if he had done so, he would not have imagined that she was more than nineteen. "what's that got to do with it?" he asked. "a lot," she replied. "you don't think a girl as nice-looking as me has reached my age without having kissed a fellow, do you?" "then you have kissed someone else?" "i've kissed dozens," she said. "good-night, john!" she turned and ran swiftly from him, laughing lightly as she ran, and for a second or two, he stood blankly looking after her. then he called to her, "wait, maggie, wait a minute!" and ran after her. she stopped when she heard him calling, and waited for him to come up to her. "when'll i see you again?" he said. "oh, dear knows!" she replied. "will you come to the theatre with me next saturday?" "i might!" "will you get the day off, and we'll go in the afternoon and evening, too!" "i mightn't be let," she said. "mrs. bothwell mightn't agree to it!" "ask her anyway!..." "i will, then. good-night, john!" he snatched at her hand. "listen, maggie," he said. "what?" she answered. "do you ... do you like me?" "ummm ... mebbe i do!" "i love you, maggie!" "aye, so you say!" she said. "do you not believe me?..." she shrugged her shoulders. "it's true," he affirmed. "i love you!..." "good-night," she said. "good-night, maggie!" he released her hand, but she did not go immediately. she came close to him, and put her arms about his neck and drew his face down to hers, and kissed him. "you're a nice wee fellow," she said. "i like you queer and well!" then she withdrew her arms, and this time he did not try to detain her. ix he missed the last train to ballyards, but he did not mind that. he set out bravely to walk from belfast. the silence of the streets, the deeper silence of the country roads, accorded with the pleasure in his heart. he sang to himself, and sometimes he sang aloud. he was in love with maggie carmichael, and she ... she liked him queer and well. he could hardly feel the ground beneath his feet. the road ran away from him. the moon and the stars shared his exultation, and the trees gaily waved their branches to him, and the leaves of the trees beat their hands together in applause. "and her sunny locks hang on her temples like a golden fleece," he said aloud... it was very late when he reached the door of the shop in ballyards. his uncle william was standing in the shade of the doorway, peering anxiously into the street. "is that you, john?" he called out, while john was still some distance away from the shop. "aye, uncle william," john called out in reply. uncle william came to meet him. "oh, whatever kept you, boy?" he said when they met. "i missed the train," john answered. "your uncle matthew, john!..." anxiety came into john's mind. "yes, uncle?" he said. "he's bad, john. desperate bad! we had to send for dr. dobbs an hour ago, and he's still with him. i thought you'd never reach home!" all the joy fell straight out of john's heart. he did not speak. he walked swiftly to the house, and passing through the shop, entered the kitchen, followed by his uncle william. the fourth chapter i "your ma's upstairs with the doctor and him," said uncle william, closing the kitchen door behind him. "is he very bad?" john asked in an anxious voice. "i'm afeard so," uncle william replied. john went towards the staircase, but his uncle called him back. "better not go up yet awhile," he said. "the doctor'll be down soon, mebbe, and he'll tell you whether you can go up or not." "very well," john murmured, coming back into the kitchen and sitting down beside the fire. "it come on all of a sudden just before bedtime," uncle william went on, "he wasn't looking too grand all the morning, as you know, but we never thought much of it. he never was strong, and he hasn't the strength to fight against his disease. if he dies, i'll be the last of the three brothers. death's a strange thing, john. your da was the cleverest and the wisest of us all, and he was the first to go; and now your uncle matthew, that's wise in his way, and has a great amount of knowledge in his head, is going too ... the second of us ... and i'm left, the one that could be easiest spared. it's queer to take the best one first and leave the worst 'til the last. you'd near think god had a grudge against the world!... what were you doing in belfast the day?" "i went to the theatre." "aye. what did you see?" "i saw _romeo and juliet_ in the middle of the day, and _julius caesar_ at night!" john answered. "is my uncle matthew unconscious?" "no. he has all his senses about him. he knows well he's dying. did he never speak to you about that?" john shook his head. "i couldn't bear it if he did. does he mind, d'you think?" "no, he does not. why should he mind? it's us that's left behind that's to be pitied, not them that goes. i can't make out the people of these days, the way they pity the dead and dying, when it's the living's to be pitied. did you like the plays, john?" john roused himself to answer. "aye," he said, "they were grand. what happened when he took bad?" "we had just had our supper, and he started to go up the stairs, and all of a sudden he called out for your ma, and we both ran to him together, her and me, and the look on his face frightened me. i didn't stop to hear what was wrong. i went off to fetch dr. dobbs as quick as i could move. i never saw _julius caesar_ myself, but i mind well the time i saw _romeo and juliet_. it was an awful long time ago, when the oul' theatre royal ... not this one, but the one before it, that was burnt down ... and we saw _romeo and juliet_. that's a tremendous piece, john! it gripped a hold of my heart, i can tell you, and i came away from the theatre with the tears streaming down my face. i always was a soft one, anyway. that poor young boy and his lovely wee girl tormented and tortured by people that was older nor them, but hadn't half the sense! it grips you, that play!" "aye," said john. "you'll hardly believe me, john, but the play was so real to me that when they talked about getting married, i said to myself i'd go and see the wedding. i did by my troth!" "eh?" said john abstractedly. "i was talking about the play!..." "oh, aye, aye! aye!" "it sounds silly, i know," uncle william continued, "but it's the god's own truth, as sure as i'm sitting here. and whenever i pass 'the royal,' i always think of _romeo and juliet,_ and i see that poor boy and girl stretched dead, and them ought to have been happy together and having fine, strong childher!" "i wonder how he is now. do you think i should go up now?" john said. "wait 'til the doctor comes down. i have great faith in dr. dobbs. he never humbugs you, that man, but tells you plump and plain what's wrong with you!" he sat back in his chair, and for a while there was no sound in the kitchen, but the noise of the clock and the small drooping noise made by the dying fire. there was no sound from overhead. uncle william glanced at the clock. he got up and stopped the pendulum. "i can't bear the sound of it," he said to john as he sat down again. they remained in silence for a while longer, and then uncle william got up and started the clock again. "mebbe ... mebbe, it's better for it to be going." he said. he searched for his pipe on the mantel-shelf and, when he had found it, lit it with a coal which he picked out of the fire with the tongs. "your uncle matthew was terribly upset by it," he said, reverting to the play. "it was a wild and wet night, we had to walk every inch, of the way, for there was no late trains in them days, john, and we were drenched to the skin. your uncle matthew never said one word to me the whole road home. he just held his head high and stared straight in front of him, and when i looked at him, though the night was dark, i could see that his fists were clenched and his lips were moving, though he didn't speak. you never see no plays like that, these days, john. the last piece i saw in belfast was a fearful foolish piece, with a lot of love and villainy in it. the girl was near drowned in real water, and then the villain tied her on to a circular saw, and if it hadn't been for the hero coming in the nick of time, she'd have been cut in two. no man would treat a woman that way, tying her on to a saw! i'm afeard some of these pieces nowadays are terribly foolish, john, so i never want to go now!" ii there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and presently dr. dobbs, a lean, stooping man, came into the kitchen, followed by mrs. macdermott. the doctor nodded to john, and mrs. macdermott said, "you're back!" and then went into the scullery from which she soon returned, carrying a glass with which she hurried upstairs again. "your uncle's been asking for you, john," said the doctor, drawing on his gloves. "can i go up and see him, sir?" john asked. "in a minute or two. your mother'll call for you when he's ready. i'm afraid there's not much hope, william!" the doctor said. john leant against the mantel-shelf, waiting to hear more. he listened in a dazed way to what the doctor was saying, but hardly comprehended it, for in his mind the words, "i'm afraid there's not much hope!" made echoes and re-echoes. uncle matthew was dying, might, in a little while, be dead. dear, simple, honest, kindly uncle matthew who had loved literature and good faith too well, and had suffered for his simple loyalty. "he's easier now than he was," the doctor continued, "and he may last a good while ... and he may not. i _think_ he'll last a while yet, but he might die before the morning. i want you to be prepared for the worst. you know where to find me if you want me, william!" "yes, doctor!" "i've left him in good hands. your mother's a great nurse, john," he said, turning to the boy. "can i go up to him now, doctor?" "yes, i think perhaps ... oh, yes, i think you may. but go up quietly, will you, in case he's dozed off!..." john did not wait to hear any more, but, walking on tiptoe, went up the stairs to his uncle's room. uncle matthew turned to greet him as he entered the room. "is that you, john?" he said. "yes, uncle matthew," john answered, tiptoeing to the side of the bed. "i'm sorry i wasn't here earlier. i never thought!..." uncle matthew smiled at him. "sure, son, it doesn't matter. you couldn't know ... none of us did. well, was the play good?" but john did not wish to speak about the play. he wished only to sit by his uncle's bed and hold his uncle's hand. "i'll go downstairs now for a wee while," mrs. macdermott said. "i have a few things to do, and john can call me if you need me, matt!" "aye, hannah!" said uncle matthew. john looked up at his mother, but she had turned to leave the room, and he could not see her face. he had never heard her call his uncle by the name of "matt" before, nor had he often heard uncle matthew use her christian name in addressing her. he avoided it, john had observed, as much as possible, and it had seemed to him that his uncle did so because of his mother's antagonism to him. "what are you staring at, john?" uncle matthew said feebly. "she called you 'matt', uncle!" "that's my name," uncle matthew replied, smiling at his nephew. "aye, but!..." "she used to call me 'matt' before she was married, and for a wee while afterwards, when we were all friends together. your da's death was a fearful blow to her, and she never overed it. and she thought i was a bad influence on you, filling your head with stuff out of books. you see, john, women are not like men ... they don't value things the way we do ... and things that seem important to us, aren't worth a flip of your hand to them. and the other way round, i suppose. but a woman can't be bitter against a sick man, no matter how much she hated him when he had his health. that's where we have the whiphand of them, john. they can't stand against us when we're sick, but we can stand up against anything, well or sick!..." john remembered his mother's caution that he was not to let his uncle talk much. "you ought to lie still, uncle matthew," he said, but uncle matthew would not heed him. "i'm as well as i'll ever be." he said. "i know rightly i'll never leave this bed 'til i'm carried out of it for good and all. and i'm not going to deny myself the pleasure of a talk for the sake of an extra day or two!..." "wheesht, uncle matthew!" john begged. "why, son, what's there to cry about? i'm not afeard to die. no macdermott was ever afeard to die, and _i_ won't be the first to give in. oh, dear, no!" "but you'll get better, uncle matthew, you will, if you'll only take care of yourself!..." "ah, quit blethering john. i won't get better!... what were we saying? something about your ma!..." "yes. her calling you 'matt'!" "oh, aye. you'd be surprised, mebbe, to hear that your uncle william and me both had a notion of her before your da stepped in and took her from us? we had no chance against him. that man could have lifted a queen from a king's bed!..." "you ought not to be talking so much, uncle matthew!" "ah, let me talk, john. it's the only comfort i have, and i'll get all the rest i want by and bye. was it a girl kept you late the night?" "how did you know, uncle matthew?" "how did i know!" uncle matthew said with raillery. "how would anyone know anything but by using the bit of wit the almighty god's put in his head. what is it makes any lad lose his train, and walk miles in the dark? it's either women or drink ... and you're no drinker, john. tell me about her. i'd like to be the first to know!" "i only met her the day!..." "aye?" "i hardly know her yet ... but she's lovely!" "go on ... go on!" "i took her to the theatre with me to see _julius caesar_ and then i left her home. she lives up near the lagan ... out stranmillis way!..." "i know it well," said uncle matthew. "is she a fair girl or a dark girl?" "she has the loveliest golden hair you ever clapped your eyes on. it was that made me fall in love with her!..." "you're in love with her then! you're not just going with her?" "of course i'm in love with her. i never was in the habit of just going with girls. that's all right, mebbe, for willie logan, but i'm not fond of it," said john indignantly. "you fell in love with her in a terrible great hurry," uncle matthew exclaimed. "aye," said john laughing. "it was queer and comic the way i fell in love with her, for i had no notion of such a thing when i went in the shop to have my tea. she's in a restaurant off high street. i'd been to the royal to see _romeo and juliet_, and i was full of the play and just wandering about, not thinking of what i was doing, when all of a sudden i saw this place fornent my eyes, and i just went in, and she was there by her lone. the woman that keeps the place had gone home with a sore head, and left her to look after it!" "what's her name?" "maggie carmichael. it's a nice name. they don't do much trade on a saturday, and her and me were alone in the shop by ourselves so i asked her to have tea with me, and then i asked her to go to the royal, and she agreed after a while, and when it was over, i took her home, and that's why i missed the train and had to tramp it the whole way home. she's older nor i am. she says she's twenty-two. she was codding me for never having kissed any other girl but her!..." "you got that length, did you?" "aye," said john in confusion. "you're like your da. take what you want, the minute you want it. she'll think you're in earnest, john!" "i am in earnest. i couldn't be any other way. how could a man feel about a woman, the way i feel about her, and not be in earnest?" "as easy as winking," said uncle matthew. "you'll mebbe be in love a hundred times before you marry, and every time you'll think it's the right one at last. there's no law in love, john. you can't say about it, that you've got to know a woman well before you're safe in marrying her, nor you can't just shut your eyes and grab hold of the first one that comes to your hand. there's no law, john ... none at all. it's an adventure, love. that's what it is. you don't know what lies at the end of your journey ... and you can't know ... and mebbe when you reach the end, you don't know. you just have to take your chance, and trust to god it'll be all right! is she in love with you?" "i don't know. i don't suppose so. she made fun of me, so i suppose she can't be. but she said she liked me." "making fun of you is nothing to go by. some women would make fun of god almighty, and think no harm of it. you'll soon know whether she's in love with you or not, my son!" "how will i, uncle matthew?" "when she begins to treat you as if you were her property. that's a sure and certain sign. the minute a woman looks at a man as much as to say, 'that fellow belongs to me,' she's in love with him, as sure as death. anyway, she's going to marry him! boys-a-boys, john, but you're the lucky lad with all your youth and health in front of you, and you setting out in the world. many's the time i've longed at nights to be lying snug and comfortable and quiet in a woman's arms, but i never had that pleasure. whatever you do, john, don't die an unmarried man like your uncle william and me. it's better to live with a cross sour-natured woman nor it is to live with no woman at all; for even the worst woman in the world has given a wee while of happiness to her man, and he always has that in his mind to comfort him however bad she turns out after. and if she is bad, sure you can run away from her!" "run away from her! you'd never advocate the like of that, uncle matthew?" "i would. i'm a dying man, john, and mebbe i'll be dead by the morrow's morn, so you may be sure i'm saying things now that i mean with all my heart, for no man wants to go before his god with lies on his lips. and i tell you now, boy, that if a man and woman are not happy together, they ought to separate and go away from each other as far as they can get, no matter what the cost is. them's my solemn words, john. i'd like well to see this girl you're after, but i'll mebbe not be able. no matter for that. pay heed to me now, for fear i don't get the opportunity to say it to you again. whatever adventures you set out on, never forget they're only adventures, and if one turns out to be bad, another'll mebbe turn out to be good. don't be like me, don't let one thing affect your life for ever!..." he lay back on his pillow for a few moments and did not speak. john waited a little while, and then he leant forward. "will i fetch my ma?" he asked. uncle matthew shook his head and waved feebly with his hand, and john sat back again in his chair. "life's just balancing one adventure against another," uncle matthew said at last, without raising his head from the pillow. "the good against the bad. and the happy man is him that can set off a lot of good adventures against bad ones, and have a balance of good ones in his favour. but it takes courage to have a lot, john. the jenny-joes of the world never try again after the first bad one. i ... i was staggered that time ... i ... i never got my foothold again. the balance is against me, john!..." mrs. macdermott came into the room. "it's time you went to your bed, son," she said, "and your uncle'll want to get to sleep, mebbe. are you all right, matt?" "i'm nicely, thank you, hannah!" john got up from his seat and said "good-night!" to his uncle. "good-night, john. mind well what i've said to you!" "i will, uncle matthew!" "good-night, son, dear!" said uncle matthew, smiling at him. iii in the morning, uncle matthew was better than he had been during the night, and dr. dobbs, when he called to see him, thought that he would live for several weeks more. john went down to the kitchen from his uncle's room, happy at the thought that his uncle might recover in spite of the doctor's statement that death was inevitable within a short time. doctors, he told himself, had made many mistakes, and perhaps dr. dobbs was making a mistake about uncle matthew. he had lain late, heavy with fatigue, for mrs. macdermott had not called him at his usual hour and so the morning was well advanced when he came down. "there's a letter for you," said uncle william, pointing to the mantel-shelf, where a foolscap envelope rested against the clock. "it'll be about the story, i'm thinking!" john took the letter in his trembling fingers and tore it open. "they've sent it back," he said in a low tone. "there'll be a note with it," uncle william murmured. "yes!..." he straightened out the printed note and read it. "they've declined it," he said. "they've what?" uncle william exclaimed, taking the printed slip from john's hands. he read the note of rejection through several times. "what does it say?" mrs. macdermott asked. "it's a queer kind of a note, this!" said uncle william. "you'd think the man was breaking his heart at the idea of not printing the story. he doesn't say anything about it, whether it's good or bad. he just thanks john for sending it to him and says he's sorry he can't accept it. if he's so sorry as all that, why the hell doesn't he print it?" "william!" said mrs. macdermott sharply. "this is sunday!" "well, dear knows i don't want to desecrate god's day," uncle william answered, accepting the rebuke, "but that is a lamentable letter to get. i must say!" mrs. macdermott held her hand out for the letter. "give it to me," she said, and she took it from uncle william. "this is his way of saying your story's no good, john," she said, when she had read through the note. "no man would refuse a thing if he thought it was worth printing!" her words hurt john very sorely. he looked at her, but he did not speak, and then, after a moment or two, he turned away. "now, now, that's not right at all," uncle william said comfortingly. "there might be a thousand things to prevent the man from printing the story. mebbe he doesn't know a good story when he sees it. sure, half these papers nowadays print stories that would turn a child's stomach, and a thing's not bad just because one paper won't take it. there's other magazines besides _blackwood's_, john, as good, too, and mebbe better!" he went over to his nephew and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "there, there, now, don't let this upset you! your uncle matthew was telling me the other day that some of the greatest writers in the world had their best stories refused time after time. don't lose heart over a thing like that!" "i haven't lost heart, uncle william. i daresay it isn't as good as i thought it was, but i'll improve. it wasn't to be expected i'd succeed the first time!" "that's the spirit, boy. that's the spirit!" "only i'm disappointed all the same. it's likely i don't know enough yet!" "oh, that's very likely," said uncle william. "you're only a young fellow yet, you know!" "mebbe that story of mine is full of ignorant mistakes i wouldn't have made if i'd been about the world a bit and seen more!" "i daresay you're right! i daresay you're right!..." mrs. macdermott came between them. "what are you leading up to?" she demanded. "i must travel a bit before i start writing things," john answered. "i must know more and see more. my uncle matthew's right. you have to go out into the world to get adventure and romance!..." "can't you get all the adventure and romance you need in this place, and not go tramping among strangers and foreigners for it?" mrs. macdermott retorted angrily. "how can i get adventure and romance in a place where i know everybody?" john rejoined. "are you proposing to leave home, john!" uncle william asked. "aye! for a while anyway," john answered, "i'll go to london!..." "you'll not go to no london," mrs. macdermott retorted, "and your uncle, matthew lying on his deathbed!..." "i'm not proposing to go this minute, ma!..." "you'll not go at all," she insisted. "i will!" "you will not, i tell you. what would a lump of a lad like you do in a place of that sort, where there's temptation and sin at every corner! doesn't everyone know that the devil's roaming up and down the streets of london day and night, luring young men to their ruin? there's bad women in london!..." "there's bad women everywhere," john replied. "you don't need to be your age to know that!" she listened angrily while john explained his point of view to his uncle william. travel and new experiences were necessary to the development of his mind. "don't you go up to belfast every week!" mrs. macdermott interrupted. "i was in belfast yesterday," john retorted, "but there wasn't a thing happened to me, romantic or anything else!..." he stopped abruptly, smitten by the recollection of his meeting with maggie carmichael. after all, _that_ was a romantic adventure! most strange that he had not thought of his love affair in that way before! of course, it was a romantic adventure! he had walked straight out of a dull street, you might say, into an enchanted cafã© ... and had found maggie in captivity, waiting for him to deliver her from it. she had been lonely ... and he had come to comfort her. he had taken her from that dull, cheerless ... prison ... you could call it that!... and had taken her to a pleasant place and made love to her! oh, but of course it was a romantic adventure, with love and a beautiful golden-haired girl at the end of it. and here he was, moping over the misadventure of a manuscript and talking of travel in distant places in search of exciting experiences as if he had not already had the most thrilling and wonderful adventure that is possible to a man! why, if he were to leave ballyards and go to london, he would lose maggie ... would not see her again!... by the holy o, his mother was right after all! women _were_ right sometimes! there was plenty of romance and adventure lying at your hand, if you only took the trouble to look for it. mebbe... mebbe a thing was romantic or not romantic, just according to the way you looked at it. one man could see romance in a grocer's shop, and another man could not see romance anywhere but in places where he had never been!... "mebbe you're right, ma," he said. mrs. macdermott looked suspiciously at him. "you changed your mind very quick," she said. "i always change my mind quick," he replied. they heard the noise of tapping overhead. "that's your uncle matthew," said mrs. macdermott, rising from her chair. "i'll go," john exclaimed hastily. "it's mebbe me he wants!" he ran quickly up the stairs and entered his uncle's room. "yes, uncle matthew?" he said. "i heard you all talking together," uncle matthew answered. "what's happened?" "oh, nothing! my story's been refused. that's all." uncle matthew put out his hand and took hold of john's. "are you very disappointed?" he said. "yes, i am. i made sure they'd take it!" "there ought to have been a woman in it. you know, john, i told you that. there was no love in that story, and people like to read about love. that's natural. sure, it's the beginning of everything!" "i didn't know anything about it then, uncle!..." "no, but you do now ... a wee bit ... and you might have imagined it. you'd never be your father's son, if you hadn't a heart brimful of love. what else were you talking about?" john told his uncle of his proposal to go to london in search of experience. "aye, you'll have to do that some day," his uncle replied, "but there's no hurry yet awhile. you'd better finish your schooling first, and you could go on writing here 'til you get more mastery of it. you might try to write a book, and then when it's done, you could go to london or somewhere. i'd be sorry if you went just now!..." "i'm not meaning to go yet, uncle!" "very good, son. i'd like you to be here when i ... when!..." he did not finish his sentence, but the pressure of his hand on john's increased. "eh, john?" he said. "yes, uncle matthew!" john replied. he quickly changed the conversation. "you're looking a lot better," he said. uncle matthew smiled. "oh, aye," he replied, "i feel a lot better, too. i'll mebbe beat the doctor yet. he thinks i'm done for, but mebbe i'll teach him different!" "you will, indeed. and why wouldn't you? you're young yet!" uncle matthew did not reply to this. he turned on his pillow and glanced towards the dressing-table. "are you looking for anything?" john asked. "is there a book there?" "no," john said. "do you want one?" "your ma read a wee bit to me in the night, after you went to bed. i thought mebbe you'd read a wee bit more to me. _willie reilly_, it was." "i'll get it for you," john replied, going to the door. he called to his mother, and she told him that she had brought the book downstairs with her. "wait a minute and i'll fetch it," she said. she returned in a moment or two, carrying the book in her hand, and mounted half-way up the staircase to meet him. she pointed to a place in the book. "i read up to there to him in the night," she said. john looked at his mother, as he took the book from her hands, and saw how tired she looked. "did you not get any sleep at all, ma?" he asked with concern. "i'm all right, son," she answered. "no, you're not," he insisted. "you'll just go to your bed this minute and lie down for a while!..." "and the dinner to cook and all," she interrupted. "well, after your dinner then. you'll lie down the whole afternoon. uncle william and me'll get the tea ready, and we'll take it in turns to look after uncle matthew!" she stood on the step beneath him, looking at him with dark, tired eyes, and then she put out her hand and touched him on the shoulder. "you'll not leave me, john?" she pleaded. "no, ma," he answered. "not for a long while yet!" she turned away from him and went down the stairs again. john returned to his uncle's room, and sat down by the side of the bed. he opened the book and began to read of willie reilly and his colleen bawn. now and then he glanced at his uncle and wondered at the childlike and innocent look on his face. there was a strange simplicity in his eyes ... not the simplicity of those who have not got understanding, but of those who have a deep and unchangeable knowledge that is very different from the knowledge of other men; and once again john assured himself that while uncle matthew's behaviour might be "quare" when compared with that of other people, yet it was not foolish behaviour nor the behaviour of the feeble-minded: it was the conduct of a man who responded immediately to simple and honest emotions, who did not stop to consider questions of discretion or interest, but did the thing which seemed to him to be right. "what are you thinking of, uncle matthew?" he said suddenly, putting down the book, for it seemed to him that his uncle was no longer listening. "i was thinking i wouldn't have missed my life for the wide world!" uncle matthew replied. "after everything?" john asked. "aye, in spite of everything," said uncle matthew. "there's great value in life ... great value!" john picked up the book again, but he did not begin to read, nor did uncle matthew show any signs that he wished the reading to be resumed. "our minds go this way and that way," uncle matthew went on, "and some of us are not happy 'til we're away here and there!..." "you were always wanting to be off after adventures yourself, uncle matthew!" "aye, john, i was, and i never went. i've oftentimes thought little of myself for that, but i'm wondering now, lying here, whether it wasn't a great adventure to stop at home. i don't know! i don't know! but i'll know in a wee while! john!" "yes, uncle!" "i wouldn't change places with the king of england, at this minute, not for all the money in the mint and my weight in gold!" "why, uncle matthew?" "do you know why? because in a wee while, i'll know all there is to know, and he'll be left here knowing no more nor the rest of you. god is good, john. he shares out his knowledge without favour to anyone. the like of us'll know as much in the next world as the like of them!..." iv when the sharper anxieties concerning uncle matthew had subsided, john's mind was filled with thoughts of maggie carmichael. it seemed to him to be impossible that any seven days in the history of the world had been so long in passing as the seven days which separated him from his next meeting with her. his work at the ballyards national school lost any interest it ever had for him: the pupils seemed to be at once the stupidest and laziest and most aggravating children on earth. lizzie turley completely lost her power to add two and one together and make three of them. strive as he might, he could not make her comprehend or remember that two and one, when added together, did not amount to five. there was even a dreadful day when she lost her power to subtract.... miss gebbie, the teacher to whom he was most often monitor, had always had hard, uncouth manners, but they became almost intolerable before the seven days had passed by ... and it seemed certain that there must be a crisis in her life and in his before the clock struck three on friday afternoon! if she complained again, he said to himself, about the way in which he marked the children's exercise books, he would tell her in very plain language what he thought of her and her big bamboo-cane. when she slapped the children, the corners of her mouth went down and her large lips tightened and a cruel glint came into her eyes!... it was only during the reading half-hour that his mind was at ease in school that week, for then he could let his thoughts roam from ballyards to belfast, and fill his eyes with visions of maggie. the droning voices of the children, reading "jack has got a cart and can draw sand and clay in it," were almost soothing, and it was sufficient for supervision, if now and then, he would call out, "next!" the child who was reading would instantly stop, and the child next to her would instantly begin.... it seemed to him that he had the clearest impressions of maggie carmichael, and yet had also the vaguest impressions of her. he remembered very distinctly that she had bright, laughing eyes, and that her hair was fair, and that she had pretty teeth: white and even. he had often read in books of the beauty of a woman's teeth, but he had never paid much attention to them. after all, what was the purpose of teeth? to bite. it was ridiculous, he had told himself, to talk and write of beauty in teeth when all that mattered was whether they could bite well or not.... but now, remembering the beauty of maggie carmichael's mouth, he saw that the writers had done well when they insisted on the beauty of teeth. any sort of a good tooth would do for biting and chewing, but there was something more than that to be said for good, white, even teeth. if teeth were of no value otherwise than for biting and chewing, false teeth were better than natural teeth!... and false teeth were so hideous to look at; so smug, so self-conscious. aggie logan had false teeth. so had teeshie mcbratney and sadie cochrane. things with pale gums!... he had wanted to kiss maggie carmichael's teeth, so beautiful were they. just her teeth. it had been splendid to kiss her lips, but then one always kissed lips. men, according to the books, even kissed hair and ears and eyes. he had read recently of a man who kissed a woman on the neck, just behind the ear; and at the time he had thought that this was a very queer thing to do. love, he supposed, was responsible for a thing like that. he could not account for it in any other way. he understood _now_, of course. when a man loved a woman, every part of her was very dear and beautiful to him, and to kiss her neck just behind the ear was as exquisite as to kiss her lips. no one, in any of the books he had read, had wished to kiss a woman's teeth. there were still hidden joys in kissing ... and he had discovered one of them. he would kiss maggie's teeth on saturday. he would kiss her lips, too, of course, and her hair and her eyes and ears and the part of her neck that was just behind her ear, but most of all he would kiss her teeth!... he thought that it was very strange that he should think so ardently of kissing maggie. he could have kissed aggie logan dozens of times, but he had never had the slightest desire to kiss her. he remembered how foolish he had thought her that night at the soiree when someone proposed that they should play postman's knock. aggie logan had called him out to the lobby. there was a letter for him, she said, with three stamps on it. three stamps! did anyone ever hear the like of that? and he was to go into the lobby and give her three kisses, one after the other ... peck, peck, peck ... and then it would be his turn to call for someone, and aggie would expect him to call for her! ... willie logan had called for a girl. he had a letter for her with fifty stamps on it ... a great roar of laughter had gone up from the others when they heard of the amount of the postage, and willie was thought to be a daring, desperate fellow ... until the superintendent of the sunday school said that there must be reason in all things and proposed a limit of three stamps on each letter ... no person to be called for more than twice in succession. willie, boisterous and very amorous, whispered to john that he did not care what limit they made ... no one could tell how many extra stamps you put on your letter out in the lobby.... john had not answered aggie's call. he had contrived to get out of the school-room without being observed, and aggie had been obliged to call for someone else. kissing!... kiss her!... three stamps!... peck, peck, _peck_!... v wednesday dragged itself out slowly and very reluctantly; thursday was worse than wednesday; and friday was only saved from being as bad as thursday by its nearness to saturday. on the morrow, he would see maggie again. many times during the week, he had debated with himself as to whether he should write to her or not, but the difficulty of knowing what to say to her, except that he loved her and was longing for the advent of saturday, prevented him front doing so. in any case, it would be difficult to write to her without questions from his mother, and if maggie were to reply to him, there would be no end to the talk from her. after all, a week was only a week. on monday, a week had seemed to be an interminable period of time, but on friday, it had resumed the normal aspect of a week, a thing with a definite and reachable end. it was odd to observe how, as the week drew to its close, the intolerable things became tolerable. miss gebbie seemed to be a little less inhuman on friday than she had been on monday, and lizzie turley marvellously recovered her power to add two and one together and get the correct result. beyond all doubt, he was in love. there could not be any other explanation of his behaviour and his peculiar impatience. that any man should conduct himself as he had done during the week now ending, for any other reason than that he was in love, was impossible. why, he woke up in the morning, thinking of maggie, and he went to sleep at night, thinking of maggie. he thought of her when he was at school, and he thought of her in the street, in the shop, in the kitchen, even in his uncle matthew's room. when it was his turn to sit by uncle matthew's side, his mind, for more than half the time, was in belfast with maggie. he had read more than a hundred pages of _willie reilly_ to his uncle, but he had not comprehended one of them. he had been thinking exclusively of maggie. he wondered whether he would always be in this state of absorption. other people fell in love, as he knew, but they seemed to be able to think of other things besides their love. perhaps they were not so much in love as he was! he began to see difficulties arising from this great devotion of his to maggie. it would be very hard to concentrate his mind on a story if it were full of thoughts of her. he would probably spoil any work he attempted to do, because his mind would not be on it, but away with maggie. in none of the books he had read, had he seen any account of the length of time a pair of lovers took in which to get used to each other and to adjust their affections to the ordinary needs of life. he would never cease to love maggie, of course, but he wondered how long it would be before his mind would become capable of thinking of maggie and of something else at the same time ... or even of thinking of something else without thinking of maggie at all.... vi his mother had looked dubiously at him when he talked of going to belfast on saturday. she said that he ought not to leave home while his uncle matthew was so ill, but dr. dobbs had given a more optimistic opinion on the sick man's condition, and so, after they had argued over the matter, she withdrew her objection. uncle william had insisted that john ought to go up to the city for the sake of the change. the lad had had a hard week, what with his school work and his writing and his attention to uncle matthew, and the change would be good for him. "only don't miss the train this time," he added to john. maggie met him outside the theatre. he had not long to wait for her, and his heart thrilled at the sight of her as she came round arthur's corner. "so you have come," she said to him, as she shook hands with him. "did you think i wouldn't?" he answered. "oh, well," she replied, "you never know with fellows! some of them makes an appointment to meet you, and you'd think from the way they talk about it that they were dying to meet you; and then when the time comes, you might stand at the corner 'til your feet were frozen to the ground, but not a bit of them would turn up. i'd never forgive a boy that treated me that way!" "i'm not the sort that treats a girl that way," said john. "oh, indeed you could break your word as well as the next! many's a time i've give my word to a fellow and broke it myself, just because i didn't feel like keeping it. but it's different for a girl nor it is for a fellow. there's no harm in a girl disappointing a fellow. i hear this piece at the royal is awfully good this week. it's about a girl that nearly gets torn to pieces by a mad lion. i don't know whether i like that sort of piece or not. it seems terrible silly, and it would be awful if the hero come on a minute or two late and the girl was ate up fornent your eyes!" john laughed. "there's not much danger of that," he replied. there were very few people waiting outside the pit door, and so they were able to secure good seats with ease. "the best of coming in the daytime," john said, "is you have a better chance of the front row than you have at night!" she nodded her head. "but it's better at night," she answered. "a piece never seems real to me in the daylight." "where'll we go to-night?" he said to her. "oh, i can't go with you to-night again," she exclaimed, taking a chocolate from the box which he had bought for her. "why?" "i have another appointment!..." "break it," he commanded. "i couldn't do that!..." "oh, yes, you could," he insisted. "you told me yourself you'd disappointed fellows many's a time!" "i daresay i did, but i can't break this one," she retorted. suspicion entered his mind. "is it with another fellow?" he asked. "ask me no questions and i'll tell you no lies," she said. "is it?" he demanded. "and what if it is?" "i don't want you to go out with anybody else but me!" she ate another chocolate. "have one?" she said, passing the box to him. he shook his head moodily. "are you going to do what i ask or are you not?" he said. "don't be childish," she replied. "i've promised a friend to go to a concert to-night, and i'll have to go. that's all about it!" "is it a fellow?" "mebbe it is and mebbe it's not!" she teased. "you know i'm in love with you!" she laughed lightly, and he bent his head closer to her. "listen, maggie," he went on, "i know i only met you for the first time last saturday, but i'm terrible in love with you. listen! i want to marry you, maggie!..." she burst out laughing. "don't make a mock of me," he pleaded. she turned to look at him. "what age are you?" she demanded. "i'm near nineteen," he answered. "and i'm twenty-two," she retorted. "twenty-two past, i am. four years older nor you!..." "that doesn't matter," he insisted. "it wouldn't if the ages was the other way round ... you twenty-two and me nineteen!" "it doesn't matter what way they are. it's not age that matters: it's feeling!" "you'll feel different, mebbe, when you're a bit older. what would people say if i was to marry you now, after meeting you a couple of times, and you four years younger nor me?" "it doesn't matter what they'd say," he replied. "sure, people are always saying something!" she ruminated! "i like going out with you well enough, and you're a queer, nice wee fellow, but it's foolish talk to be talking of getting married. what trade are you at?" "i'm a monitor," he answered. "i'm in my last year!..." "you're still at the school," she said. "i'm a monitor," he replied, insisting on his status. "och, sure that's only learning. when in the earthly world would you be able to keep a wife?" "i'm going to write books!..." "what sort of books?" "story books," he said. "have you writ any yet?" "no, but i wrote a short story once!" she looked at him admiringly. "how much did you get for it?" she asked. "i didn't get anything for it," he replied. "they wouldn't take it!" she remained silent for a few moments. then she said, "your prospects aren't very bright!" "but they'll get brighter," he said. "they will. i tell you they will!" "when?" she asked. "some day," he answered. "some day may be a long day in coming," she went on. "i might have to wait a good while before you were able to marry me. five or six years, mebbe, and then i'd be getting on to thirty, john. you'd better be looking out for a younger girl nor me!" "i don't want anybody else but you," he replied. vii when the play was over, they walked arm in arm towards the restaurant where she was employed. "i promised mrs. bothwell we'd have our tea there," maggie said to john. "it put her in a sweet temper, the thought of having two customers for certain. she'll mebbe give up that place. it's not paying her well. she wasn't going to give me the time off at first, but i told you were my cousin up from the country for the day!..." "but i'm not your cousin," john objected. "that doesn't matter. sure, you have to tell a wee bit of a lie now and again, or you'd never get your way at all. and it saves bother and explaining!" they crossed high street and were soon at the foot of the stairs leading up to bothwell's restaurant. "mind," said maggie in a whisper, "you're my cousin!" he did not speak, but followed her up the stairs and into the restaurant where she introduced him to a plain, stoutly-built, but cheerless woman who came from the small room into the large one as they entered it. there was one customer in the room, but he finished his tea and departed soon after maggie and john arrived. in a little while, she and he were eating their meal. john politely asked mrs. bothwell to join them, but she declined. she sat at a neighbouring table and talked to them of the play. "i don't know when i was last at a theatre," she said, "and i don't know when i'll go again. i always say to myself when i come away, 'well, that's over and my money's spent and what satisfaction have i got for it?' and when i think it all out, there doesn't seem to be any satisfaction. you've spent your money, and the play's over, and that's all. it seems a poor sort of return!'" "you might say that about anything," john said. "a football match or ... or one of these nice wee cookies of yours!" "oh, indeed, you might," mrs. bothwell admitted. "sure, there's no pleasure in the world that's lasting, and mebbe if there were we wouldn't like it. you pay your good money for a thing, and you have it a wee while, and then it's all over, and you have to pay more money for something else. or mebbe you have it a long while, only you're not content with it. that's the way it always is. there's very little satisfaction to be got out of anything. look at the albert memorial! that looks solid enough, but there's people says it'll tumble to the ground one of these days with the running water that's beneath it!" maggie took a big bite from a cookie. "oh, now, there's satisfaction in everything," she said, "if you only go the right way about getting it and don't expect too much. i always say you get as much in this world as you're able to take ... and it's true enough. i know i take all in the way of enjoyment that i can put my two hands on. there's no use in being miserable, and it's nicer to be happy!" "you're mebbe right." said mrs. bothwell. "but you can't just be miserable or happy when you like. i can't anyway!" "you should try," said maggie. mrs. bothwell went to the small room and did not return. john was glad that her dissatisfaction with the universe did not make her oblivious of the fact that maggie and he were content enough with each other's company and did not require the presence of a third party. he leant across the table and took hold of one of maggie's hands. "you've not answered my question yet?" he said. "what question?" she said. "about going out with me," he replied. "i'll go to the royal with you next saturday," she said. "ah, but for good! i mean it when i say i want to marry you!..." "you're an awful wee fool," she exclaimed, drawing her hand from his and slapping him playfully. "fool!" "yes. i thought at first you were having me on, but i think now you're only a wee fool. but i like you all the same!" "am i a fool for loving you?" he demanded. "oh, no, not for that, but for knowing so little!" "marry me, maggie," he pleaded. "wheesht," she said, "mrs. bothwell will hear you!..." "i don't care who hears!..." "but i do," she interrupted. "you're an awful one for not caring. you've said that more nor once to-day!" she glanced at the clock. "i'll have to be going soon," she said. "no, not yet awhile!..." "but i will. i'll be late if i stop!..." she began to draw on her gloves as she spoke. "well, when will i see you again?" he asked. "next saturday if you like!..." "can i not see you before? i could come up to belfast on wednesday!..." "i'm engaged on wednesday," she said. "but!" "och, quit butting," she retorted. "i'll see you on saturday and no sooner. pay mrs. bothwell and come on!..." viii she insisted on leaving him at the junction, and he moodily watched her climbing into a tram. she waved her hand to him as the tram drove off, and he waved his in reply. and then she was gone, and he had a sense of loss and depression. he stared gloomily about him. what should he do now? he might go to the opera house or to one of the music-halls or he might just walk about the streets.... he thought of what mrs. bothwell had said earlier in the day. "there's very little satisfaction in anything!" "there's a lot in that," he said to himself. "i'll go home," he continued. "there's no pleasure in mouching round the town by yourself!" he got into a tram and was soon at the railway station. on the platform, a little way in front of him, he saw willie logan, flushed and excited, with two girls, one on either side of him. willie had an arm round each girl's waist. "that fellow's getting plenty of fun anyway," john said, as he climbed into an empty carriage. he did not wish to join willie's party. he knew too well what willie was like: a noisy, demonstrative fellow, indiscriminately amorous. "nearly every girl's worth kissing," willie had said to him on one occasion. "if you can't get your bit of fun with one woman, sure you can get it with another!" willie, in the carriage, would kiss one girl, john knew, and then would turn and kiss the other, "just to show there's no ill will." he might even invite john to kiss them in turn ... so that john might not feel uncomfortable and "out of it." he would lie back in the carriage, his big face flushed and his eyes bright with pleasure, an arm round each of his companions, and when he was not kissing them, he would be bawling out some song, or, at stations, hanging half out of the window to chaff the porters and the station-master. "get all you can," he would say, "and do without the rest!" but john was not a promiscuist: he was a monopolist. he put the whole of his strength into his love for one woman, and he demanded a similar singleness of devotion from her. his mind was full of maggie, but he felt that she had cast him out of her mind the moment that the tram bore her out of his sight. "i'll make her want me," he said, tightening his fists. "i'll make her want me 'til she's heartsore with wanting!" the fifth chapter i uncle matthew died three days later. he slipped out of life without ostentation or murmur. "the macdermotts are not afeard to die," he had said to john at the beginning of his illness, and in that spirit he had died. in the morning, he had asked mrs. macdermott to look for _don quixote_ in the attic and bring it to him, and she had done so. he had tried to read the book, but it was too heavy for him--his strength was swiftly going from him--and it had fallen from his hands on to the quilt and then had rolled on to the floor. "i can't hold it," he murmured. "will i read it to you?" she said to him. "yes, if you please!" he said. it was a badly-bound book, printed in small, eye-tormenting type, and it was difficult to hold; but she made no complaint of these things, and for an hour or so, she read to uncle matthew. she put the book down when his breathing denoted that he was asleep, but she did not immediately go from the room. she sat for a time, looking at the delicate face on the pillow, and then she picked the book up again and began to examine it, turning the pages over slowly, reading here and reading there, and examining the illustrations closely. there was a puzzled look on her face, and the flesh, between her eyebrows was puckered and deeply lined. she put the book down on her lap and looked intently in front of her, as if she were considering some problem. she picked the book up again, and once more turned over the pages and examined the pictures; but she did not appear to find any solution of her problem as she did so, for she put the book down on the dressing-table and left it there. she bent over the sleeping man for a few moments, listening to his breathing, and then she went out of the room leaving the door ajar. and while she was downstairs, uncle matthew died. he had not wakened from his sleep. he seemed to be exactly in the same position as he was when she left the room. he was not breathing ... that was all. she called to uncle william, and he came quickly up the stairs. "is anything wrong?" he said anxiously. "matt's dead!" she replied. he stood still. "shut the shop," she said, "and send for john and the doctor!" he did not move. she touched him on the shoulder. "do you hear me, william?" he started. "aye," he said, "i hear you right enough!" but he still remained in the room, gazing blindly at his brother. then he went over to the bed and sat down and cried. "poor william!" said mrs. macdermott, putting her arms around him. ii john wrote to maggie carmichael to tell her of his uncle's death. it would not be possible for him to keep his engagement with her on the following saturday. she sent a thinly-written note of sympathy to him, telling him that she would not expect to see him for a while because of his bereavement. "_you'll not be in the mood for enjoying yourself at present,_" she wrote, "_and i daresay you would prefer to stay at home at present. i expect you'll miss your uncle terribly!--_" indeed, he did miss his uncle terribly! there was a strange quietness in the house before the day of the burial, which was natural, but it was maintained after uncle matthew had been put in the grave where john's father lay. uncle william's quick, loud voice became hushed and slow and sometimes inaudible, and mrs. macdermott went about her work with few words to anyone. john had come on her, an hour or two before the coffin lid was screwed down, putting a book in uncle matthew's hands. he saw the title of it ... _don quixote_ ... and he said to her, "what are you doing, ma?" she looked up quickly and hesitated. "nothing!" she answered, and suddenly aware that she did not wish to be observed, he went away and left her alone. it seemed to him afterwards that she resented his knowledge of what she had done ... that she looked at him sometimes as if she were forbidding him ever to speak of it ... but she did not talk of it. she spoke as seldom as uncle william did, and it seemed to john that the voice had been carried out of the house when uncle matthew had been carried to the graveyard. he felt that he could not endure the oppression of this silence any longer, that he must, speak to someone, and, in his search for comfort, his mind wandered in search of maggie carmichael with intenser devotion than he had ever experienced before. if only uncle matthew were alive, john could talk to him of maggie. uncle matthew would listen to him. uncle matthew always had listened to him. he had never shown any impatience when john had talked to him of this scheme and that scheme, and he would not have mocked his love for maggie. how queer a thing it was that uncle matthew who had seemed to be the least important person in the house should have so ... so stifled the rest of them by his death! uncle william, who bore the whole burden of maintaining the family, mourned for uncle matthew as if he had lost his support; and mrs. macdermott began to talk, when she talked at all, of the things that matt had liked. matt liked this and matt liked that ... and yet she had seemed not merely to disregard uncle matthew when he was alive, but actually to dislike him. uncle matthew must have had a stronger place in the house than any of them had imagined. john could not bear to go to the attic now, although he wished to turn over the books which were now his. it was in the attic that uncle matthew had found most of his happiness, in the company of uncomplaining, unreproachful books, and the memory of that happiness had drawn john to the attic one day when he most missed his uncle. he had handled the books very fondly, turning over pages and pausing now and then to read a passage or two ... and while he had turned the pages of an old book with faded, yellow leaves, he had found a cutting from a belfast newspaper. it contained a report of the police proceedings against uncle matthew, and it was headed, strange behaviour of a ballyards man!... john hurriedly put the book down and went out of the room. he had not shed a tear over uncle matthew. he did not wish to cry over him. he felt that uncle matthew would like his mourners to have dry eyes ... but it was hard not to cry when one read that bare, uncomprehending account of uncle matthew's chivalrous act. _strange_ behaviour, the reporter named it, when every instinct in john demanded that it should be called _noble_ behaviour. was a man to be called a fool because his heart compelled him to perform an act of simple loyalty?... _strange behaviour_! john seized the cutting and crumpled it in his hand. then he straightened it out again and tore it in pieces. were people so poor in faith and devotion that they could not recognise the nobility of what uncle matthew had done? and for that act of goodness, uncle matthew had gone to his grave under stigma. "poor sowl," they said in ballyards, "it's a merciful release for him. he was always quare in the head!" john could not stay in the house with his memories of uncle matthew, and so he went for walks along the shores of the lough, to cubbinferry and kirklea or turning coastwards, towards millreagh and holmesport; but there was no comfort to be found in these walks. he returned from them, tired in body, but unrested in mind. he tried to write another story, but he had to put the pen and ink and paper away again, and he told himself that he had no ability to write a story. wherever he went and whatever he did, the loss of uncle matthew pressed upon him and left him with a sense of impotence, until at last, his nature, weary of its own dejection, turned and demanded relief. and so he set his thoughts again on maggie carmichael, and each day he found himself, more and more, thinking of her until, after a while, he began to think only of her. he had written to her a second time, but she had not answered his letter. he remembered that she had protested against her incompetence as a correspondent. "i'm a poor hand at letter-writing," she had said laughingly. she could talk easily enough, but she never knew what to put in a letter, and anyhow it was a terrible bother to write one. a letter would be a poor substitute for her, he told himself. he must see her soon. mourning or no mourning, he would go to belfast on the next saturday and would see her. it would not be possible for him to take her to a theatre, but she and he could go for a long walk or they could sit together in the restaurant and talk to each other. this loneliness and silence was becoming unendurable: he must get away from the atmosphere of loss and mourning into an atmosphere of life and love. uncle matthew would wish him to do that. he felt certain that uncle matthew would wish him to do that. uncle matthew would hate to think of his nephew prowling along the roads in misery and suffering when his whole desire had been that he should have opportunity and satisfaction. he had bequeathed his property and his money "to my beloved nephew john macdermott," and john had been deeply moved by the affection that glowed through the legal phraseology of the will. it was not yet known how much money there would be, for mr. mcgonigal, the solicitor, had not completed his account of uncle matthew's affairs; but the amount of it could not be very large. that was immaterial to john. what mattered to him was that his uncle's love for him had never flickered for a moment, but had shone steadily and surely until the day of his death. "i never told anyone but him about maggie," john thought. "i'm glad i told him ... and i know he'd want me to go to her now!" and so, late on friday evening, he resolved that he would go to belfast on the following day. he sent a short note to maggie, addressing it to the restaurant, in which he told her that he would call for her on saturday. he begged that she would go for a walk with him. "_we might go to the cave hill_," he wrote, "_and be back in plenty of time for tea!_" iii he crossed the lagan in the ferry-boat, so impatient was he to get quickly to maggie, but when he reached the restaurant, maggie was not there. he stood in the doorway, looking about the large room, but there was no one present, for it was too early yet for mid-day meals. maggie was probably engaged in the small room at the back of the restaurant and would presently appear. it was mrs. bothwell who came to answer his call. "oh, good morning!" he said, trying to keep the note of disappointment out of his voice. "good morning," she answered. "it's a brave day!" "it's not so bad," she grudgingly admitted. "is ... is maggie in?" he asked. "in!" she exclaimed, looking at him with astonishment plain on her face. "yes. isn't she in? she's not sick or anything, is she?" he replied anxiously. "oh, dear bless you, no! she's not sick," mrs. bothwell said. "do you mean to say you don't know where she is?" "no, i ... i don't, mrs. bothwell!" there was a note of apprehension in his voice. "i thought, she'd be here!" "but haven't you been to the house?" "no," he answered. "i've just arrived from ballyards this minute. what's wrong, mrs. bothwell!" "there's nothing wrong that i know of. only i don't understand you not knowing about it. why aren't you at the church?" "church!" "aye. sure, i'd be there myself only i can't leave the shop. i'm glad she's getting a fine day for it anyway!" john touched her on the arm. "i don't understand what you're talking about, mrs. bothwell," he said. "what's happening!" "didn't you know she's being married the day on a policeman?..." "married!" he exclaimed incredulously. "aye. she's been going with him this long while back, and now that he's been promoted ... they've made him a sergeant ... they've got married. she's done well for herself. how is it you didn't know about it, and you and her such chums together?" "did i hear you saying she's getting married the day?" he murmured, gazing at her in a stupefied fashion. "that's what. i keep on telling you," she replied, "only you don't pay no heed to me. i thought you were her cousin!..." "no, i'm not her cousin," he answered. "i was ... i was going with her. that's all. i'm sorry to have bothered you, mrs. bothwell!" "oh, it's no bother at all. she must have been having you on, for the banns was up at st. george's this three weeks!..." "st. george's!" he repeated. "aye, these three weeks. she had a fancy to be married in st. george's church, for all it's a ritualistic place, and people says they're going fast to popery there. but i don't wonder at her, for it's quare and nice to see the wee boys in their surplices, singing the hymns!..." he interrupted her. "three weeks ago," he said, as if calculating. "that must have been soon after i met her for the first time. i met her here in this room, mrs. bothwell. i'd been to the royal to see a play, and i came in here for my tea, and i struck up to her for i liked her look!..." "oh, she's a nice enough looking girl is maggie, though looks is not everything," mrs. bothwell interjected. "she never told me!..." "oh, well, if it comes to that, you never told her anything about yourself, did you?" mrs. bothwell demanded. "i suppose she thought you were just a fellow out for a bit of fun, and she might as well have a bit of fun, too!" "but i wasn't out for fun," he exclaimed. "i was in earnest!" "that's where you made your mistake," said mrs. bothwell. "i'm sorry for you, but sure you're young enough not to take a thing like that to heart, and she's not the only girl in the world by a long chalk. by the time you're her age, she'll have a child or two, and'll mebbe be feeling very sorry for herself ... and you'll have the world fornent you still! a young fellow like you isn't going to let a wee thing like that upset you?" "it isn't a wee thing, mrs. bothwell. it's a big thing," he insisted. "och, sure, everything's big looking 'til you see something bigger. one of these days you'll be wondering what in the earthly world made you think twice about her!" he turned away from her and moved towards the door, but suddenly he remembered the letter which he had written to maggie on the previous evening. "did a letter for her come this morning?" he said, turning again to mrs. bothwell. "i wrote to her last night to tell her i was coming up the day!" "one did come," she answered. "i put it in the kitchen, intending to re-address it when i had a minute to spare. i'll go and get it. i suppose you don't want it sent on to her now?" "no, i don't. it was only to tell her i'd meet her here!" "well, i'll bring it to you then." she went into the kitchen and presently returned, carrying john's letter in her hand. "is this it?" she said. "it's got the ballyards postmark on it." he took it from her. "yes, that's it," he replied, tearing it in pieces. "could i trouble you to put it in the fire," he said, handing the torn paper to her. "it's no trouble at all," she answered, taking the pieces from him. "good morning, mrs. bothwell!" he said. "well, good morning to you!" he opened the door and was about to pass out of the restaurant when she spoke to him again. "i wouldn't let a thing like that upset me if i was you," she said. "sure, what's one girl more nor another girl! you'll get your pick and choice before long. a fine fellow like you'll not go begging for nothing!" "i'm not letting it upset me," he said, "but it'll be the queer girl that'll make a fool of me in a hurry!" "that's the spirit,'"' said mrs. bothwell. iv he walked down the stairs and into the street in a state of fury. he had been treated as if he were a corner-boy. willie logan, who was any girl's boy, could not have been treated so contemptuously as he, who had never cared for any other girl, had been treated. she had married a policeman ... _a peeler!_ she might as well have married a soldier or a militia-man. a macdermott had been rejected in favour of a peeler! she had gone straight from his embraces to the embraces of a policeman ... a common policeman. she had refused to meet him on a wednesday, he remembered, because, probably, she had engaged to meet the peeler on that evening. he would be off duty then! while she was yielding her lips to john, she was actually engaged to be married to ... to a policeman! by heaven!... what a good and fortunate thing it was that he had not spoken of her to anyone except to uncle matthew! if anyone were to know that a macdermott had fallen in love with a girl who had preferred to marry a peeler ... _a peeler_, mind you! ... they would split their sides laughing. what a humiliation! what an insufferable thing to have happened to him! that was your love for you! that was your romance for you! ... och! och, och!! this was a lesson for him, indeed. no more love or romance for him. willie logan could run after girls until the soles dropped off his boots, but john macdermott would let the girls do the running after him in future. no girl would ever get the chance again to throw him over for ... for a _peeler!_ if that was their love, they could keep their love!... he walked about the town until, after a while, he found himself at the theatre royal. still raging against maggie, he paid for a seat in the pit. he had forgotten that he was in mourning, and he remembered only that he was a jilted lover, a macdermott cast aside for a policeman. he sat through the first act of the play, without much comprehension of its theme. then in the middle of the second act, he heard the heroine vowing that she loved the hero, and he got up and walked out of the theatre. "i could write a better play than that with one hand tied behind my back," he said to himself. "her and her love!" he walked rapidly from the theatre, conscious of hunger, for he had omitted to get a meal before going into the theatre, but he was unwilling to forego the pleasure of starving himself as a sign of his humiliation. he made his way towards smithfield and stopped in front of a bookstall. a couple of loutish lads were fingering a red-bound book as he approached the stall, and he heard them tittering in a sneaky, furtive fashion as he drew near. the owner of the stall emerged from the back of his premises, and when they saw him, they hurriedly put the book down and walked away. john glanced at it and read the title on the cover: the art of love by ovid. "love!" he exclaimed aloud. "ooo-oo-oo!" the streets were full of young men and women intent on an evening's pleasure, and as he hurried away from smithfield market towards the railway station, he received bright glances from girls who were willing to make friends with him. he scowled heavily at them, and when they looked away to other men, he filled his mind with sneers and bitter thoughts. a few hours before, these young girls would have seemed to him to be very beautiful and innocent, but now they appeared to him to be deceitful and wicked. each evening, he told himself, these girls came out of their houses in search of "boys" whom they lured into love-making, teasing and tormenting them, until at last they tired of them and sent them empty away. that was your love for you! uncle matthew had dreamed of romantic love, and john had set out to find it, and behold, what was it! a girl's frolic, a piece of feminine sport, in which the girl had the fun and the boy had the humiliation and pain. maggie could go from him, her lips still warm with his kisses, to her policeman ... and take kisses from him! there might be other hoaxed lovers ... if she had one, why not have two or three or four ... and his kisses might have meant no more to her than the kisses of half-a-dozen other men. well, he had learned his lesson! no more love for him.... he crossed the queen's bridge, and when he reached the station, he came upon willie logan, moodily gazing at the barriers which were not yet open. john, undesirous of society, nodded to him and would have gone away, but willie suddenly caught hold of his arm. "i want to speak to you a minute, john!" he said thickly. the smell of drink drifted from him. "what about?" john answered sourly. "come over here 'til a quiet place," willie said, still holding john's arm, and drawing him to a seat at the other end of the station. "sit here 'til the gates is open," he added, as he sat down. "is there anything up?" john demanded. "aye," willie replied in a bewildered voice. "john, man, i'm in terrible trouble!" "oh!" "sore disgrace, john. i don't know what my da and ma'll say to me at all when they hear about it. such a thing!..." "well, what is it?" "do you know a wee girl called jennie roak?" john shook his head. "her aunt lives in ballyards ... mrs. cleeland!..." "oh, yes. is that her aunt?" "aye. well, me an' her has been going out together for a wee while past, and she says now she's goin' to have a child!" john burst into laughter. "what the hell are you laughing at?" willie demanded angrily. "i was thinking it doesn't matter whether it's one girl or a dozen you're after, you'll get into bother just the same!" "aye, but what am i to do, john? i'll have to tell the oul' fella, and he'll be raging mad when he hears about it. he's terrible against that sort of thing, and dear knows i'm an awful one for slipping into trouble. i can not keep away from girls, john, and that's the god's truth of it. and i've been brought up as respectable as anybody. jennie's in an awful state about it!" "i daresay," said john. "she says i'll have to marry her over the head of it, but sure i don't want to get married at all ... not yet, anyway. i don't know what to do. i'll have to tell the oul' lad and he'll have me scalded with his tongue. i suppose i'll have to marry her. it's a quare thing a fella can't go out with a girl without getting into bother. i wish to my goodness i had as much control over myself as you have!" "control!" said john. "aye. you'll never get into no bother!" "huh!" said john. the barriers were opened, and willie and john passed through on to the platform, and presently seated themselves in a carriage. "this'll be a lesson to me," said willie, lying back against the cushions of the carriage. "not to be running after so many girls in future!" john did not make any answer to him. he let his thoughts wander out of the carriage. he had loved maggie carmichael deeply, and she had served him badly; and willie logan, who treated girls in a light fashion, was complaining now because one girl had loved him too well. and that was your love for you! that was the high romantical thing of which uncle matthew had so often spoken and dreamed... he came out of his thoughts suddenly, for willie logan was shaking him. there was a glint in willie logan's eye!... "i say, john," he said, "come on into the next carriage! there's two quare nice wee girls just got in!" "no," said john. "ah, come on," willie coaxed. "no," john almost shouted. "well, stay behind then. i'll have the two to myself," willie exclaimed, climbing out of the carriage as he spoke. "that lad deserves all he gets," john thought. v his mother called to him as he passed through the kitchen on his way to the attic where his uncle matthew's books were stored. "your uncle william's wanting a talk with you," she said. "mr. mcgonigal's been here about the will!" "i'll be down in a wee while," john replied as he climbed the stairs. he wished to sit in some quiet place until he had composed his mind which was still disturbed. he had hoped to have the railway compartment to himself after willie logan had left it, but two drovers had hurriedly entered it as the train was moving out of the station, and their noisy half-drunken talk had prevented him from thinking with composure. willie logan's loud laughter, accompanied by giggles and the sound of scuffling, penetrated from the next compartment.... in the attic, there would be quietness. he entered the room and stood among the disordered piles of books that lay about the floor. a mania for rearrangement had seized hold of him one day, but he had done no more than take the books from their shelves and leave them in confused heaps. he had promised that he would make the attic tidy again, when his mother complained of the room's disarray. his mind would become quiet, perhaps, if he were to spend a little time now in replacing the books on the shelves in the order in which he wished them to be. he sat down on the floor and contemplated them. most of these volumes, new and old, were concerned with the love of men for women. it seemed impossible to escape from the knowledge of this passion in any book that one might read. love made intrusions even into the history books, and bloody wars had been fought and many men had been slain because of a woman's beauty or to gratify her whim. even in the bible!... he remembered that uncle matthew had told him that the song of solomon was a real love song or series of songs, and not, as the headlines to the chapters insisted, an allegorical description of christ's love for the church. there was a bible lying near to his hand, and he picked it up and turned the pages until he reached the song of songs which is called solomon's, and he hurriedly read through it as if he were searching for sentences. _i am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies. thou art beautiful, o my love, as tirzah, comely as jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners!_ so the woman sang. then the man, less abstract than the woman, sang in his turn. _how beautiful are thy feet with shoes, o prince's daughter: the joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman. thy navel is like a round goblet which wanted not liquor: thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies. thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins!..._ john glanced at the headline to this song. "it's a queer thing to call that 'a further description of the church's graces'," he said to himself, and then his eye searched through the verses of the song until he reached the line, _how fair and how pleasant art thou, o love, for delights!_... "i daresay," he murmured to himself. "i daresay! but there's a terrible lot of misery in it, too!" he read the whole of the last song. _set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death: jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it_.... "that's true," he said. "that's very true! i love her just the same, for all she's treated me so bad! _many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it._ oh, i wish to my god i could forget things as easy as willie logan forgets them!" he closed the bible and put it down on the floor beside him, and sat with his hands clutching hold of his ankles. he would have to go away from ballyards. he would not be able to rest contentedly near belfast where maggie lived ... with her peeler! he must go away from home, and the further away he went, the better it would be. then he might forget about her. perhaps, after all, it was not true that "_many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it_." poets had a terrible habit of exaggerating things, and perhaps he would forget his love for maggie in some distant place!... there was a copy of _romeo and juliet_ perched on top of a pile of books. "that was the cause of all my trouble," he said, pushing it so that it fell off the pile on to the floor at his feet. he picked it up and opened it, and as he did so, his eyes rested on mercutio's speech, _if love be rough with you, be rough with love_. comfort instantly came into his mind. "i will," he said, rising from the floor. vi his uncle william was in the kitchen when he descended the stairs from the attic. "mr. mcgonigal was here this morning after you went up to belfast," he said, as john entered the kitchen. "everything's settled up. your uncle matthew left you â£180 and his books. it's more nor i imagined he had, though i knew well he hardly spent a copper on himself, beyond the books he bought. he was inclined to be an extravagant man like the rest of us before that bother he got into in belfast over the head of the oul' queen, but he changed greatly after. the money'll be useful to you, boy, when you start off in life!" "i'll come into the shop with you, uncle william," john said, glancing towards the scullery where his mother was. "i want to have a word or two with you!" "very good," uncle william replied, leading the way into the shop. they sat down together in the little counting-house while john told his uncle of his desire to go away from home. "and where in the earthly world do you want to go to?" uncle william demanded. "anywhere. london, mebbe! i'm near in the mind to go to america. mebbe, i'll just travel the world!" "a hundred and eighty pounds'll not carry you far," uncle william exclaimed. "it'll take me a good piece of the way, and if i can't earn enough to take me the rest of it, sure, what good am i?" uncle william shrugged his shoulders. "you must do as you please, i suppose, but i'll miss you sore when you do go. it'll be poor pleasure for me to live on here, with you gone and your uncle matthew dead!" "i'll come back every now and then to see you," john promised. "i'm not going to cut myself off from you altogether. you know that rightly. i just want to see a bit of the world. i ... i want to find out things!" "what things, john?" "oh ... everything! whatever there is to find out!" "i sometimes think," said uncle william, "you can find out all there is to find out at home, if you have enough gumption in you to find out anything at all. have you told your ma yet?" john shook his head. "it'll want a bit of telling," uncle william prophesied. "i daresay, but she'll have plenty of time to get used to it. i'm not going this minute. i'm going to try and do some writing at home first, 'til i get my hand in. then when i think i know something about the job, i'll go and see what i can make out of it." uncle william sat in silence for a few moments, tapping noiselessly on the desk with his fingers. "it's a pity you've no notion of the grocery," he said. "this shop'll be yours one of these days!" "i haven't any fancy for it," john replied. "i know you haven't. it's a pity all the same. i suppose, when i'm dead, you'll sell the shop!" "you're in no notion of dying yet awhile, uncle william. a hearty man like you'll outlive us all!" "mebbe, but that's not the point, john. the macdermotts have owned this shop a powerful while, as your ma tells you many's a time. when i'm dead, you'll be the last of us ... and you'll want to give up the shop. that's what i think's a pity. i'm with your ma over that. i suppose, though, the whole history of the world is just one record of change and alteration, and it's no use complaining. the shop'll have to go, and the macdermotts, too!..." he did not speak for a few moments, and then, in a brisker tone, he said, "mebbe, one of the assistants'll buy it from you. henry blackwood has money saved, i know, and by the time you want to sell it, he'll mebbe have a good bit past him. i'll drop a wee hint to him that you'll be wanting to sell, so's to prepare him!" "very well, uncle!" john said. "if you do sell the shop, make whoever buys it change the name over the door. if the macdermott family is not to be in control of it, then i'd like well for the name to be painted out altogether and the new name put in its place. i'd hate to think of anyone pretending the macdermotts was still here, carrying on their old trade, and them mebbe not giving as good value as we gave. the macdermotts have queer pride, john!" "i know they have, uncle william. i have, too!" "and they wouldn't lie content in their graves if they thought their names was associated with bad value!" "you're taking it for granted, uncle, i'll want to sell the shop. mebbe, i won't. i'll mebbe not be good at anything else but the grocery. i'm talking big now about writing books, but who knows whether i'll ever write one!" "oh, you'll write one, john. you'll write plenty. you'll do it because you want to do it. you've got your da's nature. when he wanted a thing, he got it, no matter who had it!" "there was one thing he wanted, uncle william, and wanted bad, but couldn't get!" "what was that, son?" uncle william demanded. "he wanted to live, but he wasn't let," john answered. uncle william considered for a few moments. "of course," he said, "there's some things that even a macdermott can't do!" vii john left his uncle in the shop and went into the kitchen to tell his mother of his decision. he felt certain that she would oppose him, and he braced himself to resist her appeals that he should change his mind. but she took his announcement very quietly. "i've made up my mind to go to london, ma!" he said to her. she did not look up immediately. then she turned towards him, and said, "oh, yes, john!" he paused, nonplussed by her manner, as if he were waiting for her to proceed, but finding that she did not say any more, he continued. "i daresay it'll upset you," he said. "i'm used to being upset," she replied, "and i expected it. when will you be going?" "i don't know yet. in a wee while. i'll have to speak to mr. cairnduff first about quitting the school, and then i'll stay at home for a bit, writing 'til i'm the master of it. after that i'll go to london ... or mebbe to america!" she sat quite still in the armchair beneath the window that overlooked the yard. he felt that he ought to say more to her, that she ought to say more to him, but he could not think of anything to say to her, because she had said so little to him. "i hope you're not upset about it," he said. "upset!" she exclaimed, with a sound of bitterness in her tone. "yes. i know you never approved of the idea!" "it doesn't make any difference whether i approve or not, does it?..." "that's not a fair way to put it, ma!" "but it amounts to that all the same," she retorted. "no, john, i'm not upset. what would be the good? i had other hopes for you, but they weren't your hopes, and i daresay you're right. i daresay you are. after all, we ... we have to ... to do the best we can for ourselves ... haven't we?" "yes, ma!" "and if you think you can do better in london ... or america nor you can in ballyards ... well, you're right to ... to go, aren't you?" "that's what i think, ma!" john answered. she did not say any more, and he sat at the table, tapping on it with a pencil. there was no sound in the kitchen but the ticking of the clock and the noise of the water boiling in the kettle and the little tap, tap ... tap, tap ... tap, tap, tap ... of his pencil on the table. mrs. macdermott had been hemming a handkerchief when john entered the kitchen, and as he glanced at her now, he saw that her head was bent over it again. he looked at her for a long while, it seemed to him, but she did not raise her head to return his look. if she would only rebuke him for wishing to go ... but this awful silence!... he looked about the kitchen, as if he were assuring himself that the old, familiar things were still in their places. he would be glad, of course, to go away from home, because he wished to adventure into bigger things ... but he would be sorry to go, too. there was something very dear and friendly about the house. he had experienced much love and care in it, and had had much happiness here. nevertheless, he would be glad to go. he needed a change, he wished to have things happening to him. he remembered very vividly something that his uncle matthew had said to him in this very room. "sure, what does it matter whether you're happy and contented or not, so long as things are happening to you!" that was the right spirit. uncle matthew had known all the time what was the right life for a man to lead, even although he had never gone out into the world himself. what if maggie carmichael _had_ treated him badly? _if love be rough with you, be rough with love!_ who was maggie carmichael anyway? one woman in a world full of women! she was only maggie carmichael ... or maggie whatever the policeman's name was! _if love be rough with you, be rough with love!_ ... oh, he would, he would! there were finer women in the world than maggie carmichael, and what was to prevent him from getting the finest woman amongst them if he wanted her. had it not been said of his father that he could have taken a queen from a king's bed, lifted her clean out of a palace in face of the whole court and taken her to his home, a happy and contented woman?... well, then, what one macdermott could do, another macdermott could do.... his mother got up from her chair and, putting down her hemmed handkerchief, said, "it's time i wet the tea!" viii he watched her as she went about the kitchen, making preparations for the meal, and he wondered why it was that she did not look at him. very carefully she averted her eyes from him as she passed from the fireplace to the scullery; and when she had to approach the place where he was sitting, she did so with downcast gaze. suddenly he knew why she would not look at him. he knew that if she were to do so, she would cry, and as the knowledge came to him, a great tenderness for her arose in his heart, and he stood up and putting out his hands drew her to him and kissed her. and then she cried. her body shook with sobs as she clung to him, her face thrust tightly against his breast. but she did not speak. uncle william, coming from the shop, looked into the kitchen for a moment, but, observing his sister's grief, went hurriedly back to the shop. "don't, ma!" john pleaded, holding her as if she were a distressed child. "i can't help it, john," she cried. "i'll be all right in a wee while, but i can't help it yet!" after a time, she gained control of herself, and gradually her sobs subsided, and then they ceased. "i didn't mean to cry," she said. "no, ma!" "but i couldn't control myself any longer. i'll not give way again, john!" she went to the scullery and returned with cups and saucers which she put on the table. "would you like some soda-bread or wheaten farls?" she asked. "i'll have them both," he answered. he paused for a moment, and then, before she had time to go to the pantry, he went on. "you know, ma, i ... i _have_ to go. i mean i ... i _have_ to go!" "_have_ to go, john?" "yes. i ... i _have_ to go. i was friends with a girl!..." she came quickly to his side, and put her arms round his neck. the misery had suddenly gone from her face, and there was a look of anxiety, mingled with gratification, in her eyes. "that's it, is it?" she said. "oh, i thought you were tired of your home. poor son, poor son, did she not treat you well?" "she was married this morning on a peeler, ma!" "and you in love with her?" she exclaimed indignantly. "aye, ma!" "the woman's a fool," said mrs. macdermott. "you're well rid of her!..." he saw now that there would be no further objection made by his mother against his going from home. as clearly as if she had said so, he understood that she now regarded his departure from home as a pilgrimage from which in due time he would return, purged of his grief. and she was content. "a woman that would marry a peeler when she might marry a macdermott, is not fit to marry a macdermott," she said, almost to herself. ix and so, when three months later, he decided to go to london, she did not try to hold him back. he had worked hard on a bitter novel that would, he imagined, fill men with amazement and women with shame, and when he had completed it, he bound the long, loose sheets of foolscap together and announced that he was now ready to go to london. mr. cairnduff told him of lodgings in brixton, where an old friend of his, an ulsterman and a journalist, was living, and mr. mccaughan gave him a very vivid account of the perils of london life. "bad women!" he said, ominously, "are a terrible temptation to a young fellow all by himself in a big town!" and then, brightening a little, he remarked that he need not tell so sensible a lad as john how to take care of himself. john had only to remember that he was a macdermott!... but mrs. macdermott did not offer any advice to him. she packed his trunk and his bag on the day he was to leave ballyards, taking care to put a bible at the bottom of the trunk, and told him that they were ready for him. he was to travel by the night boat from belfast to liverpool, and it was not necessary for him to leave ballyards until the evening, nor did he wish to spend more time in belfast than was absolutely necessary. his uncle and his mother were to accompany him to the boat: mr. mccaughan and mr. cairnduff would say good-bye to him at ballyards station. willie logan, now safely married to his jennie and a little dashed in consequence of the limitations imposed upon him by marriage, had volunteered to come to the station "and see the last of" him. there was to be a gathering of friends on the platform ... but he wished in his heart they would allow him to go away in peace and quietness. it was strange, he thought, that his mother did not talk to him about his journey to london. he had imagined that she would have a great deal to say about it, but it was not until the day of his departure that she spoke of it to him. she came to him, after she had packed his trunk and bag, and said, "come into the return room a wee minute!" and, obediently, he followed her. "i want to show you something," she said in explanation. "shut the door behind you!" "is there anything wrong, ma?" he asked, puzzled by the mystery in her manner. "no," she answered, "only i don't want the whole world to see us!" she went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of whiskey. "sit down," she said. "is that whiskey?" he asked as he seated himself. she nodded her head and returned to the table. "you're not thinking of giving me a drop, are you?" he exclaimed laughingly. there was a look in her eyes that checked laughter. "if i had my way," she said with great bitterness, "i'd take the men that make this stuff and i'd drown them in it. i'd pour it down their throats 'til they choked!..." she poured a little of the whiskey into a saucer. "give me a light," she demanded. he went to the mantel-shelf and brought the box of matches from it. "strike one," she said, and added when he had done so, "set fire to the whiskey!" he succeeded in making the spirit burn, and for a little while she and he stood by the table while the cold blue flames curled out of the saucer, wavering and spurting, until the spirit was consumed and the flame flickered and expired. "that's what a drunkard's inside is like," said mrs. macdermott, picking up the saucer and carrying it downstairs to the scullery to be washed. he heard the water splashing in the sink, and when he had put the bottle of whiskey back in the cupboard, he went downstairs and waited until she had finished. she returned to the kitchen, carrying the washed saucer, and when she had placed it on the dresser, she took up a bible and brought it to him. "i want you to swear to me," she said, "that you'll never taste a drop of drink as long as you live!" "that's easy enough," he answered. "i don't like it!" she looked up at him in alarm. "have you tasted it already, then?" she asked. "yes. how would i know i didn't like it if i hadn't tasted it? the smell of it is enough to knock you down!" she put the bible back on the dresser. "it doesn't matter," she said when he held out his hand for it. "mebbe you have enough strength of your own to resist it. i ... i don't always understand you, john, and i'm fearful sometimes to see you so sure of yourself." she came to him suddenly and swiftly, and clasped him close to her. "i love you with the whole of my heart, son," she said, "and i'm desperate anxious about you!" "you needn't be anxious about me, ma!" he answered. "i'm all right!" x the minister said, "god bless you, boy!" and patted him on the shoulder, and the schoolmaster wished him well and begged that now and then john would write to him. willie logan, hot and in a hurry, entered the station, eager to say good-bye to him, but the stern and disapproving eye of the minister caused him to keep in the background until john, understanding what was in his mind, went up to him. "i'm sure i wish you all you can wish yourself," willie said very heartily. "i wish to my god i was going with you, but sure, i'm one of the unlucky ones. aggie sent her love to you, but i couldn't persuade her to come and give it to you herself!" "thank you, willie. you might tell her i'm obliged to her." "you never had no notion of her, john?" "i had not, willie. how's jennie keeping?" "och, she's well enough," he answered sulkily, "look at the minister there, glaring at me as i was dirt. sure, didn't i marry the girl, and got intil a hell of a row over it with the oul' fella! and what's he got to glare at? there's no need to be giving _you_ good advice about weemen, john, for you're well able to take care of yourself as far as i can see, but all the same, mind what you're doing when you get into their company or you'll mebbe get landed the same as me!..." "don't you like being married, then?" "ah, quit codding," said willie. * * * * * the second book of the foolish lovers whoever loved that loved not at first sight. marlowe. "love is a perfect fever of the mind. i question if any man has been more tormented with it than myself." james boswell, _in a letter to the rev. w. j. temple._ the first chapter i mr. cairnduff's friend, george hinde, met john at euston station. he was a stoutly-built, red-haired man, with an ulster accent that had not been impaired in any degree by twenty years of association with cocknies. "how're you!" he said, going up to john and seizing hold of his hand. "rightly, thank you! how did you know me?" john replied, laughing and astonished. "that's a question and a half to ask!" hinde exclaimed. "wouldn't an ulsterman know another ulsterman the minute he clapped his eyes on him? boys o, but it's grand to listen to a belfast voice again. here you," he said, turning quickly to a porter, "come here, i want you. get this gentleman's luggage, and bring it to that hansom there. do you hear me?" "yessir," the porter replied. "what have you got with you?" he went on, turning to john. "a trunk and a bag," john answered. "they have my name on them. john macdermott!" "mac what, sir?" the porter asked. "macdermott. john macdermott. passenger from ballyards to london, via belfast and liverpool!" "it's no good telling him about ballyards," hinde interrupted. "the people of this place are ignorant: they've never heard of ballyards. go on, now," he said to the porter, "and get the stuff and bring it here!" the porter hurried off to the luggage-van. "ill only just be able to put you in the hansom," said hinde to john, "and start you off home, i've got to go north, tonight to write a special report of a meeting!..." "what sort of a meeting?" john enquired. "political. an address to mugs by a humbug. that's what it ought to be called. i was looking forward to having a good crack with you the night, but sure a newspaper man need never hope to have ten minutes to himself. i've given miss squibb orders to have a good warm supper ready for you. that's a thing the english people never think of having on a sunday night. they're afraid god 'ud send them to hell if they didn't have cold beef for their sunday supper. but there'll be a hot supper for you, anyway. a man that's been travelling all night and all day wants something better nor cold beef in his inside on a cold night!" "it's very kind of you!..." "ah, what's kind about? aren't you an ulsterman? you've a great accent! man, dear, but you've a great accent! if ever you lose it i'll never own you for a friend, and i'll get you the sack from any place you're working in. i'll blacken your character!..." "you're a terrible cod," said john, laughing at him. "damn the cod there's about it! you listen to these cockney fellows talking, and then you'll understand me. it's worse nor the dublin adenoids voice. there's no people in the earthly world talks as fine as the ulster people. here's the man with your luggage!" the porter wheeled a truck, bearing john's trunk and bag, up to them as he spoke. "is that all you have?" "aye," said john. "and enough, too! what anybody wants with more, i never can make out, unless they're demented with the mania of owning things! that's a bit out of walt whitman. ever read any of him?" "no," said john. "it's about time you begun then. put this stuff in the hansom, will you?" he went on to the porter, and while the porter did so, he continued his conversation with john. "miss squibb ... that's the name of the landlady ... comic name, isn't it? ... like a name out of dickens ... and she's a comic-looking woman, too ... hasn't got a spare sitting-room to let you have, but you can share mine 'til she has. my bedroom's on the same floor as the sitting-room, but yours is on the floor above. we're a rum crew in that house. there's a music-hall man and his wife on the ground-floor ... a great character altogether ... cream is their name ... and a mr. and mrs. tarpey ... but you'll see them all for yourself. i'll be back on tuesday night. give this porter sixpence, and the cabman's fare'll be three and sixpence, but you'd better give him four bob. if he tries to charge you more nor that, because you're a stranger, take his number. good-bye, now, and don't forget i'll be back on tuesday night!" he helped john into the hansom, and after giving instructions to the cabman, stood back on the pavement, smiling and waving his hand, while the cab, with a flourish of whip from the driver and a jingle of harness, drove out of the station. "i like that man," said john to himself, as he lay back against the cushions and gave himself up to the joy of riding in a hansom cab. ii the house to which john was carried was in the brixton road, near to the white house public-house. fifty years ago it had been a rich merchant's home and was almost a country house, but now, like many similar houses, it had fallen to a dingy estate: it was, without embroidery of description, a lodging-house. miss squibb, who opened the door to him, had a look of settled depression on her face that was not, as he at first imagined, due to disapproval of him, but, as he speedily discovered, to a deeply-rooted conviction that the rest of humanity was engaged in a conspiracy to defraud her. she eyed the cabman with so much suspicion that he became uneasy in his mind and deposited the trunk and the bag in the hall in silence, nor did he make any comment on the amount of his fare. miss squibb helped john to carry the luggage to his room. her niece, lizzie, who usually performed such work, was spending the week-end with another aunt in north london, so miss squibb said, and she was due to return before midnight, but miss squibb would expect her when she saw her. it would not surprise her to find that lizzie did not return to her home until monday evening. nothing would surprise miss squibb. miss squibb had long since ceased to be surprised at anything. no one had had more cause to feel surprised than miss squibb had had in the course of her life, but now she never felt surprised at anything. she prophesied that a time would come when john would cease to feel surprise at things.... she stood in the centre of his bedroom in a bent attitude, with her hands folded across her flat chest, and regarded him with large, protruding eyes. "you're irish, aren't you?" she said, accusingly. "yes, miss squibb," he said, using her name with difficulty, because it created in him a desire to laugh. "like mr. 'inde?" "inde!" he repeated blankly, and then comprehension came to him. "oh, mr. hinde! yes! oh, yes, yes!" "i thought so," she continued. "you have the syme sort of talk. funny talk, i calls it. wot time du want your breakfis?" "eight o'clock," he said. "i s'pose you'll do syme as mr. 'inde ... leave it to me to get the things for you, an' charge it up?" "oh, yes," john replied. "i'll do just what mr. hinde does!" he looked around the dingy room, and as he did so, he felt depression coming over him; but miss squibb misjudged his appraising glance. "it's a nice room," she said, as if she were confirming his judgment on it. "yes," he said dubiously, glancing at the bed and the table and the ricketty washstand. there were pictures and framed mottoes on the walls. over his bed was a large motto-card, framed in stained deal, bearing the word: eternity; and on the opposite wall, placed so that he should see it immediately he awoke, was a coloured picture of daniel in the lions' den, in which the lions seemed to be more dejected than daniel. "a gentleman wot used to be a lodger 'ere done that," said miss squibb when she saw that he was looking at the picture. "'e couldn't py 'is rent an' 'e offered to pynt the bath-room, but we 'aven't got a bath-room so 'e pynted that instead. it used to be a plyne picture 'til 'e pynted it. 'e sort of livened it up a bit. very nice gentleman 'e was, only 'e did get so 'orribly drunk. of course, 'e was artistic!" the drawing was out of perspective, and john remarked upon the fact, but miss squibb, fixing him with her protruding eyes, said that she could not see that there was anything wrong with the picture. it was true, as she admitted, that if you were to look closely at the lion on the extreme right of the picture, you would find he had two tails, or rather, one tail and the remnant of another which the artist had not completely obliterated. but that was a trifle. "pictures ain't meant to be looked at close," said miss squibb, "an' any'ow you can't expect to 'ave everythink in this world. some people's never satisfied without they're finding fault in things!" john, feeling that her final sentence was a direct rebuke to himself, hurriedly looked away from the picture. "there's a good view from the window," he said to console her for his depreciation of the picture. "that's wot i often says myself," she replied. "people says it's 'igh up 'ere an' a long way to climb, but wot i says is, it's 'ealthy when you get 'ere, _and_ you 'ave a view. i'll leave you now," she concluded. "when you've 'ad a wash, your supper'll be waitin' for you. in mr. 'inde's sitting-room. i expect you'll be glad to 'ave it!" "i shall," he replied. "i'm hungry!" "yes, i expect so," she said, closing the door. he sat down on the bed and again looked about the room, and the dreariness of it filled him with nostalgia. he had not yet unpacked his trunk or his bag, and he felt that he must immediately carry them down the stairs again, that he must call for a cabman and have his luggage and himself carried back to euston station so that he might return to his home. the clean air of ballyards and the bright sunlit bedroom over the shop seemed incomparably lovely when he looked about the dingy brixton bedroom. if this was the beginning of adventure!... he gazed at the picture of daniel in the lions' den, and wished that a lion would eat daniel or that daniel would eat a lion!... then he went to the washstand and washed his face and hands, and when he had done so, he went downstairs and ate his supper. iii in the morning, there was a thump on his bedroom door, and before he had had time to consider what he should do, the door opened and a girl entered, carrying a tray. "eight o'clock," she said, "an' 'ere's your breakfast! aunt said you'd better 'ave it in bed 'smornin', after your journey!" she set the tray down on the table so carelessly that she spilled some of the contents of the coffee-pot. "aunt forgot to ask would you have tea or coffee, so she sent up coffee. mr. 'inde always 'as coffee, so she thought you would, too! an' there's a 'addick. mr. 'inde likes 'addick. it ain't a bad fish!" john looked at her as she arranged the table. her abrupt entry into the room, while he was in bed, startled him. no woman, except his mother, had ever been in his bedroom before, and it horrified him to think that this strange young woman could see him sitting in his nightshirt in bed. he had never in his life seen so untidy a woman as this. her hair had been hastily pinned together in a shapeless lump on the top of her head, and loose ends straggled from it. her dress was _on_ her ... that was certain ... but _how_ it was on her was more than he could understand. she seemed to bristle with safety-pins!... her total lack of shame, in the presence of a man, undressed and in bed, caused him to wonder whether she was one of the bad women against whom mr. mccaughan had so solemnly warned him. if she, were, the warning was hardly necessary!... "i think you got everythink?" she said briskly, glancing over the table to see that nothing was missing. he saw now that, she bore some facial resemblance to miss squibb. she was not, as that lady was, ashen-hued, but her eyes, though less prominently, bulged. this must be lizzie!... "who are you?" he asked, as she turned to leave the room. "eih?" "what's your name? i've not seen you before!" "naow," she exclaimed, "i've been awy! i'm lizzie. 'er niece!" she nodded her head towards the door, and he interpreted this to mean miss squibb. "oh, yes," he said. "she told me about you. were you very late last night?" she laughed. "naow," she replied, "i was very early this mornin'!" she stood with her hand on the knob of the door. "if you want anythink else," she said, "just 'oller down, the stairs for it. an' you needn't 'urry to get up. i know wot travellin's like. i've travelled a bit myself in my time. that 'addick ain't as niffy as it smells!..." she closed the door behind her and he could hear her quick steps all the way down the stairs to the ground floor. "that's a queer sort of woman," he said to himself. as he ate his breakfast, he wondered at lizzie's lack of embarrassment as she stood in his bedroom and saw him lying in bed. she had behaved as coolly as if she had been in a dining-room and he had been completely clothed. what would his mother say if she knew that a girl had entered his bedroom as unconcernedly as if she were entering a tramcar? never in all his life had such a thing happened to him before. he had been very conscious of his bare neck, for the collar of his night-shirt had come unfastened. he had tried to fasten it again, but in his desire to do so without drawing lizzie's attention to his state, he had merely fumbled with it, and had, finally, to abandon the attempt. what astonished him was that lizzie appeared to be totally unaware of anything unusual in the fact that she was in the bedroom of a strange man. she did not look like a bad woman ... and surely mr. hinde would not live in a house where bad women lived!... perhaps englishwomen were not so particular about things as irishwomen!... anyhow the haddock was good and the coffee tasted nice enough, although he would much rather have had tea. he finished his meal, and then dressed himself and went downstairs to the sitting-room which he was to share with hinde. it was less dreary than the bedroom from which he had just emerged, but what brightness it had was not due to any furnishing provided by miss squibb, but to a great case full of books which occupied one side of the room. "he's as great a man for books as my uncle matthew," john thought, examining a volume here and a volume there. he opened a book of poems by walt whitman. "that's the man he was telling me about last night," he said to himself, as he turned the pages. he read a passage aloud: _come, muse, migrate--from greece and ionia, cross out, please, those immensely overpaid accounts, that matter of troy and achilles' wrath, and aeneas', odysseus' wanderings, placard "removed" and "to let" on the rocks of your snowy parnassus, repeat at jerusalem, place the notice high on jaffa's gate and on mount moriah, the same on the walls of your german, french and spanish castles, and italian collections, for know a better, fresher, busier sphere, a wide, untried domain awaits, demands you_. "that's strange poetry," he murmured, turning over more of the pages. "queer stuff! i never read poetry like that before!" he began to read "the song of the broad axe," at first to himself, and then aloud: _what do you think endures? do you think a great city endures? or a teeming manufacturing state? or a prepared constitution? or the best built steamships? or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs d'oeuvre of engineering, forts, armaments? away! these are not to be cherished for themselves, they fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them, the show passes, all does well, of course, all does very well till one flash of defiance. a great city is that which has the greatest men and women, if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the world. how beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed! how the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a man's or woman's look!_ he re-read aloud the last four lines, and then closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. "that man must have been terribly angry," he said to himself. lizzie came into the room. "i 'eard you," she said, "syin' poetry to yourself. you're as bad as mr. 'inde, you are. 'e's an' awful one for syin' poetry. why down't you go out for a walk? you 'aven't seen nothink of london yet, an' 'ere you are wystin' the mornin' syin' poetry. if i was you, now, i'd go and see the tahr of london where they used to be'ead people. an' the monument, too! you can go up that for thruppence. an' the view you get! miles an' miles an' miles! well, you can see the crystal palace anywy! i do like a view! or if you down't like the tahr of london, you could go to the zoo. ow, the monkeys! ow, dear! they're so yooman, i felt quite uncomfortable. any'ow, i should go out if i was you, an' 'ave a look at london. wot's the good of comin' to london if you don't 'ave a look at it!" "i think i will," said john. "i should," lizzie added emphatically. "i don't suppose we'll see you until dinner time. seven o'clock, we 'ave it!" "i always had my dinner in the middle of the day at home," john replied. "ow, yes, in ireland," said lizzie tolerantly. "but this is london. london's different from ireland, you know. you'll find things very diff'rent 'ere from wot they are in ireland. i've 'eard a lot about ireland. mr. 'inde ... 'e does go on about it. anybody would think to 'ear 'im there wasn't any other plyce in the world!..." she changed the subject abruptly, speaking in a more hurried tone. "i ought reely to be dustin' this room ... only of course you're in it!" john apologised to her. "i'm interfering with your work," he murmured in confusion. "ow, no you ain't. it don't matter if it's dusted or not ... reely. only aunt goes on about it. mr. 'inde wouldn't notice if it was never dusted. i think he likes dust reely. i suppose you're goin' to do some work now you're 'ere, or are you a writer, too, like mr. 'inde?" "i want to be a writer," john shyly answered. "well, there's no 'arm in it," lizzie said, "but it ain't reg'lar. i believe in reg'lar work myself. of course, there's no 'arm in bein' a writer, but you'd be much better with a tryde or a nice business, i should think. reely!" "oh, yes," john murmured. "well, i think i'll go out now!" "are you goin' to the tahr, then?" "no," he answered. "no, i hadn't thought of that. i want to see fleet street!..." "fleet street!" lizzie exclaimed. "wotever is there to see there." "oh, i don't know. i want to see it. that's all!" "you 'ave got funny tyste. i should, 'ave thought you'd go to see the tahr reely!..." she broke off as she observed him moving to the door. "mind, be back at seven sharp. i 'ate the dinner kep' 'angin' about. i don't get no time to myself if people aren't punctual. mr. 'inde's awful, 'e is. 'e don't care about no one else, 'e don't. comes in any time, 'e does, an' expects a 'ot dinner just the syme. never thinks nobody else never wants to go nowhere!..." "i'll be back in time," said john, hurrying from the room. "well, mind you are," she called after him. iv in the street, he remembered that he had forgotten to ask lizzie to tell him how to find fleet street, but her capacity for conversation prevented him from returning to the house to ask her. the number of trams and 'buses of different colours bewildered him, as he stood opposite to the white horse, and watched them go by: and the accents of the conductors, when they called out their destinations, were unintelligible to him. he heard a man shouting "beng, beng, beng, beng, beng, bengk!" in a voice that sounded like a quick-firing gun, but the noise had no meaning for him. he saw names of places that were familiar to him through his reading or his talk with uncle matthew, painted on the side of the trams and buses, but he could not see the name of fleet street among them. he turned to a policeman and asked for advice, and the policeman put him in the care of a 'bus-conductor. "you 'op on top, an' i'll tell you where to git off," the 'bus conductor said, and john did as he was bid. he took a seat in the front of the 'bus, just behind the driver, for he had often heard stories of the witty sayings of london 'busmen and he was anxious to hear a 'bus-driver's wit being uttered. "that's a nice day," he said, when the 'bus had gone some distance. the driver, red-faced, obese and sleepy-eyed, slowly turned and regarded john, and having done so, nodded his head, and turned away again. "nice pair of horses you have," john continued affably. "yes," the driver grunted, without looking around. john felt dashed by the morose manner of the driver and he remained silent for a few moments, but he leant forward again and said, "i expect you see a good deal of life on this 'bus?" "eih?" said the driver, glancing sharply at him. "wot you sy?" "i suppose you've seen a good many queer things from that seat?" john answered. "'ow you mean ... queer things?" "well, strange things!..." the driver turned away and whipped up the horses. "i've never seen anythink strynge in my life," he said. "kimmup there! kimmup!..." "but i thought that 'bus-drivers always saw romantic things!" "i dunno wot you're talkin' abaht. look 'ere, young feller, are you a reporter, or wot are you?" "a reporter!" "yus. one of these 'ere noospyper chaps?" "no." "well, anybody'd think you was, you ast so many questions!" john's face coloured. "i beg your pardon," he said in confusion. "i didn't mean to be inquisitive!" "that's awright. no need to 'pologise. i can see you down't mean no 'arm!" his manner relaxed a little, as if he would atone to john for his former surliness. "that's the 'orns," he said, pointing to a large public-house. "well-known 'ouse, that is. best known 'ouse in sahth london, that is. bert ... that's the conductor ... 'e says the white 'orse at brixton is better-known, an' i know a chep wot says the elephant an' castle is!..." "it's mentioned in shakespeare," john eagerly interrupted. "wot is?" "the elephant and castle. in _twelfth night_. my uncle, who knew shakespeare by heart, told me about it. it was a public-house in those days, too. but i never heard of the horns!" the 'bus-driver was impressed by this statement, but he would not lightly yield in the argument. "of course," he said, "the elephant my 'ave been well-known in them dys, and i don't sy it ain't well-known in these dys, but i do sy thet it ain't so well-known now as wot the 'orns is. there ain't a music-'all chep in london wot down't know the 'orns. not one!" "shakespeare didn't know it," john exclaimed. "well, 'e didn't know everythink did 'e?" the driver retorted. "p'raps the 'orns wasn't built then. i dessay not. 'e'd 'ave mentioned it if 'e'd 'ave known abaht it. all these actor cheps know it, so of course 'e'd 'a' known abaht it, too. we'll be at the elephant presently. i always sy to bert we 'ave the most interestin' pubs in london on this route, white 'orse, the 'orns, the elephant an' the ayngel. ever 'eard of the ayngel at islington?" "yes," said john, "that's where paine wrote _the rights of man_." "did 'e?" the driver answered. "well, i dessay 'e did. it's a celebrated 'ouse, it is. celebrated in 'istory. there's a song abaht it. you know it, down't you!... up and dahn the city rowd, in at the ayngel... thet's the wy the money gows, pop gows the weasel. ever 'eard thet?" "oh, yes," john replied, smiling. "i used to sing that song at home!" "did you nah. an' w'ere is your 'ome?" "in ireland!" "ow! thet acahnts for it. i couldn't myke aht 'ow it was you never 'eard of the 'orns. fency you hearin' abaht the elephant in ireland!" "well, you see, shakespeare mentions it!..." "i down't tyke much interest in 'im. 'ere's the elephant! thet's spurgeon's tabernacle over there!..." the driver became absorbed in the business of pulling up at the stopping-place and alluring fresh passengers on to the 'bus in place of those who were now leaving it, and john had time to look about him. the public-house was big and garish and even at this hour of the morning the hot odour of spirits floated out of it when a door was swung open. "i don't suppose it was like that in shakespeare's day," he said to himself, as he turned away and gazed at the flow of people and traffic that passed without ceasing through the circus where the six great roads of south london meet and cross. it seemed to him that an accident must happen, that these streams of carts and trams and 'buses and hurrying people must become so involved that disaster must follow. he became reassured when he observed how imperturbed everyone was. there were moments when the whole traffic seemed to become chaotic and the roads were choked, and then as suddenly as the congestion was created, it was relieved. he felt enthralled by this wonder of traffic, of great crowds moving with ease through a criss-cross of confusing streets. "it's wonderful," he said, leaning forward and speaking almost in a whisper to the driver. "wot is?" "all that traffic!" "ow, thet's nothink. we think nothink of thet owver 'ere," the driver replied. "we down't tyke no notice of a little lot like thet!" the conductor rang his bell, and the driver whipped up his horses, and the 'bus proceeded on its way. john remembered that he had not heard any witticisms from the driver. uncle matthew had told him that one could always depend upon a 'busman to provide comic entertainment, but this man, although, after a while, he had become talkative enough, had not said one funny thing. he had not chaffed a policeman or a footpassenger or another 'busman, and now that they had passed away from the elephant and castle, his conversation seemed to have dried up. the 'bus tooled through the newington butts, along the borough high street (past the very inn where mr. pickwick first met sam weller, although john was then unaware that he was passing it) and under the railway bridge at st. saviour's cathedral church of southwark. "what's that place?" john said to the driver, pointing to the cathedral. "eih? ow, thet! thet's a cathedral!" "a cathedral! hidden away like that!..." a hideous railway bridge cramped st. saviour's on one side, and hideous warehouses and offices cramped it on the other. there was a mess of vegetable debris lying about the cathedral pavement, the refuse from the borough market. "what cathedral is it?" john demanded. "southwark!" the driver replied, pronouncing it "suth-ark." "suthark!" john said vaguely. "do you mean southwark?..." he pronounced the name as it is spelt. "we call it suthark!" said the driver. "yes, thet's it, southwark cathedral!..." "but that's where shakespeare used to go to church!" john exclaimed. "ow!" the driver replied. "and look at it!..." "wot's wrong with it?" the 'bus was now rolling over london bridge, and the cathedral could not be seen. "they've hidden it. that awful bridge!..." "i down't see nothink wrong with it," the driver interrupted. "nothing wrong with it! you'd think they were ashamed of it, they've hidden it so!" "i down't see nothink wrong with it. wot you gettin' so excited abaht?" "_shakespeare said his prayers there!_" john ejaculated. "well, wot if 'e did?" the driver replied. "we down't think nothink of cathedrals owver 'ere! we've got 'undreds of 'em!" john sat back in his seat and stared at the driver. he was incapable of speaking, and the driver, busy with his horses, said no more. the 'bus crossed the river, drove along king william street into prince's street, and stopped. the conductor climbed to the roof and called to john. "you chynge 'ere," he said, beckoning him. "good-morning," john said to the driver as he rose from his seat. "goo'-mornin'!" said the driver. he paused while john got out of the seat into the gangway. "you know," he went on, "you wown't git so excited abaht things after you bin 'ere a bit. you'll tyke things more calm. like me. i down't go an' lose my 'ead abaht shykespeare!..." "good-morning," said john. "ow, goo'-mornin'!" said the driver. the conductor was standing on the pavement when john descended. "you'll get a 'bus owver there at the mansion 'ouse," he said, "thet'll tyke you right into fleet street. or you can walk it easy from 'ere. 'long cheapside, just rahnd the corner!..." "cheapside!" john said with interest. uncle matthew had told him that herrick, the poet, was born in cheapside, and that richard whittington, resting in highgate woods, had heard bow bells pealing from a cheapside steeple, bidding him return to be lord mayor of london and marry the mercer's daughter. "yus, cheapside!" the conductor dully repeated. "go 'long cheapside, turn to the left pas' st. paul's, and you'll be in ludgate 'ill. after thet, follow your nowse! see?" "thank you!" said john. the throng of traffic seemed to be greater here than it had been at elephant and castle, and john, confused by it, stood looking about him. "thet's the benk of england, thet!" the conductor hurriedly continued, pointing across the street to the low, squat, dirty-looking building which occupied the whole of one side of the street. "an' thet's the royal exchynge owver there, an' this 'ere is the mansion 'ouse where the lord mayor lives. i can't stop to tell you no more. ayngel, ayngel, ayngel! any more for the ayngel?..." several persons climbed on to the 'bus, and then, after attempting to persuade people, anxious to go to charing cross, to go to the angel at islington instead, the conductor rang his bell. he waved his hand in farewell to john, who smiled at him. the 'bus lumbered off, john watched it roll out of sight and, when it had gone, turned to find cheapside. there was an immense pressure of people in the streets, and for a few moments he imagined that he had wandered into the middle of a procession. "is there anything up?" he said to a lounger. "up?" the man repeated in a puzzled tone. "yes. all these people!..." "oh, no," the man said, "it's always like this!" _always like this!_... he had never seen so many people or so much traffic before. the crowd of workmen pouring out of the shipyards in belfast was more impressive than this london crowd, but not so perturbing, for that was a definite crowd, having a beginning and an end and a meaning: it was composed entirely of men engaged in a common enterprise; but this crowd had no beginning and no end and no meaning: there was no common enterprise. it was an amorphous herd, and almost it frightened him. if that herd were to become excited ... to lose its head!... hardly had the thought come into his mind when an accident happened. a four-wheeler cab, trundling across mansion house place towards liverpool street, overbalanced and fell on its side. the driver was thrown into the road, and john, imagining that he must be killed by a passing vehicle, shut his eyes so that he might not see the horrible thing happen.... when he opened his eyes again, the driver was on his feet and, assisted by policemen and some passers-by, was freeing his horse from its harness, while two other policemen dragged an old lady through the window of the cab and placed her on the pavement. "really, driver!" she said, "you ought to be mere careful. i shall lose my train!" "you'd think i'd done it a-purpose to 'ear 'er," the driver mumbled. and the traffic swept by on either side of the overturned cab, and there was no confusion, no excitement, no disaster. the careless, traffic of the streets which seemed so likely to end in disorder never ended otherwise than satisfactorily. there was control over it, but the control was not obtrusive. he felt reassured in a measure, but a sense of loneliness filled him. he stood with his back, against the wall of a large building and regarded the scene. wherever he looked there were masses of people and vehicles and tall buildings. crowds and crowds of people with no common, interest save that of speedily reaching a destination. he might stand there for hours, with his back to this wall, and not see the end of that crowd. in belfast, at twelve o'clock on saturday morning, the workmen would hurry over the bridge to their homes: a thick, black, unyielding mass of men; but at thirty minutes after twelve, that thick, black, seemingly solid mass would be dissolved into the ordinary groupings of a provincial city and there would be no sign of it. this london crowd would never dissolve. the man had told him that "it's always like this"!... there were nearly seven millions of men and women and children in london, but he did not know one of them. he had seen george hinde for a few moments, and he had spoken to miss squibb, and to lizzie ... but he did not know anyone. he was alone in this seven-million-fold herd, without a relative or an intimate friend. he might stand at this corner for days, for weeks, on end, viewing the passersby until his eyes were sore with the sight of them, and never see one person whom he knew even slightly. in ballyards, he could not walk a dozen yards without encountering an acquaintance. in belfast, he was certain to see someone whom he knew in the course of a day. but in this place!... he became horrified at the thought that if he were suddenly to drop dead at that moment, none of the persons who would gather round his body could say who he was. he would be carried off to a morgue and laid on a marble slab in the hope that someone would turn up and identify him ... and he might never be identified; he might be buried as "a person unknown." he determined to keep a note of his name and address in his breast-pocket, together with a note of his mother's name and address. "i'm not going to run the risk of them burying me without knowing who i am." he murmured to himself. someone jostled him roughly, and mumbling "sorry!" hurried on. in ireland, john thought to himself, had a man jostled a stranger so rudely, he would have stopped and apologised to him and would have asked for assurance that he had not hurt him. "i beg your pardon, sir," he would have said. "i'm very sorry. i hope i haven't hurt you!" but this stranger who had roughly shoved against him, had not paused in his rude progress. he had shouted "sorry!" at him, but he had barely turned his head to do it. "of course, i ought not to be standing here, blocking the way!" john admitted to himself. "i wonder is london always like this, rough and in a hurry!" he crossed the street, not without alarm, and stood by the entrance to the central london railway. there were some flower-sellers sitting by the railings, but they had no resemblance to the flower-girls of whom uncle matthew had often told him. he glanced at them with distaste. "it's queer," he thought, "how disappointed i am with everything!" and then, as if he would account for his disappointment, he added, "i'm bitter. that's what's wrong with me! i'm bitter about maggie carmichael!" he turned to a man who was leaning against the iron railings. "what's down there?" he asked, pointing to the stairs leading to the central london railway. "the toob," said the man. "the what?" "the toob. the tuppeny toob. undergrahnd rylewy!" "oh, is that what you call the tuppeny tube?" john exclaimed, as comprehension came to him. he had read of the underground railway built in the shape of two long tubes stretching from the centre of the city to shepherd's bush, but he had imagined a much more dramatic entrance to it than this dull flight of steps. "but you _walk_ into it," he exclaimed to his informant. "there's lifts down below," the man replied unemotionally. "i thought it would be different," john continued. "different? 'ow ... different?" "well ... different!" the man spat. "i down't see wot more you could expect," he said. "it's there, ain't it? wot more du want?" "oh, it's there, of course ... only!..." the man interrupted him. "wot's a toob for?" he said. he answered his own question. "to travel by. well, you can travel by it. wot more du want?" "but i thought it would be exciting!..." "an' 'oo the 'ell wants excitement in a toob!" the man answered. john considered the matter for a moment or two. "i expect you're right," he said, and then, more briskly, added, "yes, of course. of course, you're right. travelling in a train would not be pleasant if it were exciting." "it would not," the man answered. "but it sounded such an extraordinary thing, a tube, when i read about it that i expected to see something different," john continued. "well, it is an extraordinary thing," the man said. "you walk down them steps there, an' get into a lift, an' wot'll 'appen to you? you'll be dropped 'undreds of feet into the earth, an' when you get ta the bottom, you'll find trains runnin' by electricity. i call that extraordinary, if you down't ... only i down't want to myke a song abaht it!" john felt that he had been rebuked for an excess of enthusiasm. the englishman was right about the tube. it was a wonderful thing, more wonderful, perhaps, because of the quietness of its approach: it would not be any more wonderful if people were to go about the town uttering shouts of astonishment over it, nor was it any less wonderful because the english people treated it as if it were an ordinary affair. he looked across the road at the bank of england, devoid equally of dignity and sensation, and then turned and looked at the royal exchange. a pigeon flew up from the ground and perched among the figures carved over the portico, and as he watched it, he read the inscription beneath the figure of justice: _the earth is the lord's and the fullness thereof_. "dear me!" he said, turning away again. he began to feel hungry, and he moved away to search for a place in which to find a meal. "good-morning," he said to the man who had instructed him concerning the tube. "oh. goo'-mornin'!" v he walked along queen victoria street and, without considering what he was doing, turned into a narrow street that ran off it at an angle of seventy-five degrees. it was a perilous street to traverse for every building in it seemed to have a crane near its roof, and every crane seemed to have a heavy bale dangling from it in mid-air; and from the narrow pavement cellar flaps were raised so that an unwary person might suddenly find himself descending into deep, dark holes in the ground. the roadway was occupied by lorries, and john had to turn and cross, and cross and turn many times before he could extricate himself from the labyrinth into which he had so carelessly intruded. while he was crossing the street at one point, and passing between two lorries, he found himself in front of a coffee-house, and again aware of his hunger, he entered it. he passed to the back of the l-shaped shop, and sat down at a small marble-topped table and waited for a waitress to come and take his order. there was a girl sitting on the other side of the table, but he did not observe her particularly, for her head was bent over a letter which she was reading. he looked about him. the room was full of men and young women, all eating or waiting to eat, and from a corner of the room came a babble of conversation carried on by a group of young clerks, and while john looked at them, a waitress came to him, and said, "yes, sir?" he looked up at her hurriedly. "oh, i want something to eat!" he said. she waited for him to proceed. "what have you?" he asked. she handed a bill of fare to him, and he glanced through it, feeling incapable of choice. "the sausages are very nice," the waitress suggested. "i'll have sausages," he replied, thankful for the suggestion. "two?" he nodded his head. "tea or coffee?" "tea, please. and a roll and butter!" the waitress left him, and he sat back in his chair, and now he regarded the bent head of the girl sitting opposite to him, and as he did so, she looked up and their eyes met. she looked away. "what lovely eyes she has," john said to himself. she stood up as he thought this, and prepared to leave the restaurant, and he saw again that her eyes were very beautiful: blue eyes that had a dark look in them; and he said to himself that a woman who had beautiful eyes had everything. he wished that he had come earlier to the restaurant or that she had come later, so that they might have sat opposite to each other for a longer time. he listened while she asked the waitress for her bill. the softness of her voice was like gentle music. he thought of the tiny noise of a small stream, of the song of a bird heard at a distance, of leaves slightly stirring in a quiet wind, and told himself that the sound of her voice had the quality of all these. he wondered what it was that brought her to the city of london. perhaps she was employed in an office. perhaps she had come up to do some shopping.... she moved away, and as she did so, he saw that she had left her letter lying on the table. he leant over and picked it up, reading the name written on the envelope: _miss eleanor moore_. he got up and hurried after her. the restaurant was a narrow cramped one, and it was not easy for him to make his way through the people who were entering or leaving it, and he feared that he would not be able to catch up with her before she had reached the street. customers in that restaurant, however, had to stop at the counter to pay their bills, and so he reached her in time. "excuse me," he said. "i think you left this letter behind you." she looked up in a startled manner, and then, seeing the letter which he held out to her, smiled and said, "oh, thank you! thank you very much. i left it on the table!" she took it from him, and put it in a pocket of her coat. "thank you very much," she said again, and turned to take her change from the man behind the counter. john stood for a moment, looking at her, and then, remembering his manners, went back to his seat and began to eat his meal of tea and bread and butter and sausages. "eleanor moore!" he murmured to himself as he cut off a large piece of sausage and put it into his mouth. "that's a very nice name!" he munched the sausage. "a very nice name," he thought again. "much nicer than maggie carmichael." vi he left the restaurant and, having enquired the way, proceeded along cheapside towards fleet street. there was nothing of interest to him in cheapside, and so, in spite of its memories of richard whittington and robert herrick, he hurried out of it. he turned into st. paul's churchyard, eager to see the cathedral, but as he did so, his heart fell. the eastern end of the cathedral does not impress the beholder. john ought to have seen st. paul's first from ludgate hill, but, coming on it from cheapside, he could not get a proper view of it. he had expected to turn a corner and see before him, immense and wonderful, the great church, rich in tradition and dignity, rearing itself high above the houses like a strong man rising up from the midst of pigmies ... and he had turned a corner and seen only a grimy, blackened thing, huddled into a corner ... jostled almost ... by greedy shopkeepers and warehousemen. a narrow passage, congested by carts, separated the eastern end of the cathedral from ugly buildings; a narrower passage separated the railings of the churchyard from shops where men sold baby linen and women's blouses and kitchen ranges and buns and milk.... his uncle matthew had told him that the dome of st. paul's could be seen from every part of london. "if ever you lose yourself in london," he had said, "search the sky 'til you see the dome of st. paul's and then work your way towards it!" and here, in the very churchyard of the cathedral, the dome was not visible because the shop-keepers had not left enough of room for a man to stand back and view it properly. john wondered whether the whole of london would disappoint him so much as st. paul's had done. the english seemed to have very little regard for their cathedrals, for they put them into cramped areas and allowed merchants to encircle them with ugly shops and offices. in southwark, he had seen the church where shakespeare prayed, hidden behind a hideous railway bridge, with its pavement fouled by rotting cabbage leaves and the stinking debris of a vegetable market. and here, now, was st. paul's surrounded by dingy, desolating houses, as if an effort were being made to conceal the church from view. he hurried through the churchyard until he reached the western end of the cathedral, where some of his disappointment dropped out of his mind. the great front of the church, with its wide, deep steps and its great, strong pillars, black and grey from the smoke and fog of london, filled him with a sense of imperturbable dignity. men might build their dingy, little shops and their graceless, scrambling warehouses, and try to crowd the cathedral into a corner, but the great church would still retain its dignity and strength however much they might succeed in obscuring it. he walked across the pavement, scattering the pigeons as he did so, undecided whether to enter the cathedral or not, until he reached the flagstone on which is chiselled the statement that "here queen victoria returned thanks to almighty god for the sixtieth anniversary of her accession. june 22, 1897." as he contemplated the flagstone, he forgot about the cathedral, and remembered only his uncle matthew. on this spot, a little, old woman had said her thankful prayers, the little, old woman for whom his uncle, who had never seen her, had cracked a haberdasher's window and suffered disgrace; and she and he were dead, and the little, old lady was of no more account than the simple-minded man who had nearly been sent to gaol because of his devotion to her memory. many times in his life, had john heard people speak of "the queen" almost in an awe-stricken fashion, until, now and then, she seemed to him to be a legendary woman, a great creature in a heroic story, someone of whom he might dream, but of whom he might never hope to catch a glimpse. it startled him to think that she had human qualities, that she ate and drank and slept and suffered pain and laughed and cried like other people. she was "the queen": she owned the british empire and all that it contained. she owned white men and black men and yellow men and red men; she owned islands and continents and deserts and seas; a great tract of the world belonged to her ... and here he was standing on the very spot where she had sat in her carriage, offering thanks in old quavering accents to the almighty god for allowing her to reign for sixty years. the fact that he was able to stand on that very spot seemed comical to him. there ought to have been a burning bush on the place where "the queen" had said her prayers. uncle matthew would have expected something of that sort ... but there was nothing more dramatic than this plainly-chiselled inscription. and the little, old woman was as dusty in her grave as uncle matthew was in his.... vii he passed down ludgate hill, across ludgate circus, into fleet street, turning for a few moments to look back at the cathedral. again, he had a sense of anger against the english people who could allow a railway company to fling an ugly bridge across the foot of ludgate hill and destroy the view of st. paul's from the circus; but he had had too many shocks that morning to feel a deep anger then, and so, turning his back on the cathedral, he walked up fleet street. he stared about him with interest, gazing up at the names of the newspapers that were exhibited in large letters on the fronts of the houses. the street seemed to be shouting at him, yelling out names as if it were afraid to be silent. it was a disorderly street. it seemed to straggle up the hill to the strand, as if it had not had time to put its clothes on properly. all along its length, he could see, at intervals, scaffold-poles and builders' hoardings. houses and offices were being altered or repaired or rebuilt. he felt that the street had been constructed for a great game of hide-and-seek, for the flow of the buildings was irregular: here, a house stood forward; there, a house stood back. in one of these bays, a player might hide from a seeker!... somewhere in this street, john remembered, dr. johnson had lived, and he tried to imagine the scene that took place on the night of misery when oliver goldsmith went to the doctor and wept over the failure of _the good natured man_, and was called a ninny for his pains. but he could not make the scene come alive because of the noise and confusion in the street. the air of immediacy which enveloped him made quiet imagination impossible. his head began to ache with the sounds that filled his ears, and he wished that he could escape from the shouting herd into some little soundless place where his mind could become easy again and free from pain. he stared around him, glancing at the big-lettered signs over the newspaper offices, at the omnibuses, at the crowds of men and women, and once his heart leaped into his throat as he saw a boy on a bicycle, carrying a bag stuffed with newspapers on his back, ride rapidly out of a side street into the middle of the congested traffic as if there were nothing substantial to hinder his progress ... and as he stared about him, it seemed to him that fleet street was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.... "i must get out of this," he said to himself, turning aimlessly out of the street. he found himself presently in a narrow lane, and, looking up at the sign, saw that it was called "hanging sword alley." he looked at the bye-way, a mere gutter of a street, and wondered what sort of a man had given it that romantic name; and while he wondered, it seemed to him that his mind had suddenly become illuminated. his uncle matthew had had romantic imaginings all his life about everything except the things that were under his nose. he had never seen queen victoria, but he had suffered for her sake. he had never seen london, but he had declared it to be a city of romance and colour and vivid happenings. perhaps uncle matthew was like the man who had named this dull, grimy, narrow passage, "hanging sword alley"! perhaps queen victoria was not quite ... not quite all that uncle matthew had imagined her to be. the thought staggered him, and he felt as if he had filled his mind with treason and sedition!... he could not say what queen victoria was, but with his own eyes he had seen london, and london had as little of romance in it as hanging sword alley had. there were noise and scuffle and dingy distraction and mobs of little white-faced, nervous men and women, and a drab content with blotched beauty ... but none of these things had romance in them. he had been told that london flower-girls were pretty ... and he had seen only coarse and unclean women, with towsled hair. he had been told that london 'busdrivers were cheerful, witty men ... but the driver to whom he had spoken had been surly at the beginning and witless to the end. if uncle matthew had come into this dirty bye-way, he would have seen only the name of hanging sword alley, but john had seen more than the name: he had seen the inadequacy of the bye-way to the name it bore. "perhaps," he said to himself, "i can't see the romance in things. mebbe, uncle matthew could see more than i can!..." his head ached more severely now, and he wandered into tudor street. a great rurr-rurr came from the cellars of the houses, and glancing into them, he could see big machines working, and he guessed that these were the engines that printed the newspapers. the thump of the presses, as they turned great rolls of white paper into printed sheets, seemed to beat inside his head, causing him pain with every stroke. he pressed his fingers, against his temples in an effort to relieve the ache, but it would not be relieved. "oh!" he exclaimed aloud after one very sharp twinge, and then, as he spoke, he found himself before a gate and, heedless of what he was doing, he passed through it ... and found himself in an oasis in a desert of noise. the harsh sounds died down, the _rurr-rurr-rurr_ of the machines ceased to trouble him, the scuffle and haste no longer offended his sense of decency. he was in a place of cool cloisters and wide green lawns. he could see young men in white flannels playing tennis ... in ballyards it was called "bat and ball" ... and beyond the tennis-courts, he saw the shining river. "what place is this?" he said to a man who went by. "temple gardens!" the man replied. he walked about the gardens, delighting in the quiet and the coolness. pigeons flew down from the roof of a house and began to pick bread-crumbs almost at his feet. there was a sweet noise of birds.... he looked at the names of the barristers painted on the doorways of the houses, and wondered which of them were judges. he wished he could see a judge in his crimson robes and his long, curly wig, coming out of the chambers, and while he wished for this splendid spectacle, he saw a barrister in his black gown and horse-hair wig, come down a narrow passage from the strand and enter the doorway of one of the houses. he walked on into pump court and watched the sparrows washing themselves in the fountain where tom pinch met ruth ... and while he watched them, his sense of loneliness returned to him. his head still ached and now his heart ached, too. disappointment had come to him all day. he was alone in a city full of people who knew nothing of him and cared nothing for him. and his heart was aching. the peace of pump court only served to make him more aware of the ache in his head. as he dipped his hand in the water of the fountain, he wished that he could go round a corner and meet uncle william or mr. cairnduff or the minister or even aggie logan ... meet someone whom he knew!... "i'd give the world for a cup of tea," he said to himself suddenly, and then, "i wonder could i find that place where i saw the girl. mebbe she'd be there again!..." he looked about him in an indeterminate way. then he moved from the fountain in the direction of the strand. "i can try anyway!" he said. viii the girl was sitting at a large table in a corner of the restaurant, and he saw with joy that there was a vacant seat immediately opposite to her. he looked at her as he sat down, but she gave no sign of recognition. he had hoped that their encounter earlier in the day would have entitled him to a smile from her, but her features remained unrelaxed, although he knew that she was aware of him and remembered him. her eyes and his had met, and he had been ready to answer her smile with another smile, but she averted her eyes from his stare and looked down at her plate. what eyes she had ... grey at one moment and blue at another as her face turned in the light! when she looked downwards, he could see long lashes fringing her eyelids, and when she looked up, the changing colour of her irises and the blue tinge that suffused the cornea, caused him to think of her eyes as pools of light. her face was pale, and in repose it had an appearance of puzzled pathos that made him feel that he must instantly offer comfort to her, and he would have done so had not her nervous reticence prevented him. what would she do if he were to speak to her? there was an illustrated paper lying close to her plate. he leant across the table and, pointing to the paper, said, "are you using that?" she started, and then, without a smile, said, "no," and passed the paper to him. "thank you!" he murmured, taking it from her. it was an old paper, and he did not wish to read it, but he had to pretend to be interested in it, for the girl showed no desire to offer any more than the casual civilities of one stranger to another. he hoped that he might suddenly look up and find that she was regarding him intently ... she would hurriedly glance away from him with an air of pretty confusion ... but although he looked up at her many times, he never caught her gazing at him. he wished that she would take her hat, a wide-brimmed one, off so that he might see her hair. how ridiculous it was of women to sit at meals with hats on!... he could just see a wave of dark brown hair under the brim of her hat, flowing across her broad brow. her eyebrows were dark and level and very firm, and he thought how wonderfully the darkness of her eyebrows and her eyelids and the pallor of her skin served to enrich the beauty of her eyes. maggie carmichael's eyes had had laughter in them ... they seemed always to be sparkling with merriment ... but this girl's eyes had tears in them. she might often smile, john told himself, but she would seldom laugh. her air of listening for an alarm and the nervous movement of her fingers made him imagine that a magician had changed some swift and beautiful and timid animal into a woman. the magicians in the _arabian nights_ frequently turned men and women into hounds and antelopes, but the process had been reversed with this girl: an antelope had been turned into a woman.... if only she would give him an opportunity of speaking to her, of making friends with her! he suddenly held out the paper to her. "thank you!" he said. "it isn't mine," she answered indifferently. he became confused and clumsy, and he put the paper down on the table so that it upset a spoon on to the floor with a noise that seemed loud enough to wake the dead; and as he stooped to pick it up, he pushed the paper against her plate, causing it almost to fall into her lap. "i beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "it's all right," she replied coldly. he could feel the blood running hotly through his body, and the warm flush of it spreading over his cheeks. "that was a cut," he said to himself, and wondered what he should do or say next. what a fool he must appear to her! ... it would be ridiculous to ask her to tell him the time, for there was a large and palpable clock over her head so fixed that he could not fail to see it. it was very odd, he thought, that she should not wish to speak to him when he so ardently wished to speak to her. she had finished her meal and he knew that in a moment or two she would rise and go out of the restaurant. he leant across the table. "miss moore," he said, "i wish you would be friends with me!" she looked at him as if she were not certain that he had spoken to her, and as she saw how earnestly he gazed at her, the expression of her face changed from one of astonishment to one of alarm. "won't you?" he said. she gave a little gasp and rose hurriedly from her seat. "miss moore!" he said appealingly. "i don't know you," she replied, hurrying away. he sat still. it seemed to him that every person in the restaurant must be looking at him and condemning him for his behaviour. he had spoken to a girl who did not know him, and he had frightened her. the look of alarm in her face was unmistakable. what must she think of him? would she ever believe that he had no wish to frighten her, that he wished only to be her friend, to talk to her? if he had told her that he did not know anyone in london and was feeling miserably lonely, perhaps she would have been kind to him ... but what opportunity had he had to tell her anything. well, that was the end of that! he was not likely to see eleanor moore again, and even if he were, he could hardly hope, after such a rebuff, to win her friendship unless a miracle were to happen ... and he had begun to feel dubious about miracles since he had arrived in london. perhaps, if he were to follow her and explain matters to her!... he hurried out of the restaurant, and stood for a moment or two on the pavement glancing up and down the street. she was turning out of the lane into queen victoria street, and as he stood looking at her, she turned round the corner and he lost sight of her. "i'll go after her," he said. ix he ran into queen victoria street and glanced eagerly about him. it was difficult in the press of people to distinguish a single person, but fortunately the street was fairly clear of traffic, and he saw her crossing the road near the mansion house. he hastened after her and saw her enter a block of offices in cornhill. he reached the door of this building in time to see her being carried out of sight in the lift. he entered the hall and stood by the gate until the lift had descended. "can you tell me which of these offices that lady works in?" he said to the liftman. "the lady you've just taken up, miss moore?" the liftman looked at him suspiciously. "wot you want to know for?" he demanded. "oh, i ... i'm a friend of hers," john answered lamely. "well, if you're a friend of 'ers, i daresay she'll tell you 'erself next time she sees you," said the liftman. "any-'ow, i sha'n't. see?" "but i particularly want to know," john persisted. "look here, i'll give you half-a-crown if you'll tell me!..." "an' i'll give you a thick ear if you don't 'op it out of this quick," the liftman retorted angrily. "i know you. nosey parker, that's wot you are! comin' 'round 'ere, annoyin' girls! i know you! i seen fellers like you before, i 'ave!..." "what do you mean?" said john. "mean! 'ere's wot i mean. you're either a broker's man!..." "no, i'm not," john interrupted. "or you're up to no good, see! an' wotever you are, you can just 'op it, see! you'll get no information out of me, mr. nosey parker, see! an' if i ketch you 'angin' about 'ere, annoyin' 'er or anybody else i'll 'it you on the jawr, see, an' then i'll 'and you over to the police. an' that'll learn you!" john stared at the man. "do you mean to say?..." "i mean to say wot i 'ave said," the liftman interjected. "an' i don't mean to say no more. 'op it. that's all. or it'll be the worse for you!" the lift bell rang, and the man entered the lift and closed the gate. then he ascended out of sight. john gaped through the gate into the well of the lift. "i've a good mind to break that chap's skull," he said to himself as he turned away. he left the block of offices and went towards prince's street. "it's no good hanging about here any longer," he said. "i'll go home!" a 'bus drove up as he reached the corner, and he climbed into it. "i'll come again to-morrow," he said, "and try and find her. she'll have to listen to me. i'm really in love this time!" he had been provided with a latch-key before leaving miss squibb's house in the morning, and, with an air of responsibility, he let himself in. lizzie, carrying a tray of dishes, came into the hall as he opened the door. "just in time," she said affably. "if you'd 'a' been a bit sooner, you'd 'a' seen the creams. they come back just after you went out 'smornin'. i told 'em all about you ... you bein' irish an' littery an' never 'avin' been to the zoo or anythink. they _was_ interested!" "oh!" "'e's such a nice man, mr. cream is. she ain't bad, but 'e's nice. they gone to the oxford now. i wish you'd seen 'em start off in their broom!" "broom?" "yes, their carriage. they 'ave to 'ire one when they're in london so's to get about from one 'all to another. they act in two or three 'alls a night in london. i do like to see 'em go off in their broom of a evenin'. mykes the 'ouse look a bit classy, i think, but aunt says they're living in sin an' she down't feel 'appy about it. but wot i sy is, wot's it matter so long as they pys their rent reg'lar an' down't go an' myke no fuss. they couldn't be less trouble. they keep on their rooms 'ere, just the same whether they're 'ere or not, an' sometimes they're away for months at a stretch. it ain't every dy you get lodgers like them, and wot i sy is, if they are livin' in sin, it's them that'll ave to go to 'ell for it, not us. aunt's very religious, but she can see sense syme's anybody else, so she 'olds 'er tongue about it. i down't 'old with sin myself, mind you, but i down't believe in cuttin' off your nose to spite someone else's fyce. you go an' wash your 'ands, an' i'll 'ave your dinner up in 'alf a jiff!..." john stared at her. "i don't know what you mean by living in sin," he said. "well, you are innercent," she replied. "'aven't you never 'eard of no one livin' together without bein' married?" "i've read about it!..." "well, that's livin' in sin, that is. pers'nally, i down't see wot diff'rence it mykes. they be'ave about the syme, married or not. 'e's a bit more lovin', per'aps, than a 'usband, but otherwise it's about the syme!" the bluntness of lizzie's speech disconcerted him, and yet the simplicity of it reassured him. he did not now feel, as he has felt in the morning, that she was a bad woman; but he could not completely comprehend her. girls in ballyards did not speak as she spoke. one knew that there were bad women in the world and that there was much sin in love-making, but one did not speak of it, except in shuddering whispers. lizzie, however, spoke of it almost as if she were talking of the weather. evidently, life and habit in england were very different from life and habit in ballyards.... he went up the stairs to his room, in a mood partly of horror and partly of curiosity. he was shocked to think that he was living in the same house with guilty sinners, but he had an odd desire to see them. when he had reached the first landing, lizzie called after him. "there's a poce-card for you," she said. "from mr. 'inde. 'e says 'e'll be 'ome to-morrow, an' 'e asts you to give me 'is love. saucy 'ound! 'e's a one, 'e is!" john turned towards her. "it won't be necessary for me to give his love to you, will it?" he said sarcastically. "you seem to have taken it already!" she was unaware of his sarcasm. "so i 'ave," she said. "i'll tell 'im that when 'e comes back!" "do you always read post-cards, lizzie?" he asked. "of course i do," she answered. "so does everybody. you 'urry on now, an' i'll 'ave your dinner up before you finish dryin' your fyce!" she contemplated him for a moment. "you got nice 'air," she said, "only it wants brushin'. an' cuttin', too!" then she disappeared down the stairs leading to the basement. "that's a _very_ rum sort of a woman," john murmured to himself as he proceeded to his room. the second chapter i he had gone to bed before the creams returned from their round of the music-halls, but in the morning, when lizzie had removed the remnants of his breakfast, john heard a tap on the door of the sitting-room, and on opening it, found a small, wistful-looking man, with a smiling face, standing outside. "good-morning," said the stranger, holding his hand out. "i'm cream from the ground-floor!" "oh, yes," john answered, shaking hands with him. "come in, won't you!" "well, i was going to suggest you should come down and be introduced to the wife. she'd like to meet you!" mr. cream said, entering the sitting-room as he spoke. john had a sensation of self-consciousness when he heard the word "wife." "settling down comfortably?" mr. cream continued. "oh, yes, thank you," said john. "i went out all day yesterday and had my first look at london!" "and what do you think of it? great place, eh?" john confessed that he had been disappointed in london, and in a few moments he began to recite a list of the things that had disappointed him. "wait 'til you've been here a few months," mr. cream interrupted. "you'll love this town. you'll hate loving it, but you won't be able to help yourself. i've been all over the world, the wife and me, and i've seen some of the loveliest places on earth, but london's got me. you'll be the same. you see!" he glanced about the room, casting his eyes critically at the books. "i hear you're a writer, too?" he said, less as an assertion than as a question. "i've written one book," john replied, "but it hasn't been printed. i want to discuss it with mr. hinde, but i haven't had a chance to do that yet. he's been away ever since i arrived. he'll be home the day though!" "so lizzie told me. queer bird, lizzie, isn't she?" "very," said john. "but she's a good soul. i'd trust lizzie with every ha'penny i have, but i wouldn't trust that old cat of an aunt of hers with a brass farthing. she's too religious to be honest. that's my opinion of her. come on down and see the wife!" he rose from his seat as he spoke. "i suppose you've never tried your hand at a play, have you?" he asked, leading the way to the door. "no, not yet, but i had a notion of trying," john said, following him. "i could give you a few tips if you needed advice," mr. cream continued, as they descended the stairs. "as a matter of fact, the wife and me are in need of a new piece for the halls, and it struck me this morning when i heard you were a writer, that mebbe you could do a piece for us. it would be practice for you!" "what about mr. hinde?" john asked. "i've tried him time after time, but it's no good asking. he's a journalist, and a journalist can only work when he's excited. put him down to something that needs thought and care, and he's lost. and he always says he's writing a tragedy about st. patrick and can't think of anything else!" john smiled, without quite understanding why he was smiling, and followed mr. cream into the ground floor sitting-room where mrs. cream was lying on a sofa. "this is the wife," mr. cream said. "dolly, this is mr.... mr!..." "macdermott," john prompted. "oh, yes, of course. mr. macdermott. lizzie did tell me, but i can never remember irish names somehow!" mrs. cream extended a limp hand to john. "you must excuse me for not getting up," she said, "but i'm always very tired in the morning!" "you see, mac," mr. cream explained, "dolly is a very intense actress ... i think she's the most intense actress on the stage ... and she gets very worked up in emotional pieces. don't you, dolly?" dolly nodded her head, and then, as if the effort of doing so had been too great an exertion for her, she lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. "perhaps i'd better go!..." john suggested. "oh, no, no! she's always like that. all right in the afternoon. won't you, dolly?" dolly waved her hand feebly. "her acting takes a lot out of her," mr. cream said. "very exhausting all that emotional work. bound to be ... _bound_ to be! now, comic work's different. i can be as comic as you like, and all that happens is i'm nicely tired about bedtime, and i sleep like a top. in fact, i might say i sleep like two tops, for the wife's so unnerved, as you might say, by her own acting that it takes her half the night to settle down. nerves, my boy. that's what it is! nerves! i tell you, mac, old chap, if you want to have a good night's rest, go in for comic work, but if you want to lie awake and think, tragedy's your trade. nerves all on edge. overwrought. terrible thing, tragedy! isn't it, dolly?" mrs. cream moaned slightly and twisted about on the sofa. "too much talk!" she murmured. "all right, my dear, all right. suppose we just go up to your room again, mac, and talk until she's quieted down? eh?" "very well," said john who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable. they left the room together, john walking on tiptoe, for he felt that the situation made such a solemnity necessary. "temperament is a peculiar thing," mr. cream said as they ascended the stairs. "evidently," john answered. "i may as well warn you that dolly'll make love to you when she's recovered herself, but you needn't let it worry you. she can't help it, poor dear, and i often think it's the only real relaxation she has ... with her temperament. just humour her, old chap, if she does. i'll know you don't mean anything by it. it's temperament, that's all it is. dolly wouldn't do anything ... not for the world ... but it gives her a lot of satisfaction to pretend she's doing something. lot of women like that, mac. not nice women, really ... except dolly, of course ... and you can excuse her because of her temperament!" they entered the sitting-room and sat down at the table. "and i may as well tell you," cream continued, "that dolly and me aren't married. i'd like to be regular myself, but dolly says she'd feel respectable if she was married ... and she thinks you can't be tragic if you're respectable. she always says that she's at her best when she feels that i've ruined her life. i daresay she's right, old chap, only i'd like to be regular myself. as i tell her, if it's hard to be tragic when you're respectable, it's damn hard to be comic when you're not. i expect lizzie told you about me and dolly?" john nodded his head. "i thought as much. lizzie always tells people. i don't know what the hell she'd do for gossip if we were to get married. i can't think how she found out ... unless dolly told her ... but you can be certain of this, mac, if there's a skeleton in your cupboard, lizzie'll discover it. dolly's the skeleton in my cupboard. of course, old chap, i don't want it talked about. i wouldn't have told you anything about it, only i guessed that lizzie'd told you. not that i mind _you_ or hinde knowing ... you're writers ... but music-hall people are so particular about things of that sort. you wouldn't believe how narrow-minded and old-fashioned they are about marriage ... not like actors. that's really why i mentioned the matter. i don't want you to think i'm bragging about it or anything!" "oh, no, no," said john. "no, of course not. i wouldn't dream of saying a word to anybody!" "thanks, mac, old chap!" cream extended his hand to john, and john, wondering why it was offered to him, shook it. "now about this idea of mine for a play!" "play?" "yes, for me and dolly. why shouldn't you do one for us? the minute i heard you were a writer, i turned to dolly and i said, 'dolly, darling, let's get him to do a play for us!' and she agreed at once. she said, 'do what you like, darling, but don't worry me about it!' you see, mac, we're getting a bit tired of this piece we're doing now ... we've been doing it twice-nightly for four years ... _the girl gets left_, we call it ... and we want new stuff. see? we'd like a good dramatic piece ... a little bit of high-class in it ... for dolly ... if you like, only not too much. classy stuff wants living up to it, and i haven't got it in me, and people aren't always in the mood for it either. in the music-halls, anyway. see?" "but!..." "dramatic stuff ... that's what we want. go! snap! plenty of ginger! raise hell's delight and then haul down the curtain quick before the audience has had time to pull itself together. see? we'd treat the author very handsome if we could get hold of a good piece with a big emotional part for the wife ... and although i'm her husband ... in the sight of god, anyway ... i will say this for her, mac, there's not another woman on the stage ... ellen terry, mrs. pat or sarah bernhardt herself ... can hold a candle to dolly for emotional parts. of course, there'd have to be a comic part for me, too, but you needn't worry much about that. i always make up my own part to a certain extent. just give me the bare outline: i'll do the rest. you see, i understand the public ... it's a knack, of course ... and i can always improve the author's stuff easy. what do you say?" "i don't know," said john. "you needn't put your name to it, if you don't want to. use a nom de plume or leave the name out altogether. _our_ audience doesn't pay any attention to authors, so that won't matter. and it'll be a start for you, mac!" "oh, yes!" "any little bit of success, even if you're half ashamed of it, bucks you wonderful, mac ... i say, you don't mind me calling you mac, do you?..." "no," john replied. "somehow it's homely when you can call a chap mac, somehow! now, if you was to do a play for us, and it went well, it'd put heart into you for something better. if you can find your way to the heart of a music-hall audience, mac, my boy, you can find your way anywhere. now, what about it, eh! will you try to do a piece for us?" "i'll try, but!..." "that's all right," said cream, again extending his hand to john. "dolly'll be very pleased to hear we've settled it!" "but i've never seen a music-hall play!" john exclaimed, "and you haven't said how much you'll pay me for it!" "never been in a music-hall!... where was you brought up, mac!" "in ballyards," john replied seriously. "where's that?" "have you never heard of ballyards, mr. cream?" "no," the comedian replied. "well, where were you brought up then?" cream regarded him closely for a few moments. then he burst into laughter and again shook john fervently by the hand. "that's one up for you, mac!" he said genially. "quite a repartee. well, come with us to-night and see _the girl gets left_. that'll give you a notion of the sort of stuff we want. see?" "how much will you pay me for it?" "well, we gave the chap that wrote _the girl gets left_ ... poor chap, he died of drink about six weeks ago ... couldn't keep away from it ... signed the pledge ... ate sweets ... did everything ... no good ... always thought out his best jokes when he was drunk ... well, we gave him thirty bob a week for _the girl gets left_ ... and mind you he was an experienced chap, too ... but dolly and me, we've decided you have to pay a bit extra for classy stuff, and we'll give you two quid a week for the piece if it suits us. two quid a week as long as the play runs, mac. _the girl gets left_ has been played for four years ... four years, mac ... all over the civilised globe. if your piece was to run that long, you'd get four hundred and sixteen quid. four hundred and sixteen shiny jimmy o' goblins, mac! think of it! and all for a couple of afternoons' work!..." "and how much will you get out of it?" john asked. "oh, i dunno. enough to pay the rent anyhow. you know, mac, these high-class chaps like barrie and bernard shaw, they've never had a play run for four years anywhere, and yet old hookings, that nobody never knew nothing about and died of drink, his play was performed all over the civilised world for four years. that's something to be proud of, that is. four solid years! but there was nothing in the papers about him, when he died ... nothing ... not a word. and if barrie was to die, or bernard shaw ... columns, pages! barrie ... well, he's all right, of course ... not bad ... but compare him with hookings. why, he doesn't know the outside of the human heart, not the outside of it he doesn't, and hookings knew what the inside of it's like. you take that play of barrie's, _the twelve pound look_. not bad...not a bad play, at all ... but where's the feeling heart in it? play that piece in front of an audience of coalminers and what 'ud you get? the bird, my boy! that sort of stuff is all right for the west end ... but the people, mac, want something that hits 'em straight between the eyes and gives 'em a kick in the stomach as well. the best way to make a man sit up and take a bit of notice is to hit him a punch on the jaw, and the best way to make the public feel sympathetic is to hit it a punch in the heart!..." the little man broke off suddenly and glanced towards the door. "i must toddle down to dolly now. she gets fretful if i'm out of her sight for long. i'll see you later on ... seven o 'clock, old chap!" "very good," john answered. "aw reservoir, then!" said cream, as he left the room and hurried downstairs. ii he told himself that he ought to do some work, but the desire to see more of london overcame his good resolution, and so he left the house and set out again for the town. he hoped that he might see eleanor moore. if he were to go to the tea-shop at the same hour as she had entered it yesterday, he might contrive to seat himself at her table again, and this time perhaps she would listen to him. when he reached the city, he found that he was too early for the mid-day meal, and so he resolved to go and stand about the entrance to the office where eleanor moore was employed. he would see her coming out of it and could follow discreetly after her.... but although he waited for an hour, she did not appear, nor was she to be seen in the tea-shop, when, tired and disappointed, he took his place in it. he dallied over his meal, hoping every moment that she would turn up, but at length he had to go away without seeing her. at teatime, he told himself, he would come again and wait for her. he climbed on to a 'bus and let himself be taken to charing cross, where he enquired the way to the national gallery. he wandered through the rooms until his eyes ached with looking at the pictures and his feet were sore with walking on the polished floors. he felt self-conscious when he looked at the nudes, and he blushed when he found a woman standing by his side as he looked at the portrait of jean arnolfini and jeanne his wife by van eyck. he turned hotly away, and wondered that there was no blush on the face of the woman. in ballyards, a man always pretended not to see a woman about to have a child ... unless, of course, he was with other men and the woman could not see him, when he would crack jokes about her condition!... here, however, people actually exhibited pictures of pregnant women in a public place where all sorts, old and young, male and female, could look at them ... and no one appeared to mind. it might be all right, of course, and after all a woman in that way was natural enough ... but he had been brought up to be ashamed of seeing such things, and he could not very well become easy about them in a moment.... and he became very tired of holy families and crucifixions!... "i'll walk back to the place," he said to himself as he left the gallery and crossed trafalgar square. he dappled his fingers in the water of one of the fountains, and listened to two little cocknies wrangling together.... "they've a queer way of talking," he said to himself. ...and then he started off down the strand towards fleet street and the city. eleanor moore was not in the tea-shop when he entered it, nor did she come into it while he remained there. he finished his meal and walked in the direction of the royal exchange and just as he was running out of the way of a 'bus, he saw her going towards the stairs leading into the tube. "there she is," he murmured and hurried after her. she was at the foot of the stairs when he reached the top of them, and when he had got to the foot of them, she was almost at the entrance to the booking-office of the tube. he tried to get near her so that he might speak to her, but the press of people going home prevented him from doing so. he saw her go down the steps and take her place in the queue of people purchasing tickets, and he walked across to the bookstall and stood there until she had obtained her ticket. then as she walked to the lift, he moved towards her. she was examining her change as she walked along, and did not see him until he was close to her. he meant to say, "oh, miss moore, may i speak to you for a moment!" but suddenly he became totally inarticulate, and while he was struggling to say something, she looked up and saw him. she started slightly, then her face became flushed, and she hurried forward and joined the group of wedged people in the lift. he determined to follow her, but while he was resolving to do so, the lift attendant shouted, "next lift, please!" and pulled the gates together. he watched the light disappear from the little windows at the top of the gates!... "i've missed her again," he said. iii he was just in time to swallow a hurried meal and set off to the theatre with the creams. mrs. cream, recovered from the devastating effects of a tragical temperament, was very vivacious as they sat in the brougham; and she rallied him on his authorship. she told him that when he was a celebrated writer, she would be able to say that she had discovered him.... "as a matter of fact, dolly," said her husband, "it was me that thought of the idea!" she ignored her husband. she pretended that john would become too proud to know the poor little creams!... "i'm not too proud to know anyone," he interrupted. she burbled at him, and pressed closer to him. "you're quite complimentary," she said. cream had given john a note to the manager of the theatre which induced that gentleman to admit him, free of charge, to the stalls. he would travel home by himself, for the creams had to play at other music-halls, and would not be able to take him back to brixton in their brougham. "we finish up at walham green," said cream, as john left the carriage. he waited impatiently for the performance of _the girl gets left_, and he had an extraordinary sense of pleasure when he saw cream's wistful face peering through a window immediately after the curtain went up. the little man was remarkably funny. his look, his voice, his gestures, all compelled laughter from the audience without the audience understanding quite why it was amused. he had the pathetic appearance that all great comedians have, the look of appeal that one saw in the face of dan leno, in the face of james welch, and it seemed that he might as easily cry as laugh. the words he had to say were poor, vapid things, but when he said them, he put some of his own life into them and gave them a greater value than they deserved. the turn of his head was comic; a queer little helpless movement of his hands was comic; the way in which he seemed to stop short and gulp as if he were bracing himself up was comic; the swift downward and then upward glance of his eyes, followed by an assumption of complete humility and resignation, these were comic. and when he appeared on the stage, the audience, knowing something of his quality, collectively lifted itself into an attitude of attention. a dismal young woman, singing a dreary lecherous song and showing an immense quantity of frilled underclothing, had occupied five or six minutes in boring the audience before _the girl gets left_ began; and an air of lassitude had enveloped the men who were sitting in relaxed attitudes in the theatre. their eyes seemed to become dull, and they paid more attention to their pipes and their cigarettes than they paid to the young woman's underclothing.... but when _the girl gets left_ began, and the whimsical face of cream was seen peering through the window of the scene, the lassitude was lifted and the men's eyes began to brighten again. the first words, the first gesture of comic helplessness, from cream sent a ripple of laughter round the theatre, and immediately the place was full of that queer, uncontrollable thing, personality. john laughed heartily at the acting of his new friend, and he decided that he would certainly try to write a play for him. how good mrs. cream must be if she were better than her husband, as he so proudly declared she was. it would be a privilege to write a play for people so clever.... then mrs. cream, magnificently dressed, appeared, and as she did so, some of the atmosphere that enveloped the stage and the auditorium and made them one and very intimate, was dispelled. john watched her as she moved about the stage, and wondered why it was that the audience had suddenly become a little fidgetty. his eyes were full of astonishment. he gazed at mrs. cream as if he were trying to understand some ineluctable mystery.... he remembered how enthralled he had been by the acting of the girl who had played juliet. he had been caught up and transported from the theatre to the very streets of verona. he had felt that he was one of the crowd that followed the montagues or the capulets, and had been ready to bite his thumb with the best.... but here was something that left him uneasy and alien. he felt as if he were prying into private affairs, that at any moment someone, a policeman, perhaps, might come along and seize him for trespassing. he did not then know that bad acting always leaves an audience with a sensation of having intruded upon privacies ... that an actor who is incompetent leaves the people who see him acting badly with the feeling that they have vulgarly peeped into his dressing-room and seen him taking off his wig and wiping the paint from his face. mrs. cream acted with great vigour; her voice roared over the footlights; and she seemed to hurl herself about the scene as if she were determined either to smash the furniture or to smash herself. she made much noise. her gestures were lavish. her dresses were very costly and full of glitter. she worked hard.... "but she can't act," said john to himself, sighing with relief when at last she left the stage to her husband. the little man's small, fragile voice, with its comic hesitation and its puzzled note, sounded very restful after the torrential noises made by his wife, and in a few moments he had the minds of the audience fused again into one mind and made completely attentive. when the play was ended, there was very hearty applause, but none of it so hearty as the applause from john. the last few moments of the piece had been given to mr. cream, and he had left the audience with the pleased impression of himself and forgetful of the jar it had received from his wife.... "that wee man can act all right," said john, clapping his hands until they were sore. iv hinde was waiting for him in the sitting-room when he returned to the lodging-house. "what did you think of the creams?" the journalist asked when they had greeted each other and had ended their congratulations on being ulstermen. "he's very good," john began.... "and she's rotten?" hinde interrupted. "well!..." "oh, my dear fellow, you needn't be afraid of telling me what you think. there's only one person in the world who doesn't realise that mrs. cream can't act and never will be able to act ... and that's poor old cream himself. he's as good a comedian as there is in the world--that little man: the essence of cockney wit; and he does not know how good he is. he thinks that she is much better than he can ever hope to be, and she thinks so, too; but if it were not for him, macdermott, she wouldn't get thirty shillings a week in a penny gaff!" "they've asked me to write a play for them," john said. "are you going to do it?" "i don't know. that play to-night was a very common sort of a piece. it's not the style of play i want to do!..." "what style of play _do_ you want to do?" hinde asked. "good plays. plays like shakespeare wrote." hinde looked at him quickly. "oh, well," he said, "there's no harm in aiming high!" john told him of the book he had written at ballyards, and of the story he had sent to _blackwood's magazine_. "i've a great ambition to do big things," he said. "there's no harm in that either," hinde replied. "in the meantime, what are you going to do? it'll be a wheen of years yet before you can hope to get anything big done!" "oh, i don't know about that," john answered confidently. "the macdermotts are great people for getting their own way!" "mebbe they are ... in ballyards," hinde retorted, "but this isn't ballyards. and you can't spend all your time writing masterpieces. you'll have to do a wee bit of ordinary common work. what about trying to get a job on a paper?" "i don't mind taking a job if there's one to be got. only what sort of a job?..." hinde teased him. "they'll not let you edit the _times_ yet awhile," he said. "i don't want to edit it," john replied. "well, that's a lucky thing for the man that's got the job now!" john felt aggrieved at once. "you're coddin' me," he complained. "say that again," hinde exclaimed enthusiastically. "say what again?" "say i'm coddin' you. i haven't heard that word for years. gwon! say it!" "you're coddin' me!..." "isn't it lovely? isn't it a grand word, that? good ulster talk!..." the door opened and lizzie entered the room. "mr. 'inde!..." she said. "don't call me 'inde," he shouted, jumping up from his chair. "what do you think the letter _h_ was put in the alphabet for? for you to leave it out?" lizzie smiled amiably at him. "ow, go on," she said, "you're always 'avin' me on!" she turned to john. "'e's a 'oly terror, 'e is. talks about me speakin' funny, but wot about 'im? i think irish is the comicest way of talkin' i ever heard. wot'll you 'ave for your breakfis, mr. 'inde?" "_h_inde, woman, _h_inde!..." "well, wot'll you 'ave for your breakfis?" "one of these days i'll have you fried and boiled and stewed!..." lizzie giggled. "ow, you are a funny man, mr. 'inde," she said between her titters. hinde gaped at her as if he were incapable of expressing himself in adequate language. "that female," he said turning to john, "always tells me i'm a funny man!..." "well, so you are, mr. 'inde!" lizzie interrupted. "get out," he roared at her. lizzie addressed john. "you'll get used to 'is comic ways when you know 'im as well as i do. wot'll you 'ave for breakfis?" she continued, speaking again to hinde. "anything," he replied. "anything on god's earth, so long as you get out!" "that's all i wanted to know," said lizzie. "it'll be 'am an' eggs. goo'-night, mr. macdermott!" "good-night, lizzie," john murmured. "goo'-night, mr. 'inde!" "come here!" said hinde. she came across the room and stood beside him. he took hold of her chin. "if you hadn't such a rotten accent," he said, "i'd marry you!" she giggled. "you do myke me laugh, mr. 'inde!" she said. "_h_inde, woman, _h_inde!..." she moved away from him as if he had uttered some perfectly commonplace remark. "very well," she said, "it'll be 'am an' eggs for breakfis. i'm glad you chose them, because we ain't got nothink else in the 'ouse. goo'-night, all!" she went out of the room, but hardly had she shut the door behind her, when she opened it again. "'ere's the creams 'ome again!" she said. "goo'-night all!" v a few minutes later, cream tapped on their door and, in response to hinde's "come in!" entered. he greeted hinde lavishly, and then turned to john. "well, my boy," he said, "what do you think of her? great, isn't she? absolute eye-opener, that's what she is, i knew you'd be struck dumb by her. that's the effect she has on people. paralyses them. lays 'em out. by gum, mac, that woman's a wonder!..." "how is she?" john asked. cream shook his head. "all in bits, as usual, mac. i ought not to let her do the work ... it's wearing her out ... but you can't keep a great artist away from the stage. she'd die quicker if she weren't doing her work than she will while she's doing. that's art, mac. extraordinary thing, art!..." "have a drink, cream," hinde exclaimed. "i don't mind if i do, hinde, old chap. did you notice how she held the audience, mac? the minute she stepped on to the stage, she got 'em. absolute! she played with 'em ... did what she liked with 'em!... i wish i could get hold of 'em like that. by heaven, mac, it must be wonderful to have that woman's power to make an audience do just what you want it to do!..." hinde handed a glass of whiskey and soda to him. "thanks, old chap!" he said, taking it from him. he raised the glass. "well, here's health!" he murmured, swallowing some of the drink. he put the glass down on the table beside him. "when do you think you'll be able to let us have the manuscript of the play, mac?" john started. "well," he began nervously, "well, i haven't thought much about it yet!..." "look here," said cream, "i've been talking to dolly about the matter, and this is her idea. she wants to play in a piece about a naval lieutenant. see? in a submarine or something. something with a bit of snap in it. she'd like to be an irish girl called kitty in love with the lieutenant. see? make it so's he can wear his uniform and a cocked hat and a sword. see? the audience likes to see a bit of style. you could put a comic stoker in ... that 'ud do for me, but of course as i told you, you needn't worry much about my part. i'll look after myself. now, do you think you could do anything with that idea? dolly's dead set on playing an irish girl, and of course, you being irish and all that, you'd know the ropes!" "i'll think about it," said john. "do. that's a good chap. and perhaps you can let me have the manuscript at the end of the week ... in the rough anyhow!" he finished his whiskey and soda. "have another?" hinde said. "no, thanks, no. you know. mac, the stage is a funny place. the average author doesn't realise what a funny place it is. i've met a few authors in my time, high-brow and low-brow and no-brow-at-all, and they're all the same: think they know more about the theatre than the actor does. but they don't. they all want to be littery. and that's no good ... in the music-halls anyhow. if you've got anything to say to a music-hall audience, don't waste time in being littery or anything like that. bung it at 'em, mac!" he pronounced the last injunction with enormous emphasis. "an audience is about the thickest thing on earth. got no brains to speak of, and doesn't want to have any. mind you, each person in the audience may be as clever as you like, but as an audience ... see? ... they're simply thick. and if you want 'em to understand anything, you've got to bung it at 'em. no use being delicate or pretty or anything like that. that's what authors don't understand. now, you heard those back-chat-comedians at the oxford to-night?" john nodded his head. "they weren't much good," he said. "why?" cream demanded, and then, before john could speak, he went on to give the answer to his question. "because they don't know how to get their stuff over the footlights. that's why! they had good stuff to work with, but they didn't know what to do with it. _i_ could have told 'em. do you remember that joke about the dog that swallowed the tape-measure and died?" "yes. it sounded rather silly!..." "and it didn't get a laugh. the silliness of a thing doesn't matter if it makes you laugh. this is how they said it. the tall chap says to the little one, 'how's your dog, joe?' and the little one answered, 'oh, he died last week. he swallowed a tape-measure and died by inches!...'" hinde laughed. "do people pay good money to listen to that sort of stuff?" "you're a journalist," cream replied, "and you ought to know they pay money to _read_ worse than that!" "so they do," hinde admitted. "when i heard those two duffers ruining that joke," cream continued, "i felt as if i wanted to run on to the stage and tell 'em how to get it over to the audience. this is how they ought to have done it!" he stood up and enacted the characters of the two back-chat comedians, and as john watched him and listened to him, he realised what a great actor the little man was. _"say, joe, what're you in mourning for?" "i'm in mourning for my little dog!" "your little dog. why, your little dog ain't dead, is it?" "yes, my little dog's dead!" "well, joe, i'm sorry to hear your little dog's dead. what was the matter with your little dog?" "my little dog died last week." "yes, your little dog died last week?..." "he swallowed a tape-measure!..." "good heavens, your little dog swallowed a tape-measure?" "yes, my little dog swallowed a tape measure, and he died by inches!"_ cream sat down when he had finished giving his performance. "that's how they ought to have done it," he said. "it makes me angry to see men ruining a good story. you see, mac, you've got to lead up to things. everything in this world has to be led up to. you can't rush bald-headed at anything. and you've got to get a climax. these back-chat chaps hadn't got a climax. the joke was over before the audience had time to realise it was a joke. see?" "i see," said john. a few minutes later, cream went downstairs to his own room. "that little man knows just how to get an effect," said hinde. "the amazing thing about him is that he doesn't know that he can act and that his wife can't!..." "why do you call her his wife?" john replied. "out of civility," said hinde. "i don't see that it matters much whether she is or not!" "that's what lizzie says." "lizzie is an intelligent woman. i hope you don't think i was rude to lizzie just now?..." "oh, no," john answered insincerely. "i wouldn't hurt lizzie's feelings for the world," said hinde. "i'm going to bed now, but you needn't hurry unless you want to. i'm tired, and i shall have a busy day to-morrow. i'll see if there's any work that would suit you on my paper. you ought to have some sort of a job besides scribbling masterpieces. i suppose you left a girl behind you in ballyards?" john's face flushed. "no," he replied. "that's good," hinde said. "you'll be able to get on with your work instead of wasting time writing letters to a girl. good-night!" "good-night. mr. hinde!" said john, suddenly ceremonious. "not so much of the mister. call me hinde. i think i'll follow cream's example and call you mac!" "very well, hinde," said john. "we'll go up to town in the morning together, if you like!" "i would," said john. vi john's dreams that night were queerly complicated. eleanor moore flitted through a scene on a submarine in which a dog was dying by inches while a naval lieutenant made passionate love to an irish girl called kitty; and while eleanor passed vaguely from side to side of the submarine, a gigantic piece of red tape came and enveloped her and enveloped john, too, when, unaccountably, he appeared and tried to save her. he felt himself being strangled by red tape, and he knew that eleanor was being strangled, too. he felt that if only the dog would eat the red tape, both eleanor and he would be delivered from it, but somehow the irish girl called kitty prevented the dog from eating it. and in the dream, he called pitifully to eleanor, "she won't let us work up to a climax! she's preventing us from working up to a climax!..." the third chapter i at the end of a month from the day on which he arrived in london, john macdermott began to consider his position and ended by finding it in a very unsatisfactory state. he had spent much of his time in sight-seeing, and would have spent more of it, had not hinde informed him that the only way in which to know a city is to live in it, not as a tourist, but as an ordinary citizen. "change your lodgings every twelve months," he said, "and go and live in a different part of the town every time you change them. then you'll get to know london. it's no use tearing round the place like an american ... half an hour here and a couple of minutes there, and a baedeker never out of your hands. americans think they're getting an impression of a country when they're only getting a sick-headache; and when they go home again, they can never remember whether mont blanc was a picture they saw in paris or a london chop-house where they had old english fare at modern english prices. if you want to _know_ st. paul's cathedral, don't go there with a guide-book in your hand. go as one of the congregation!..." he had sent the manuscript of his novel to a publisher who had not yet expressed any eagerness to accept it, and he had made a half-hearted effort to write a play for the creams, but had not been very successful with it, chiefly because he felt contempt for _the girl gets left_ and had little liking for mrs. cream. she came to the sitting-room one morning when hinde was away and her husband was interviewing his agent, and went straight to john, nibbling a pen at the writing desk, and put her arms about his neck. "don't do that," he said, disengaging her arms from about him. "i love you," she replied very intensely. "i daresay, but i'm not in love with you, mrs. cream, and i never will be. i don't like you. i like your wee man, but i don't like you. i think you're an awful humbug of a woman!..." mrs. cream stood still as if she had been suddenly paralysed. "you don't like me!..." she said at last, utterly incredulous. "no, i don't." "oh!" she raised her hands, and for a few moments he imagined that she was about to strike him. then she dropped them to her side again and laughed. "i don't know whether to hug you or slap you," she said. "you impudent brat!" "i wouldn't advise you to do either the one or the other," he answered. she came nearer to him, and laid her hand on his sleeve. "you're very cold and hard," she said, and then, in a softer voice, she added his name, "john!" "what's cold about me? or hard?" he asked. "everything. you must know that i feel more for you than for my husband!..." "you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying such a thing, mrs. cream. i want you to understand that i'm not that sort. i come from ballyards, and we don't do things like that there. forby, i'm not in love with you. i'm in love with somebody else ... a nice girl, not a married woman ... and i've no time to think of anybody else but her. i'm very busy the day, mrs. cream!..." "is she an irish girl?" "i don't know what nationality she is. i've not managed to get speaking to her yet. it'll be an advantage if she is irish, but i'll overlook it if she isn't. i'm terrible busy, mrs. cream!" she stood before him in an indecisive attitude.... "you're really a fool," she said, turning away. "i thought you were clever, but you're simply thick-headed!..." "because i won't start making love to you, i suppose?" "oh, no, mr. macdermott. you're thick apart from that. you're so thick that you'll never know how thick you are. i can't think why i wasted a minute's thought on you!..." john sat down at his desk again. "_sticks an' stones'll break my bones, but names'll never hurt me_," he quoted at her. "_when you're dead and in your grave, you'll suffer for what you called me!_" she came behind him and put her arms tightly round his neck and forced his head back so that she could conveniently kiss him. "there!" she exclaimed, hurrying from the room, "i've kissed you anyhow!" he leaped up and ran to the top of the stairs and leant over the banisters. "if you do that again," he shouted at her, "i'll give you in charge!" "bogie-bogie!" she mocked. soon after that time, the creams had gone on tour again, and john, with a vague promise to mr. cream that he would try and do a play for him, let mrs. cream slip out of his mind altogether. she had not attempted to make love to him again, and her attitude towards him became more natural, almost, he thought, more friendly. she appeared to bear him no malice, and her friendliness caused him to shed some of his antagonism to her. when they bade goodbye to hinde and john, she turned to her husband as they were leaving, and said, "i kissed him one morning, and do you know what he did?" "no," her husband answered. "he said he'd give me in charge if i tried to do it again," she exclaimed, laughing as she spoke. "goo' lor'!" said cream. "that's the first time that's ever been said to you, dolly!" he turned to john. "you're a funny sort of a chap, you are! fancy not letting dolly kiss you. goo' lor'!" ii he had tried hard to see eleanor moore again, but without success. every day for a fortnight he went to lunch in the tea-shop where he had first seen her, and in the evening he would hang about the entrance to the offices where she was employed; but he did not see her either there or in the tea-shop, and when a fortnight of disappointment had gone by, he concluded that he would never see her again. he imagined that she was ill, that she had left london, that she had obtained work elsewhere, that he had frightened her ... for he remembered her startled look when she hurried from him into the tube lift ... and finally and crushingly that she had married someone else. in the mood of bitterness that followed this devastating thought, he planned a tragedy, and in the evenings, when hinde was engaged for his paper, he worked at it. but the bitterness which he put into it failed to relieve him of any of the bitterness that was in his own mind. he felt doubly betrayed by eleanor moore because he had had so little encouragement from her. it hurt him to think that he had only succeeded in alarming her. maggie carmichael had responded instantly when he spoke to her and had accepted his embraces and his kisses as amiably as she had accepted his chocolates he had bought for her; but this girl with the tender blue eyes that changed their expression so frequently, had made no response to his offer of affection, had run away from it. if only she had listened to him! he was certain that he could have persuaded her to "go out" with him. he had only to tell her that he loved her, and she would realise that a man who could fall in love with her so immediately as he had done must be acceptable!... the affair with maggie carmichael had considerably dashed his belief in romantic love, but he told himself now that it would be ridiculous to condemn his uncle matthew's ideals because one girl had fallen short of them. if maggie carmichael had behaved badly, that was not a sign that eleanor moore would also behave badly. besides, eleanor was different from maggie. there was no comparison between the two girls. after all, he had not really cared for maggie: he had only fancied that he cared for her. but there was no fancying or imagination about his love for eleanor, and if he had the good fortune to meet her again, he would not let anything prevent him from telling her plump and plain that he wanted to marry her. whenever he left the house, he looked about, no matter where he went, in the hope that he might see her. iii hinde urged him to do journalism and advised him to make a study of the london newspapers so that he might discover which of them he could most happily work for. "you could do a few articles, perhaps, and then it wouldn't matter whether you agreed with the paper or not, but i'd advise you to try and get a job on one paper for a while. you'll learn a lot from journalism if you don't stay at it too long. it'll be a good while yet before you can make a living at writing books, and you'll want something to keep you going until you can. journalism's as good as anything, and in some ways, it's a lot better than most things, and let me tell you, mac, anybody can make a decent living out of newspapers if he only takes the trouble to earn it. half the fellows in fleet street treat journalism as if it were a religious vocation, and they lie about in pubs all day waiting for the holy ghost to come down and inspire them with a scoop!" john studied the london newspapers, as hinde advised him, but he did not feel drawn towards them. he considered that the morning papers were very inferior to the _northern whig_, and he was certain that the _north down herald_ was far more interesting than the _times_. the london evening papers, he said to hinde, gave less value for a half-penny than the _belfast evening telegraph_, and he complained that there was nothing to read in them. "you'll have to start a paper yourself, mac," said hinde. "all the best papers were started by men who couldn't find anything to read in other papers. it would be a grand notion now to set up a paper for ulstermen who can't find anything in london that's fit to read. by the hokey o, that would be a grand notion. we could call the paper _to hell with the pope or no surrender!_..." "ah, quit your codding," john interrupted. "you know rightly what's wrong with these london papers. they're not telling the truth!" "and do you think the _whig_ and the _telegraph_ are?" hinde demanded. "well, it's what _we_ call the truth anyway," john stoutly retorted. hinde slapped him on the back. "that's right," he said. "ulster against the whole civilised world!" "if i was to take a job on one of these papers," john continued, "i'd insist on telling the truth to the people!" "you would, would you? and do you know what 'ud happen to you? the people 'ud cut your head off at the end of a fortnight." "i wouldn't let them." hinde sat in silence for a few minutes. then he leant forward and tapped john on the shoulder, "the editor of the _daily sensation_ is a tyrone man," he said. "he comes from cookstown!..." "i never was in it," john murmured. "mebbe not, but it exists all the same. go up the morrow evening to his office and tell him you want a job on his paper so's you can start telling everybody the truth. and see what happens to you." john answered angrily. "you think you're having me on," he said, "but you're queerly mistaken. i will go, and we'll see what happens!" "that's what i'm bidding you do," hinde continued. "and listen! there's a couple i know, called haverstock, living out at hampstead. they have discussions every month at their house on some subject or other, and there's to be one next wednesday. will you come with me if i go to it?" john nodded his head. "good! the haverstocks'll be glad to welcome you as you're a friend of mine, but it's not them i'm wanting you to see. it's the crowd they get round them. all the cranks and oddities and solemn mugs of london seem to go to that house one time or another, and i'd just like you to have a look at some of them. the minute they find out you're irish, they'll plaster you with praise. they'll expect you to talk like a clown, one minute, and weep bitter tears over england's tyranny the next. they're all english, most of them, and they'll tell you that england is the worst country in the world, and that ireland would be the greatest if it weren't for the fact that some piffling balkan state is greater. and they'll ram truth down your throat till you're sick of it. you've only to bleat about ireland's woes to them, and call yourself a member of a subject race, and they'll be all over you before you know where you are. there's only one other man has a better chance of shining in their society than an irishman, and that's an armenian." "well, that's great credit to them," john, replied. "i must say it makes me think well of the english!..." "don't do that. never acknowledge to an englishman that you think well of him. he'll think little of you if you do. tell him he's a fool, that he's muddle-headed, that he's a tyrant, that he's a materialist and a compromiser and a hypocrite, and he'll pay you well for saying it. but if you tell the truth and say he's the decent fellow he is, he'll land you in the workhouse!..." iv it had not been easy to interview the editor of the _daily sensation_. a deprecating commissionaire, eyeing him suspiciously, had cross-examined him in the entrance hall of the newspaper office, and then had compelled him to fill in a form with particulars of himself ... his name and his address ... and of his business. "i suppose," john said sarcastically to the commissionaire, "you don't want me to swear an affidavit about it?" the commissionaire regarded him contemptuously, but did not reply to the sarcasm. after a lengthy wait and much whistling and talking through rubber speaking-tubes, john was conducted to a lift, given into the charge of a small boy in uniform who treated him as a nuisance, and taken to the office of the editor. here he had to wait in the society of the editor's secretary for another lengthy period. he had almost resolved to come away from the office without seeing the editor, when a bell rang and the secretary rising from her desk, bade him to follow her. he was led into an inner room where he saw a man seated at a large desk. the editor glared at him for a moment or two as if he were accusing him of an attempt to commit a fraud. then he said "sit down" and began to speak on the telephone. john glanced interestedly about him. there was a portrait of napoleon ... _the last phase_ ... on one wall, and, on the wall opposite to it, a portrait of the proprietor of the _daily sensation_ in what might fairly be described as the first phase. on the editor's desk was a framed card bearing the legend: say it quick.... the telephonic conversation ended, and mr. clotworthy ... the editor ... put down the receiver and turned to john, frowning heavily at him. "well?" he said so shortly that the word was almost unintelligible. "i can give you two minutes," he added, pulling out his watch and placing it on the desk. "that'll be enough," john, replied. "i want a job on this paper!" "everybody wants a job on this paper. the people who are most anxious to get on our staff are the people who are never tired of running us down!..." "i daresay," said john. "ever done any newspaper work before?" the editor demanded. "no!" "then what qualifications have you for the work?..." "i've written a novel!..." "that's not a qualification!" mr. clotworthy exclaimed. "but it's not been published yet," john replied. "oh, well!... anything else?" "i've written several articles which have not been printed, but they're as good as the stuff that's printed in any paper in london.." "quite so!" "and i come from ulster where all the good men come from," john concluded. "i've seen some poor specimens from ulster," mr. clotworthy said. "mebbe you have, but i'm not one of them." the editor remained silent for a few moments. he tapped on his desk with an ivory paper-knife and glanced quickly now and then at john. "what part of ulster do you come from?" he demanded. "ballyards." "i've heard of it," mr. clotworthy continued. "it's not much of a place, is it?" john flared up angrily. "it's better than cookstown any day," he said. "who told you i came from cookstown?" "never mind who told me. if you don't want to give me a job on your paper, you needn't. there's plenty of other papers in this town!..." "that temper of yours'll get you into serious bother one of these days, young fellow," said mr. clotworthy. "i'm willing to give you work on the paper if you're fit to do it, but don't run away with the notion that you've only to walk in here and say you're an ulsterman, and you'll immediately get a position. what sort of work do you want to do? you know our paper, i suppose? well, how would you improve it?" john opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, the editor stopped him. "don't," he exclaimed, "say it doesn't need improvement. a lot of third-rate fellows have tried that tack with me, as if they'd flatter me into giving them a job. the fools never seemed to realise that when they said the paper didn't need improvement they were giving the best reason that could be given why they shouldn't be employed on it. if you weren't a plain-spoken and direct young fellow i wouldn't give you that warning. go on!" "in my opinion," john replied, "what's wrong with your paper is that it doesn't tell the truth. it tells lies to its readers. my idea is to tell them the truth instead!" mr. clotworthy laughed at him. "you won't do it on this paper," he said. "why not?" "because it can't be done. there's no such thing as truth. there never was, and there never will be such a thing as truth. there's only point-of-view!..." "well, i've got my point-of-view," john interrupted. "yes, but on this paper we express the point-of-view of the man that owns it. that's him there!" he pointed to the companion picture to the portrait of napoleon. "if you imagine that we spend hundreds of thousands of pounds every year to express your point-of-view, you're making a big mistake, young fellow my lad. what you want is a soap-box in hyde park. you can express your own point-of-view there if you can get anybody to listen to you. or you can start a paper of your own. but this paper is the soap-box of that chap, and his is the only point-of-view that'll be expressed in it. do you understand me?" "i do," said john "all the same, i believe in telling the people the truth!" the editor touched the bell on his desk. "are you quite sure," said he, "that you know what the truth is?" "of course i'm sure." john began, but before he could finish his sentence, the door of the editor's room was opened by the lady-secretary. "good-morning, mr. macdermott!" said the editor, reaching for the telephone receiver. "but i haven't finished yet," john protested. "i have." he tapped the handle of the telephone. "you can come and see me again when you've learned sense," he added, after he had given an instruction to the telephone operator. "good morning!" "ah, but wait a minute!..." "we've no use for john the baptists here. good morning!" "all the same!..." the editor impatiently waved him aside. "this way, please!" the lady secretary commanded. john glared at her, half in the mood to ask her what she meant by interrupting him and half in the mood to tell her that it little became a woman to intrude herself into the conversation of men, but the moods did not become complete, and, sulkily calling "good morning!" to mr. clotworthy, he left the office. "one of these days," he said to the lady secretary when they were in the outer office, "i'll be your boss. and his, too. and i'll sack the pair of you!" "you'll find the lift at the end of the passage," she replied. v hinde mocked him for his failure to make the editor of the _daily sensation_ accept his view of the universe. "that man sized you up the minute he clapped his eyes on you," he said. "he's seen hundreds of young fellows like you. we've all seen them. they come down from oxford and cambridge with their heads stuffed with ideas pinched from bernard shaw and h. g. wells, and they try to stampede old clotworthy. 'by god, i'm a superman!' is their cry, and they say that night and morning and before and after every meal until even they get sick of listening to it. then they say 'oh, damn!' and go into the civil service, and in three years' time an earthquake wouldn't rouse them. all you youngsters want to go about telling the truth, especially when it's disagreeable, but there isn't one in a million of you is fit to be let loose with the truth, and there isn't one in ten million of men or women wants to be bothered by the truth. lord alive, mac, can't you young fellows leave us a few decent lies to comfort ourselves with?..." "you'll get no lies from me," john replied. "i can see very well you're going to be a nice cheerful chum to have in the house," hinde said. "however, i'll bear it. the haverstocks' 'at home' is to-night. i don't suppose you have a dress suit?" "no, i haven't!" "it doesn't matter. half the people who go to the haverstocks don't wear evening dress on principle. that's their way of showing their contempt for conventionality. i suppose you'll come with me?" john nodded his head. "good! we'll start off immediately after we've had our dinner. you'll get a good dose of truth to-night, my son. there was a couple went there once ... the rummest couple i ever saw in my life. they thought they must do something for progress and advanced thought, so they pretended they weren't married, but were living in sin!..." "like the two downstairs?" said john. "aye, only they were legally married all right. you'll observe in time, mac, that the people who make changes are never the advanced people who talk about them, but the ordinary, conventional people who have no theories about things, but just alter them when they become inconvenient. butter wouldn't melt in the mouth of the man who is a devil of a fellow in print. this couple went to live at a garden city and made an enormous impression on the nut-eaters; and every sunday evening crowds went to see them, living in sin. i went myself one night: it was terribly dull, and i thought if that's the best sin can do for a man, i'm going to join the salvation army. the woman took off her wedding-ring and hid it in the clock, and the man made a point of snorting every time he passed a parson. they had a grand time, as i tell you, until a terrible thing happened. a jealous nut-eater ... and i can tell you there's nothing on earth so fearful and vindictive as a jealous vegetarian ... discovered that these two were really married all the time, and he exposed them to their admirers. he produced a copy of their marriage-certificate at a public meeting which the man was addressing on the subject of intolerable bonds, and the meeting broke up in disorder. they had to leave the garden city after that, and they're now hiding somewhere in the north of england and leading a life of shameful matrimony!..." john giggled. "are there really people like that?" he asked. "lots of them. you'll see some of them, mebbe, at the haverstocks the night. i think there's to be some sort of a discussion, but i'm not sure. mrs. haverstock is a great woman for discussions, but i will say this for her, she doesn't humbug herself over them. she told me once that it was better to talk about adultery than to commit it!..." john blushed frightfully. he felt the hot blood running all over his body. this casual way of speaking of things that were only acknowledged in the ten commandments had a very disturbing effect upon him. he hoped that hinde would not observe his confusion, and he put his hand in front of his eyes so that he might conceal his red cheeks. if hinde noticed that john was embarrassed, he did not make any comment about the matter. "and i daresay it is," he went on. "as long as you're letting off steam, there's no danger of the engine bursting. i've often noticed that there's less misbehaviour in places where people are always chattering as if they had never conducted themselves with decency in their lives than there is in places where they never say a word about it. _you'll_ notice that too, when you've learned to use your eyes better!..." vi the haverstocks lived in an old creeper-covered and slightly decrepit house in the spaniards' road. it was without a bathroom until the haverstocks took possession of it, for it had been built in the days when the middle-classes had not yet contracted the habit of frequently washing their bodies. from the front windows of the house one saw across hampstead heath towards london, and from the back windows one saw across the heath towards harrow. the house, in spite of its slight decrepitude and the clumsiness of its construction--the stairs were obviously an afterthought of the architect--had that air of comfortable kindliness which is only to be seen in houses which have been occupied by several generations of human beings. mr. haverstock was vaguely known as a sociologist. he investigated the affairs of poor people, and was constantly engaged in inveigling labourers into filling large _questionnaires_ with particulars of the wages they earned, the manner in which they spent those wages, the food they ate, the number of children they procreated, and other intimate and personal matters. he was anxious to discover exactly how much proteid was necessary to the maintenance of a labouring man in health and efficiency, and he conducted the most elaborate experiments with beans and bananas for that purpose. it was one of the most discouraging features of modern civilisation, he often said, that the spirit of research and disinterested enquiry was less prevalent among the labouring classes than was desirable. he could not induce a labouring man to live exclusively on beans and bananas for six months in order that he might compare his physical condition at the end of that period with his physical condition after a period spent in flesh-eating. he told sad stories of the reception that had been accorded to some of his assistants at the time that they were obtaining data from workmen on the question of the limitation of the family!... he was a kindly, solemn man, with large, astonished eyes, and he wore a beard, less as a decoration than as a protest. the beard was really a serious nuisance to him, for he had dainty manners and he disliked to think of soup dribbling down it; but someone had convinced him that a man who wore a beard early in life was definitely bidding defiance to the conventions of the time, and so he sacrificed his sense of niceness to his desire to _ã©pater les bourgeois_. he said that a beard was a sign of virility!... mrs. haverstock and he were childless. mrs. haverstock, a quick-witted and merry-minded american, had married her husband in the days when she believed that a man who wrote books of sufficient dullness must be a distinguished and desirable man; and since she brought a considerable fortune to england with her, she enabled him to write more dull books than he could otherwise have had published. much of her awe of her husband had disappeared in the course of time, but it had, fortunately, been replaced by deep affection: for his generosity and kindliness appealed to her increasingly as her respect for his learning and solemnity declined. she often said of him that he would do more for his friends than his friends would do for themselves ... and indeed many of them were willing to allow him to do anything and everything for them ... but so long as knight-errantry with an entirely sociological intent made him happy, she did not mind how he spent her money. he had many moments of dubiety about her fortune ... he frequently threatened to cross the atlantic in order to discover whether the money was justly earned ... but he invariably comforted himself with the reflection that even if the money were ill-gained, he could at least put it to better use than anyone else; and so he refrained from crossing the atlantic, not without a sensation of relief, for he was an unhappy sailor. he loved discussions and arguments about deep things, and mrs. haverstock had invented her series of at homes in order that her husband might get rid of some of his noble principles at them. she felt that if he could dissipate part of them in argument with other very high-minded men, life, between the at homes, would be a little more human and livable for her. she secured a regular supply of attendants at these discussions by the simple method of supplying an excellent supper to those who came to them. "i first met haverstock," hinde said to john as they walked along the spaniards' road, "during a strike at canning town. he was trying to persuade the police to remember that the strikers were men and brothers, and he was trying also to persuade the strikers that force was no argument and that they ought to use constitutional means of settling their disputes with their employers. and between the two, he was in danger of getting his eye knocked out, until i hauled him out of the crowd and shoved him into a cab and took him home. mrs. haverstock was so grateful to me that she's invited me to her house ever since ... but the people i meet there make me feel murderous. i like her, a sensible, sonsy woman, and i like him too, although his solemn, priggish airs make me tired, but i cannot bear the crowd they get round them: all the cranks and oddities and smug, self-sufficient, interfering people seem to get into their house, and they're all reforming something or uplifting something else or generally bleating against this country. things done in england are always inferior to things done elsewhere. english cooking is inferior to french cooking: english organisation is inferior to german organisation. whatever is done in england is wrongly done. the english are hypocrites, the english are sordid and materialistic, the english are everlastingly compromising, the english are this, that and the other that is unpleasant and objectionable!... i tell you, mac, there's nobody makes me feel so sick as the englishman who belittles england!" "well, we make little of the english, don't we?" john protested. "i know we do, and perhaps it is natural that we should, but it's a poor, cheap thing at the best, and does very little credit to our intelligence. the english ideal of life is as good an ideal as there is in the world. i think it is far the finest ideal there is, chiefly because it does not make impossible demands on human beings. when everything that can be alleged against the english is alleged and admitted, it remains true that they love freedom far more constantly than other people, and that without them, freedom would have a very thin time in the world. you ask any liberty-loving american which country has more freedom, his country or this country, and he'll tell you very quickly, england! englishmen don't argue about freedom: they just are free, and on the whole, they carry freedom with them. an american will argue about liberty even while he is clapping you into gaol for asserting your right to freedom!... here's the house!" they turned into the front garden of the haverstocks' house as he spoke. "in a way," he said, as they walked along the gravel path leading to the door, "the english radical is the strongest testimony to the english ideal of freedom that you could have. he is so jealous of his country's good name that he is always ready to shout out if he is not satisfied with her behaviour. that's a good sign, really! only they're so smug about it!..." most of the guests were already assembled when they entered the drawing-room where mr. and mrs. haverstock bade them welcome. hinde introduced john to them, mentioning that he had only lately arrived from ireland. mrs. haverstock smiled and hoped he would often come to see them, and mr. haverstock looked pontifical and said, "ah, yes. poor ireland! _poor_ ireland! tragic! tragic!" he waved his hand in a vague fashion, and then turned to greet the representative of another distressed nation. john could hear him murmuring, "ah, yes. poor georgia! _poor_ georgia! tragic! tragic!" but was unable to hear any more because mrs. haverstock led him up to a lean, staring youth with goggle eyes who, she said, had promised to read several of his poems to the guests and to open a discussion on marriage. the goggle-eyed poet informed john that homer, dante, shakespeare, milton, shelley and browning were comic old gentlemen who entirely misunderstood the nature and function of poetry. he had founded a new school of poetry. it appeared from his account of this school that the important thing was not what was said in a poem, but what was left out of it. he illustrated his meaning by allowing john to read the manuscript of one of the poems he proposed to read that evening. it was entitled "life," and it contained two lines!... life big, black crows on bare, black branches, cawing!... "where's the rest of it!" said john innocently. the poet looted at him with such contempt that he felt certain he had committed an indiscretion. "is that the whole of it?" he hurriedly asked. "that fact that you ask such a question," said the poet, "shows that you have no knowledge of the completeness of life!..." "well, i only came here about a fortnight ago," john humbly replied ... but the poet had moved away and would not listen to him any longer. "i seem to have put my foot in it," john murmured to himself. he made his way to hinde's side, resolved that he would not budge from it for the rest of the evening. the people present frightened him, particularly after his experience with the poet, and he determined that he would keep himself as inconspicuous as possible. he felt that all these people were terribly clever and that his ignorance would be immediately apparent if he opened his mouth in their presence. he tried hard to realise the magnitude of "life," but he could not convince himself that it was either an adequate description of existence or that it was a description of anything; and, in his innocence, he believed that he was mentally deficient. hinde named some of the guests to him. this one was a novelist and that one had written a play ... and in the excitement of seeing and listening to men who had actually done things that he wished to do, john forgot some of his humiliation. "i saw you talking to palfrey," hinde said to him. "the poet chap?" john replied. hinde nodded his head. "what did you think of him?" he continued. "he showed me one of his poems. i couldn't understand it, and when i said so, he walked away!" hinde laughed. "that's as good a description of him as you could invent," he said. "he always walks away when you can't understand what he's getting at. the reason why he does that is he's afraid someone'll discover he isn't getting at anything. he's just an impertinent person. he thinks he's being great when he's only being cheeky!" john repeated the poem entitled "life" to hinde. "what do you think of that?" he asked. "i don't think anything of it," hinde replied. john felt reassured. "i asked him where the rest of it was, and he nearly ate the face off me," he said. "i was afraid he'd think me a terrible gumph!..." "if you let a humbug like that impose upon you, mac, i'll never own you for my friend. any intelligent office-boy could write poems like that all day long!" there was a movement in the room, and the guests began to settle in their seats or on the floor, and after a short while, mr. haverstock, who acted as chairman of the meeting, took his place in front of a small table, and mr. palfrey sat down beside him. the poet, said the chairman, would honour them by reading some new poems to them, after which he would open a discussion on marriage. they all knew that marriage was an important matter, affecting the lives of men and women to a far greater extent, probably, than anything else in the world, and it was desirable therefore that they should discuss it frankly and frequently. problems would remain insoluble so long as people remained silent about them. he could not help expressing his regret to those present at the extraordinary reluctance which the average person had to revealing experiences of matrimony. he had initiated an important enquiry into the question of marital relationships with a view to discovering exactly what it was that caused so many marriages to fail, and he had had to abandon the enquiry because very few people were willing to tell anything about their marriages to him. there was a great deal of foolish reticence in the world ... at this point mr. palfrey emphatically said, "hear! hear!"... and he trusted that those present that evening would cast away false modesty and would say quite openly what their experiences had been. he would not detain them any longer ... he was quite certain that they were all very anxious to hear mr. palfrey ... and so without any more ado he would call upon him to read his poems and then to discuss the great and important question of marriage. vii mr. palfrey read his poems in a curious sing-song fashion, beating time with his right hand as he did so. he seemed to be performing physical exercises rather than modulating his own accents, and on two occasions his gesture was longer than his poem. he read "life" very slowly and very deliberately, saying the word "cawing" in a high-pitched tone, and prolonging it until his breath was exhausted. he recited a dozen of these poems, obtaining his greatest effect with, the last of them, which was entitled, "the sea": immense, incalculable waste, the dribblings from a giant's beard.... "isn't it wonderful?" said an ecstatic girl sitting next to john. "no," he replied. she looked at him interrogatively, and he added, very aggressively, "i think it's twaddle!" "oh, _do_ you?" she exclaimed as if she could scarcely believe her ears. "i do," said john. he would have said more, but that mr. haverstock was on his feet proposing that they should now have supper and take the more important business of the evening afterwards, namely, the discussion of this great problem of marriage. they had all been deeply moved by mr. palfrey's beautiful verses and would no doubt like an opportunity of discussing them in an informal manner.... mrs. haverstock led john to a girl who was sitting at the back of the room, and introduced him to her. miss bushe was the daughter of the editor of the _daily groan_, and mrs. haverstock desired that john would take her into supper. "mr. macdermott is irish--he has only just arrived from ireland," mrs. haverstock said to miss bushe by way of explanation or possibly as a means of providing them with conversation. "i've always wanted to go to ireland," said miss bushe, taking his arm and allowing him to lead her to the dining-room. "well, why don't you go?" he asked. all evening people had been telling him that they had always wanted to go to ireland, but had somehow omitted to do so. "well, mother likes bournemouth," miss bushe replied, "and so we always go there. she says that she knows there'll be a bathroom at bournemouth, and plenty of hot water and she can't bear the thought of going to some place where hot water isn't laid on. i suppose i shall go to ireland some day!" "there's plenty of hot water in ireland," said john. miss bushe giggled. "you're so satirical," she said. "satirical?" he exclaimed. "yes. about the hot water in ireland!" he gazed blankly at her. "i don't understand you," he replied. "i meant just what i said. you can get hot water in ireland as easily as you can in england. some people have it laid on in pipes, and other people have to boil it on the fire; but you can get it all right!" there was a look of disappointment on miss bushe's face. "i thought you were making a reference to politics," she said. john stared at her. then he turned away. "will i get you something to eat?" he murmured as he did so. he had observed the other men gallantly waiting upon the ladies. "oh, thank you," she said. she glanced towards the table. "i wonder if that trifle has got anything intoxicating in it?" she added. "i daresay," he answered. "trifles usually have drink of some sort in them!" "i couldn't take it if it has anything intoxicating in it," she burbled. "why not?" john demanded. "it'll do you no harm!" "oh, i couldn't. i simply couldn't if it has anything intoxicating in it. we're very strict about intoxicants. they do so much harm!" john did not know what to do or say next. she still stared longingly at the trifle, and it was clear that she would greatly like to eat some of it. "well?" he said vaguely. "i wonder," she replied, "whether you'd mind tasting it first, just to see whether it has anything intoxicating in it?" john thought that this was a strange sort of young woman to take into supper, but he did as she bid him. he took a large portion of the trifle on to a plate and tasted it. she gazed at him in a very anxious manner. "it has," he said, "and it's lovely!" the light went out of her eyes. "then i think i'll just have some blanc-mange," she said. "there's nothing intoxicating in that," he replied, going to get it for her. "do you know," she murmured when he had returned and she was eating the blanc-mange, "i almost wish you had said there was nothing intoxicating in the trifle!..." "that would have been a lie," john interrupted. "yes, but!... oh, well, this blanc-mange is quite nice!" john tempted, her. "taste the trifle anyway," he said. "oh, no," she replied, shrinking back. "i couldn't. we're very strict!..." viii after supper, mr. palfrey opened the discussion on marriage. he declared that marriage was the coward's refuge from love. he said that marriage had been invented by lawyers and parsons for the purpose of obtaining fees and authority. these unpleasant people, the lawyers and the parsons, had contrived to make love an impropriety and had reduced holy passion to the status of a schedule to an act of parliament. cupid had been furnished with a truncheon and a helmet and had been robbed of his wings in order that he might more suitably serve as a policeman. he demanded free love, and pleaded for the chaste promiscuity of the birds!... after he had said a great deal in the same strain, he sat down amid applause, and mr. haverstock invited discussion. he would like to say, however, that he strongly believed in regulation. in his opinion there was something beautiful in the sight of a bride and a bridegroom signing the parish register in the presence of their friends. the young couple, he said, asked for the approval and sanction of the community in their love-making. love without law was license, and he trusted that mr. palfrey was not inviting them to approve of licentiousness.... mr. palfrey created an enormous sensation and some laughter by saying that that was precisely what he did invite them to do. all law was composed of hindrances and obstacles and forbiddings, and therefore he was entirely opposed to law. this statement so nonplussed mr. haverstock that he abruptly sat down, and for a few moments the meeting was in a state of chaotic silence. then a large man rose from the floor where he had been lying almost at full length and announced that in his opinion the world would cease to have any love in it at all if the present craze for vegetable diet increased to any great extent. how could a bean-feaster, he demanded, feel passion in his blood? meat, he declared, excited the amorous instincts. all the great lovers of the world were extravagantly carnivorous, and all poetry, in the last resort, rested on a foundation of beef-steak puddings. what sort of lover would romeo have been had he lived on a diet of lentils? would juliet have had the power to move the sympathies of generations of men and women if she had nourished her love on haricot beans?... immediately he sat down, a lean and bearded youth sprang to his feet and announced in vibrant tones that he had been a practising vegetarian from birth and could affirm from personal experience that a vegetable diet, so far from suppressing the passions, actually stimulated them; and he offered to prove from statistics that vegetarians, in proportion to their number, had been more frequently engaged in romantic philandering than carnivorous persons had. look at shelley!... he could assure those present that he was as amorous and passionate as any meat-eater in the room.... the discussion went to pieces after that, and became a wrangle about proteid and food values. there was an elderly lady who insisted on telling john all about the gastric juices!... hinde rescued him on the plea that they had a long journey in front of them, and very gratefully john accepted the suggestion that they should set off at once in order to reach their lodgings at a reasonable hour. mr. and mrs. haverstock conducted them to the door ... a chilly and contemptuous nod had been accorded to john by mr. palfrey ... and pressed them to come again soon. "every wednesday evening," said mr. haverstock, "we're at home, and we discuss ... everything!..." they hurried along the spaniards' road towards the tube station, and as they did so, john told hinde of his encounter with miss bushe over the trifle. "that accounts for it," hinde exclaimed aloud. "accounts for what?" john demanded. "the _daily groan_. i've often wondered what was the matter with that paper, and now i know. they're always wondering whether there's anything intoxicating in the trifle!... i don't mind a boy talking in that wild way. a clever, intelligent lad ought to talk revolutionary stuff, but when a man reaches palfrey's age and is still gabbling that silly-cleverness, then the man's an ass. there's no depth in him!..." ix they sat in the sitting-room for a long while after they had returned to brixton, and hinde related some of his reminiscences to john. "i'm one of the world's failures," he said. "i came to london to try and do great work, and i'm still a journalist. i can recognise a fine book when i see it, but i can't create one. i'm just a journalist, and a journalist isn't really a man. he has no life of his own ... he goes home on sufferance, and may be called up by his editor at any minute to go galloping off in search of a 'story.' we go everywhere and see nothing. we meet everybody and know nobody. a journalist is a man without beliefs and almost without hope. the damned go to fleet street when they die. it's an exciting life ... oh, yes, quite exciting, but it's horrible to see men merely as 'copy' and to think of the little secret, intimate things of life only as materials for a good 'story.' i wish i were a grocer!..." "why?" john demanded. "well, at least a grocer does not look upon human beings merely as consumers of sugar!" "i could have been a grocer if i'd wanted to," john continued. "my mother wanted me to be a clergyman!" "what put it into your head to turn scribbler?" "i just wanted to write a book. i can't make you out, hinde. one minute you're advising me to go on a paper, and the next minute you're telling me a journalist isn't a man!..." "when you know more of us," hinde interrupted, "you'll know that all journalists belittle journalism. it's the one consolation that's left to them. unless you're prepared to associate only with journalists, mac, you'd much better keep out of fleet street. newspaper men always feel like fish out of water when they're in the company of other men. they must be near the newspaper atmosphere ... they can't breathe without the stink of ink in their nostrils!..." "all the same i'll have a try at the life," said john. x but at the end of his first month in london, john had no more to his account than this, that he had begun but had not completed a music-hall sketch, that he had begun but had not made much progress with a tragedy, that he had tried to obtain employment on the staff of the _daily sensation_ and had failed to do so, and, worst of all, that he had fallen in love with eleanor moore but could not find her anywhere. his novel supplied the one element of hope that lightened his thoughts on his month's work. he wished now that he had asked hinde to read it before it had been sent to the publisher. perhaps it would redeem the month from its dismal state. the fourth chapter i it was hinde who brought the good news to john. mr. clotworthy, the editor of the _daily sensation_, had met hinde in tudor street that afternoon and when he had heard that john and hinde were living together, he said, "tell him i'll take him on the staff if he'll promise to keep the truth well under control!" and had named the following morning for an appointment. "it's a queer thing," said hinde as he related the news to john, "that i'm advising you to take the job when i was telling you the other night that journalism's no work for a man; but that only shows what a journalist i am. no stability ... carried off my feet by any excitement. and mebbe the life'll disgust you and you'll go home again!..." "with my tail between my legs?" john demanded. "no, i'll not do that. i'd be ashamed to go home and admit i hadn't done what i set out to do. what time does mr. clotworthy want me?" hinde told him. "i'll write to my mother at once," said john, "and tell her he's sent for me. that'll impress her. shell be greatly taken, with the notion that he sent for me instead of me running after him!..." "the great fault in an ulsterman," said hinde, "is his silly pride that won't let him acknowledge his mistake when he's made one. you'll get into a lot of bother, john macdermott, if you go about the world letting on you've done right when you've done wrong, and pretending a mistake is not a mistake!" "i'll run the risk of that," john replied. ii mr. clotworthy spoke very sharply to him. "you understand," he said, "that you're here to write what we want you to write, and not to write what you think. if you start any of your capering about truth and reforming the world, i'll fire you into the street the minute i catch you at it. you're here to interest people. that's all. you're not here to elevate their minds or teach them anything. you're here to keep up our sales and increase them if you can. d'you understand me?" "i do," said john. "well?" "i'll try the job for a while and see how i like it!" mr. clotworthy sat back in his chair and rubbed his glasses with his handkerchief. "you've a great nerve," he said, smiling. "i don't know whether you talk like that because you're sure of yourself or just stupid!" "i always knew my own mind," john replied. mr. clotworthy turned him over to mr. tarleton, the news-editor, who was instructed to give him hints on his work and introduce him to other members of the staff. for two days john did very little in the office, beyond finding his way about, but on the third day of his employment, tarleton suddenly called him into his room and told him that the musical critic had telephoned to say he was unwell and would not be able to attend a concert at the albert hall that evening. "you'll have to go instead," said tarleton. "but i don't know anything about music," john protested. "what's that got to do with it?" "well, i thought one was supposed to know something about music before you wrote a criticism of it!" "look here, young fellow," said tarleton. "let me give you a piece of advice. never admit that there's anything in this world that you don't know. a _daily sensation_ man knows everything! ..." "but i have no ear for music. i hardly know a minim from a semi-quaver!..." "well, that doesn't matter. get a programme. mark on it the songs and pieces that get the most applause. those are the best things. see? anybody can criticise music when he knows a tip or two like that. if the singer is a celebrated person, like melba or tetrazzini, you say she was in her usual brilliant form. if the singer isn't celebrated, just say that she shows promise of development!..." "but supposing i don't like her?" "then say nothing about her. if we can't praise people on this paper, we ignore them. get your stuff in before eleven, will you? here's the ticket!" tarleton thrust the card into john's hand and, a little dazed and a little excited, john went out of the room. this was his first important job. words that he had written would appear in print in the morning, and hundreds of thousands of people would read them. the _daily sensation_ had an enormous circulation ... a million people bought it every morning, so tarleton said, and that meant, he explained, that about three or four million people read it. each copy of a paper was probably seen by several persons. the thought that some judgment of his would be read by a million men and women in the morning caused john to feel tremendously responsible. he must be careful to give his praise judiciously. all of the persons present at the concert that night, but more especially the singers and instrumentalists, would turn first of all to his notice. there might be a great political crisis or a sensational murder reported in the morning's news, but these people would turn first to his notice to see what he had said about the music. and it would not do to let them have a wrong impression about the concert. tarleton had told him not to dispraise anything ... "it'll be cut out if you do" ... but at all events he would take care that his praise was justly given. he would send copies of the papers, marked with blue pencil, to his mother and mr. mccaughan and mr. cairnduff. he could imagine the talk there would be in ballyards about his criticism of the concert. the minister and the schoolmaster would be greatly impressed when they realised that the paper with the largest circulation in the world had asked him to say what he thought of madame tetrazzini. mr. mccaughan had never heard anything greater than a cantata sung by the church choir in the church room, and he had been deeply impressed by the statements made about it by a reporter from the _north down herald_ who declared that the rendering of the sacred work reflected great credit on all concerned in it, but particularly on the reverend mr. mccaughan to whose sterling instruction in the principles of true religion, the young people engaged in singing the cantata clearly owed the sincerity and fervour with which they sang their parts. if he were so greatly impressed by a report in the _north down herald_, would he not be overwhelmed by the fact that one of his congregation had been chosen to pronounce judgment on the greatest singer in the world in the greatest newspaper in the world ... for john was now satisfied that the _daily sensation_ was enormously more important than any other paper that was published. he went to a tea-shop in fleet street where he knew he could hope to meet hinde, and found him sitting in a corner with a friend who, soon after john's arrival, went away. "you needn't go to the concert if you're not desperately keen on it," hinde said when john had told him of his job. "you can write your notice now!..." "write it now! ... but i haven't been to the concert!" "i wouldn't give much for the man who couldn't write a criticism of a concert without going to it," hinde contemptuously replied. "say that tetrazzini's wonderful voice enthralled the audience and that there were scenes of unparalleled enthusiasm as the diva graciously responded to the clamorous demands for encores. add a few words about the man who played her accompaniments and the number of floral tributes she received, and there you are. that's all that's necessary!" "i couldn't do it," said john. it wouldn't be honest!" "don't be a prig," hinde exclaimed. "prig! is it being a prig to do your work fairly?" "no, but it's being a prig to treat a thing as important that isn't important at all. i wanted you to come to a music-hall with me to-night!" "i'm sorry," john replied stiffly, "i'd like to go with you, but i couldn't think of doing such a thing as you suggest to me!" "i wonder how long you'll feel like that, mac?" hinde laughed. "all my life, i hope!" "well, have it your own way, then. but you're wasting your time!" "and another thing," john continued, "i want to hear the woman singing. i've never heard anybody great at the music yet!" iii he entered the great circular hall, and sat, very solemnly, in his seat on the ground floor. he felt nervous and uneasy and certain that he would not be able to write adequately of the concert. he tried to think of suitable words to great music, but it seemed to him that he could not think at all. he glanced about the hall, hoping that perhaps he would find inspiration in the ceiling, but there was no inspiration there. he could see wires stretched across the roof from side to side, and there were great pieces of canvas radiating from the central cluster of lights in the dome. he wondered why the wires were there. blondin, he remembered, had walked across a wire, as thin-looking as those, which was stretched high up in the roof of the exhibition at the old linen hall in belfast; but he could scarcely believe that these wires were intended for tight-rope performances. he turned to a man at his side. "would you mind telling me what those things are for?" he asked, pointing to them. "to break the echoes," the man replied, entering into an involved account of acoustics. "it's all humbug really," he added. "they don't break the echoes at all, but we all imagine that they do, and so we're quite happy!" the warm, comfortable look of the red-curtained boxes in the softened electric light pleased him, and he liked the effect of the tiers rising up to the high roof, and the great spread of floor, and the gigantic magnificence of the organ. "how many people does this place hold?" he demanded of his neighbour. "about ten thousand," his neighbour answered, glancing at him quizzically. "is this the first time you've been here?" "yes. i'm new to london. they must take a great deal of money in a night at a place like this. an immense amount!" "they do. it's part of the albert memorial, this hall. the other part is in the park across the road. have you seen it?" "no," said john. "is it any good?" "well," said the stranger, "we've tried to overlook it ... but unfortunately it's too big. there are some excellent bits in it, but the whole effect!... poor dear queen victoria ... she was a little woman, and so, of course, she believed in magnitude. she liked bigness. she's out of fashion, nowadays ... people titter behind their hands when they speak of her ... and there's a tendency to regard her as a somewhat foolish and sentimental old woman ... but really, she was a very capable old girl in her narrow way, and there was nothing soft about her. she was as hard as nails ... almost a cruel woman ... she'd compel her maids-of-honour to stand in her presence until the poor girls fainted with fatigue.... i'm sure she'd have made queen elizabeth feel uncomfortable in some ways. this hall is a memorial to her husband." "yes," said john. "there's a memorial in belfast to him. what did he do?" "he was queen victoria's husband!" "i suppose," said john, "it wasn't much fun being her man?" "fun!" exclaimed the stranger. "well, of course, it depends on what you call fun!" there was a bustling sound from the platform and some applause, and then a dark-looking man emerged from the sloping gangway underneath the organ and sat down at the piano. he played mascagni's _pavana delle maschere_, and while he played it, john took some writing paper from his pocket and prepared to note down his opinions of the evening's entertainment. "hilloa," said the stranger in a whisper, "are you a critic?" john, feeling extraordinarily important, nodded his head and continued to listen to the music. it sounded quite pleasant, but it conveyed nothing to him. all he could think of was the contortions of the pianist as he played his piece, and he wished that all pianists could be concealed behind screens so that their grimaces and gyrations should not be seen. he ought to say something about the man, but he had no idea of what was fitting!... the solo ended and was followed by another one, and then the pianist stood up to acknowledge the applause. "what do you think of it?" the stranger respectfully asked, and john, aware of the respect in his voice and conscious that he did not know what to think of it, murmured, "um-m-m! not bad!" "coldish, i think," the stranger continued. "technically skilful, but hardly any feeling!" john considered for a moment or two, and then answered very judicially. "yes! yes, i think that's a fair description of him!" he waited until the stranger was engaged in reading the programme, and then he jotted down on his writing-paper, "mr. pietro mancinelli played mascagni's _pavana delle maschere_ with great technical ability, but with hardly any emotional quality!" "i'm very glad i sat down beside this chap," he murmured to himself, as the accompanist played the opening bars of handel's _droop not, young lover_, and then he settled down to listen to the man who sang it. he was happier here, for singing was more easy to judge than instrumental music. either a song was well sung, he told himself, or it was not well sung, and the gentleman who was singing _droop not, young lover_ certainly had a voice that sounded well in that great hall.... he wrote in his report that "mr. albert luton's magnificent voice was heard to great advantage in handel's charming aria..." and was exceedingly glad that he had lately read some musical notices in one of the newspapers, and could remember some of the phrases that had been used in them. "now for a treat," said the stranger, as a burst of hearty applause opened out from the platform and went all round the hall. john glanced towards the passage leading to the artist's room and saw a smiling, plump lady, with very bright, dark eyes and dark hair come on to the platform. she was clad in white that made her italian looks more pronounced. "tetrazzini!" the stranger whispered in john's ear. the applause died down, and the singer stood rigidly in front of the platform while the pianist played the opening of verdi's _caro nome_. then her voice sounded very clear and bell-like in the deep silence of the great hall. ... she sang _solveig's song_ by greig and _a pastoral_ by veracini, and then the satiated audience allowed her to retire from the platform. john sat back in his seat in a dazed fashion. all round him were applauding men and women ... and he could not applaud. there was a buzz of admiring talk, and he could hear the words "wonderful" and "magnificent" ... and he had not been moved at all. the great voice had not caused him to feel any thrill or emotion whatever. it was wonderful, indeed, but that was all that it was. there was no generous glow in her music; she did not cause him to feel any emotion other than that of astonishment at the perfection of her vocal organs. he had imagined that the great singer's voice would compel him to jump out of his seat and wave his hands wildly and shout and cheer ... but instead he had sat still and wondered at the marvellous way in which her throat functioned. "well?" said his neighbour, in the tone of one who would say that only words of an extremely adulatory character were conceivable after such a performance. "she's a very remarkable woman," john replied. "remarkable!" his neighbour indignantly exclaimed. "she's a miracle!..." john disregarded his ecstatics. "i kept on thinking of a clever machine," he said. "the wheels went round without a hitch. she's a grand invention, that woman! she can sing her pieces without thinking about them. she hardly knows the notes are coming out of her mouth ... she doesn't know where they come from or why they come at all, and i don't suppose it matters to her where they go. there's a grand machine in our place that prints the papers. you put a big roll of white paper on to it, and you turn a wee handle, and the machine sends the roll spinning round and round until it's done, and a lot of folded papers, nicely printed, come tumbling out in counted batches, all ready to be taken away and sold in the shops and streets. it's a wonderful machine ... but it can't read its own printing and it doesn't know what's in the papers after it's done with them. that's what she's like; a wonderful machine!..." "my dear sir," the stranger exclaimed, but john prevented him from saying any more. "that's my opinion anyway," he went on, "and i can only think the things i think. i can't think what other people think!" "a limitation," said the stranger. "a distinct limitation!" "mebbe it is, but i don't see what that matters!" after tetrazzini had left the platform and the applause of her admirers had died away, there was a violin solo, and then came an interval of fifteen minutes. john determined to write part of his notice in the vestibule of the hall, and he got up from his seat to do so. he mounted the stairs that led to the first tier of boxes, and as he approached them, he saw eleanor moore sitting in the box nearest the exit through which he was about to pass. there were other people in the box ... girls, he thought ... but he hardly saw them. as he came nearer to her, she raised her eyes from her programme and looked straight at him, and for a few moments neither of them averted their eyes. then she looked away, and he passed through the curtained exit. iv he had found her again! she had not flown away from london ... she was not ill, as he had so alarmingly imagined, nor, as he had horribly imagined for one dreadful moment, was she dead. she lived ... she was well ... she was here in this very hall, separated from him only by a thin partition of wood ... and she had looked at him without fear in her eyes. he mounted the short flight of stairs leading to the corridor on to which the doors of the boxes opened, and read the name written on the card underneath the number painted on the door of the box in which eleanor was sitting. "the viscountess walbrook." the name puzzled him, and he turned to an attendant, a lugubrious man in a dingy frock-coat looking extraordinarily like a dejected image of albert the good, and asked for an explanation. "it means that she owns that box," he explained. "lots of the seats and boxes 'ere belong to private people. that one belongs to the viscountess walbrook. she in'erited it from 'er father. very kind-'earted woman ... always gives 'er box to orphans and widders and people like that!" "then the ladies in the box now are not friends of hers?" john asked, meaning by "friends," relatives. "i shouldn't think so," the attendant answered. "i noticed the party comin' in. they come in a 'ired carriage. no, they're orphans or widders or somethin'. there's always a lot of orphans an' widders about this 'all, partic'lar on a sunday afternoon when they're doin' 'andel's _messiar_. and the _elijiar_, too! you know! mendelssohn's bit! reg'lar fascination for orphans an' widders that 'as. i call it depressin' meself, but some 'ow it seems to fit in with orphans an' widders!..." john thanked the attendant and moved down the corridor. he must not lose sight of eleanor now that he had found her again. if only he could discover where she lived ... he stood where he could see the door of the viscountess walbrook's box, and brooded over the chances of discovering eleanor's home. he must not lose sight of her ... that was imperative. the luckiest thing in the world had brought him into her company again, and he might never have such an opportunity again if he let this one slip away from him. he could look round every now and then from his seat to assure himself that she was still in the box, but supposing she were to go away in the interval between his assuring glances? even if he were to see her leaving the box, he would have some difficulty in getting to her in time to keep her in sight!... no, no, he must not run the risk of losing her again. he must stay in some place from which he could immediately see her leaving the box and from which he could easily follow her without ever missing her. he looked about him, and felt inclined to sit down in the corridor and wait there until eleanor emerged from the viscountess walbrook's private property! but the corridor was a draughty and conspicuous and depressing place in which to loiter, and he felt that the cheerless attendant might suspect him of some felonious or other criminal intent if he were to stay there during the whole of the second part of the programme. he peered through the curtains which separated the corridor from the auditorium and saw an empty seat on the opposite side of the gangway to that on which lady walbrook's box was situated; and when the interval was ended and the violinist began to play the first movement of beethoven's _romance in g_, he slipped into the seat, and sat so that he could see every movement that eleanor made. how very beautiful she looked! she seemed more beautiful to him in her blue evening dress even than she had seemed on the first day that he saw her. until he had come to london, he had never seen a woman in evening dress, except in photographs and in illustrated papers, and when, for the first time, he had seen real women in real evening clothes in a theatre, the sight of their bare white shoulders and bosoms had appeared to him both beautiful and improper. eleanor's shoulders were bare, and as he looked at her, he could see her bosom very gently rising and falling with her breathing, but he felt no confusion in seeing her in that bare state. she was beautiful ... he could think of nothing else but her beauty. her shapely head was perfectly poised upon her strong neck, and he was aware instantly of the graceful line of her shoulders. if she had not been in those pretty evening clothes, he would not have known that her neck and shoulders were so beautiful. her soft, dark hair, loosely dressed over her ears, glowed with loveliness, and the narrow golden band that bound it was no brighter than her eyes. how lovely she is, he said to himself, indifferent to the applause that was offered to the violinist, and then he fell to admiring the way in which she clapped her gloved hands together, slowly but firmly. her applause was not languid applause, neither was it without discrimination. she seemed to john to be telling the violinist that he had played well, but might have played better.... "she's the great wee girl," he said to himself. he saw now that she shared the box with two other girls, but he had no further interest in them than that they were in her company and that they were not men. he wished that her hands were not gloved so that he might see whether she wore rings on her fingers, and if so, on which fingers they were worn. supposing she were engaged to some other man ... or worse still, supposing she were married! it was possible for her to have been married since he last saw her!... an agony of doubt and despair came upon him as he brooded over the thought of her possible marriage, and although he was aware that tetrazzini was singing mazzone's _sogni e canti_ and benedict's _carnevale di venezia_, the music was no more than a noise in the air to him. what should he do if eleanor were married? bad enough if she were engaged, but married!... an engagement was not an irrefragable affair, and he could woo her so ardently that his rival would swiftly vanish from her thoughts ... but a marriage!... he knew that marriages were not so irrefragable as they might be, and that a very desperate couple might go to the length of running away together even though one of them were married to someone else ... but he did not like the thought of running away with a married woman. eleanor might not wish to run away with him ... his agony of mind was such that he stooped to that humility of imagination ... she might very dearly love her husband!... lord alive, why couldn't that italian woman stop singing! why was not this silly music ended so that he could settle his doubts about eleanor's freedom to marry him! why could the audience not be content with two songs from the woman instead of demanding encores from her!... and then the concert ended after what seemed an interminable time, and the audience began to emerge from the hall. john went quickly into the corridor and waited until the door of the viscountess walbrook's box opened and eleanor, followed by her friends, came out of it. she had a long coat with a furry collar over her pretty blue frock, and as she gathered her skirts about her, he could see that she was wearing blue satin shoes and blue silk stockings. one hand firmly grasped her skirts and the other hand held the furry collar in front of her mouth. she passed so close to him that he could have touched her glowing cheeks with his hands, but she did not see him. the crush of people made progress slow and difficult, but he was glad of this for it enabled him to be near to her much longer than he could otherwise have hoped to be. as she passed him, he had fallen in behind her, and now he could touch her very gently without her being aware that his touch was any more than the unavoidable contact of people in the crowd. there was a faint smell of violets about her clothes, and he snuffed up the delicate odour eagerly. mrs. cream had smelt strongly of perfume, an overpowering hothouse-smelling perfume that had made him feel as if he were stifling, but this delicate odour pleased him. how natural, how very obvious even, that eleanor should use the scent of violets! when they reached the front of the hall, eleanor turned to her friends and made some remark about a carriage. he supposed they had hired a vehicle to bring them to the hall and take them home again, and when he discovered that his supposition was right, a sense of disappointment filled him. he had hoped that they would walk home or that they would get on to a 'bus!... he watched them climb into the shabby hired brougham, and when the door was closed upon them and the driver had whipped up his horse, he followed it into the kensington road. the traffic was so congested that the horse had to move at a walking pace, and john was easily able to keep close to it; but in a few moments, he told himself, the driver would get clear of the congestion and then the horse would begin to trot; and while the thought passed through his mind, the driver cracked his whip and the slow, spiritless horse began to move more rapidly ... and as it gathered speed, resolution suddenly came to john out of a sudden vision of a boy's pleasure. "fancy not thinking of this before," he said, as he swung himself on to the back of the carriage and balanced uncomfortably on the bar. v the brougham drove along kensington road and then turned sharply into church street along which it was drawn at an ambling pace to notting hill. it turned to the right, and went along the bayswater road, and then john lost his bearings. he was in one of the streets off the bayswater road, but in the darkness he could not tell what its name was. presently the driver shouted "whoa!" to his horse and drew up in front of a dreary, tall house, with a pillared portico, and john had only sufficient time in which to drop from the back of the carriage and skip across the street to the opposite pavement before the three girls alighted from the brougham and stood for a few moments in front of the house. the driver drove off, and john, lurking in the shadow of a doorway, watched the girls as they stood talking together. then he saw two of them climb up the steps leading to the house, and eleanor, calling out "good-night!" to them, went round the corner. he hurried after her, and saw her going up the steps of a similar house immediately round the corner from the one into which her friends had entered. she was fumbling at the keyhole with her key as he came opposite the house, and she did not see him until he spoke to her. "miss moore," he said in a hesitating manner, taking off his hat as he spoke. she started and turned round. "what is it?" she said in an alarmed manner. "i ... i've been trying to find you for a long time!..." she shrank away from him. "i don't know you," she said. "you've made a mistake. please go away!" "don't be afraid of me," he pleaded. "i know you don't know me, but i know you. you're eleanor moore!..." she came forward from the shadow. "yes," she said, half in alarm, half out of curiosity. "yes, that's my name, but i don't know you!..." then she recognised him. "oh, you're that man!" she said, now wholly alarmed. "i saw you at the tea-shop," he replied hastily. "you remember you left a letter behind and i picked it up and gave it to you. that's how i know your name!" "why are you persecuting me?" she demanded, almost tearfully. he was daunted by her tone. "persecuting you!" he said. "yes. you follow me about in the street, and stare at me. i saw you this evening at the albert hall, and you stared at me!..." "because i love you, eleanor!" he went nearer to her, and as he did so, she retreated further into the shadow. "don't be afraid of me, please," he said. "i fell in love with you the moment i saw you, but i'm a stranger in this town and i had no way of getting to know you. i tried hard, eleanor!..." "don't call me eleanor!" "i can't help it. i think of you as eleanor. i always call you eleanor to myself. you see, dear, i'm in love with you!" "but you don't know me. i wish you'd go away. i shall ring the bell or tell the policeman at the corner!..." "let me tell you about myself," he pleaded. "i don't want to hear about you. i don't like you. you stare so hard, and you're always looking at my stockings!..." "oh, no!" "yes, you are. you're looking at them now!" "only because you mentioned them. i won't look at them if you tell me not to!..." "i don't want to tell you anything," she murmured. "i only want you to go away!..." "i know that, dearest, but just let me tell you this. my name is john macdermott!..." "i don't care what your name is," she interrupted. "it doesn't interest me in the least!..." "but it will, eleanor, darling. when you're married to me!..." she burst out laughing, "i think you're mad," she said. "i was very lonely, eleanor, when i saw you. i have not got a friend in london!..." he omitted to remember the existence of hinde. "i come from ireland!..." "oh!" "and i had not been in london more than a day when i saw you. i fell in love with you at once!..." "absurd!" she said. "it's true. after you'd gone back to your office, i went for a long walk, but all the time, i was thinking of you, and i hurried back to the shop at teatime, hoping i'd see you. and you were there, looking lovelier than you looked in the middle of the day. do you remember?" "yes," she said. "you looked so ridiculous!..." "perhaps i did, but i didn't care how i looked so long as i was near you. i felt miserable and lonely, and you were the only person in london i knew!..." "but you didn't know me!" she insisted. "i knew your name, and i was in love with you. that was enough. i tried to speak to you, but you would not let me. i asked you to be friends with me, and you got up and walked away. i felt ashamed of myself because i thought i had frightened you, and i hurried out of the shop and followed you so that i might tell you how sorry i was and how much i loved you, but i lost you at your office, and the man at the lift nearly had a fight with me!..." "then it _was_ you who had been asking for me? he told me that a suspicious character had been hanging about the hall, enquiring for me. i thought it might be you!" "i don't look suspicious, do i?" "you behave suspiciously. you speak to people whom you do not know, and you follow them in the street!..." "only you, eleanor. not anybody else!" there was a silence for a few moments, and then she turned to the door and inserted the key in the lock. "well, please go away now," she said. "you can't do any good here!..." "let me come in and tell your father and mother i want to marry you!" she opened the door and gazed at him as if she could not believe her ears. "this is a residential club for women," she said. "i have no parents, i think you're the silliest man i've ever encountered. please go away! you'll get me talked about!..." she shut the door in his face. he stared blankly at the glass panels of the door for a few moments and then went down the steps into the street, and as he did so, he saw a light suddenly illuminate the room immediately above the pillared portico. he stared up at it, and saw that the window was open, and while he looked, he saw eleanor come to it and begin to draw it down. he called out to her. "eleanor!" he said, "hi, eleanor!" she peered out of the window, and then leant her head through the opening. "there's a policeman at the corner," she said, "i shall call him if you don't go away!" "very well," he replied. "they can't put a man in gaol for loving a woman!" "they can put him in gaol for annoying her!" "i'm not annoying you. how can i annoy you when i'm in love with you? no, don't interrupt me. you haven't let me get a word out of my mouth all night!" he could hear her laughing at him. "are you codding me?" he said. "what?" she replied in a puzzled voice. "are you codding me?" he repeated. "are you making fun of me?" she leant out of the window as if she were trying to see him more closely. "you really are funny," she said. "i was afraid of you ... you stared so ... but i'm not afraid of you now. you're a funny little fellow, but i do wish you'd go away!" "come down and talk to me, and i'll go home content!..." "you're being silly again!" "no, i'm not. i tell you, girl, i'm mad in love with you, and i'll sit on your doorstep all night 'til you agree to go out with me!" "the policeman would lock you up if you were to do that," she replied. "i'm not in love with you ... i don't even like you ... i think you're a horrid man, staring at people the way you do ... and i won't 'go out with you,' as you call it. i'm not a servant girl!..." "what does it matter to me what sort of a girl you are, if i'm in love with you. you must like me ... you can't help it!..." "oh, can't i?" "no. i never heard tell yet of a man loving a woman the way i love you, and her not to fall in love with him!" "don't talk so loudly, please," she said in a lowered tone. "people will hear you, and there's someone coming down the street." "i don't care!..." "but i do. now listen to me, mr.... mr.... i can't remember your name!" "my name's macdermott, but you can call me john." "thank you, mr. macdermott, but i don't wish to call you john. now listen to me. i think you're a very romantic young man!... no, please let me finish one sentence! you're a very romantic young man, and i daresay you think that all you've got to do is to tell the first girl you meet that you're in love with her, and she'll say, 'oh, thank you!' and fall into your arms. well you're wrong! you may think you're very romantic, but i think you're just a tedious fool!..." "a what?" "a tedious fool. you've made me feel exceedingly uncomfortable more than once. i had to stop going to that tea-shop because i couldn't eat my food without your eyes staring at me all the time. fortunately, the work i was doing in the city was only a temporary job, and i got a permanent post elsewhere and was able to move away from the city altogether!..." "but eleanor!..." "how dare you call me eleanor!" "because i love you!" he said. she seemed to be nonplussed by his reply. she did not speak for a few moments. then, altering her tone, she said, "oh, well, i daresay you think you do!" "i don't think. i know. i'll not be content till i marry you. now, eleanor, do you hear that?" "i know nothing whatever about you!..." "come down to the doorstep and i'll tell you. will you?" "no, of course not!" "well, how can you blame me then if you won't listen to me when i offer to tell you about myself. you know my name. john macdermott. and i'm irish!..." "yes," she interrupted, "i'm making big allowances for that!" "my family's the most respected family in ballyards!..." "where's that?" she asked. "do you not know either? you're the second person i've met in london didn't know that. it's in county down. my mother lives there, and so does my uncle william. i've come here to write books!..." "are you an author?" she exclaimed with interest. "i am," he said proudly. "i've written a novel and i'm writing a play!... come down and i'll tell you about them!" "oh, no, i can't. it's too late. and you must go home. where do you live?" "at brixton," he answered. "that's miles from here. and you'll miss the last bus if you don't hurry!..." "i can walk. come down, will you!" "no. no, no. it's much too late," she said hurriedly. "and i can't stay here talking to you any longer. someone will make a complaint about me. you'll get me into trouble!..." "well, will you meet me to-morrow somewhere? wherever you like!" "no!..." "ah, do!" "no, i won't. why should i?" "because i'm in love with you and want you to meet me." "no!..." "then i'll sit here all night then. i'll let the peeler take me up, and i'll tell the whole world i'm in love with you!" "you're a beast. you're really a beast!" "i'm not. i'm in love with you. that's all. will you meet me the morrow?" "i don't know!..." "well, make up your mind then." she remained silent for a few moments. "well?" he said. "i don't see why i should meet you!..." "never mind about that. just meet me!" "well ... perhaps ... only perhaps, mind you ... i don't promise really ... i might meet you ... just for a minute or two!..." "where?" "at the bookstall in charing cross station. do you know it?" "i'll soon find it. what time?" "five o'clock!" "right. i'll be there to the minute!..." "go home now. you've a long way to go, and i'm very tired!" "all right, eleanor. i wish you'd come down, though. just for a wee while!" "i can't. good-night!" "good-night, my dear. you've the loveliest eyes!..." she closed the window, but he could see her standing behind the glass looking at him. he kissed his hand to her and then, when she had moved away, he walked off. "good night, constable!" he said cheerily to the policeman at the corner. the policeman looked suspiciously at him. "how do you get to brixton from here?" john continued. "first on the right, first on the left, first on the right again, and you're in the bayswater road. turn to the left and keep on until you reach marble arch. you'll get a 'bus there, if you're lucky. if you're too late, you'll have to walk it. go down park lane and ask again. make for victoria!" "thanks," said john. he walked along the bayswater road, singing in his heart, and after a while, finding that the street was almost empty, he began to sing aloud. the roadway shone in the cold light thrown from the high electric lamps, and there was a faint mist hanging about the trees in kensington gardens. he looked up at the sky and saw that it was full of friendly stars. all around him was beauty and light. the gleaming roadway and the gleaming sky seemed to be illuminated in honour of his triumphant love, for he did not doubt that his love was triumphant. the night air was fresh and cool. it had none of the exhausted taste that the air seems always to have in london during the day. it was new, clean air, fresh from the sea or from the hills, and he took off his hat so that his forehead might be fanned by it. he glanced about him as if in every shadow he expected to see a friend. london no longer seemed too large to love. "i like this place," he said, waving his hat in the air. a policeman told him of a very late 'bus that went down whitehall and would take him as far as kensington gate, and he hurried off to charing cross and was lucky enough to catch the 'bus. "how much?" he said to the conductor. "sixpence on this 'bus," the conductor replied. john handed a shilling to him. "you can keep the change," he said. vi hinde was lying on the sofa in the sitting-room when john, slightly tired, but too elated to be aware of his fatigue, got home. "hilloa," he said sleepily, "how did the concert go?" john suddenly remembered. "holy o!" he exclaimed, clapping his hand to his head. "what's that?" hinde said. "i forgot all about it," john replied. "forgot all about it! do you mean you didn't go to it?" "i went all right, but i forgot to take my notice to the office!" hinde sat up and stared at him. "you _forgot_!..." he could not say any more. john told him of the encounter with eleanor. "you mean to say you let your paper down for the sake of a girl," hinde exclaimed incredulously. "i'll go back now," john said, turning to leave the room. "go back _now_! what's the good of that? the paper's been put to bed half an hour and more ago. my god almighty ... you let the paper down. for the sake of a girl!" he seemed to have difficulty in expressing his thoughts, and he sat back and gaped at john as if he had just been informed that the last day had been officially announced. "you needn't show your nose in _that_ office again," he said again. "i never heard of such a reason for letting a paper down! good heavens, man, don't you realise what you've done? _you've let the paper down_!" "i'm in love with this girl!..." hinde almost snarled at him. "ach-h-h, _love_!" he shouted. "and you propose to be a journalist. let your paper down. for a girl. you sloppy fellow!... my heavens above, i never heard of such a thing. letting your paper down!..." he walked about the room, repeating many times that john had "let his paper down." "and i recommended you to clotworthy, too. i told him you had the stuff in you. i thought you had. i thought you could do a job decently, but by the holy o, you're no good. you let your own feelings come between you and your work. oh! oh, oh! oh, go to bed quick or i'll knock the head off you. i'll not be responsible for myself if you stand there any longer like a moonstruck fool!" "if you talk to me like that," said john, "i'll hit you a welt on the jaw. i'm sorry i forgot about the paper, but sure what does it matter anyway?..." "what does it matter!" hinde almost shrieked at him. "your paper will be the only paper in london which won't have a report of that concert in it to-morrow. that's what it matters? i'd be ashamed to let my paper down for any reason on earth. if my mother was dying, i wouldn't let her prevent me from doing my job!... if you can't understand that, john macdermott, you needn't try to be a journalist. you haven't got it in you. your paper's your father and your mother and your wife and your children! oh, go to bed, out of my sight, or i'll forget myself!..." john walked towards the door. "i'd rather love a woman any day than a paper," he said. "well, go and love her then, and don't try to interfere with a paper again! don't come down fleet street pretending you're a journalist!" "good-night!" "yah-h-h!" said hinde. the fifth chapter i it had been exceedingly difficult for john to explain his defection to mr. clotworthy and to tarleton. the only mitigating feature of the business was that the matter to be reported was only a concert. both mr. clotworthy and tarleton trembled when they thought of the calamity that would have befallen the paper if the forgotten report had been of a murder! they hardly dared contemplate such a devastating prospect. they invited john to think of another profession and wished him a very good morning. tarleton quitted the room, leaving john alone with the editor, and as he went he showed such contempt towards him as is only shown towards the meanest of god's creatures. "well, where's your ulster now?" said mr. clotworthy very sardonically when they were alone together. "i know rightly i'm in the wrong from your point of view, mr. clotworthy," john replied, "but i'd do the same thing again if twenty jobs depended on it. it's hard to make you understand, and mebbe i'm a fool to try, but there it is. the minute i clapped my eyes on her, i forgot everything but her. i'm sorry i've lost my post here, but i'd be sorrier to have lost her. that's all about it. you were very kind to give me the work, and i wish i hadn't let your paper down the way hinde says i did, but it's no good me pretending about it. i'd do it again if the same thing happened another time. that's the beginning and end of it all. i'd rather be her husband than edit a dozen papers like yours. i'd rather be her husband than be anything else in the world!" "well, good afternoon!" said mr. clotworthy. "good afternoon!" said john, turning away. he moved towards the door of the room, feeling much less assurance than he had felt when he came into it. "if you care to send in some articles for page six," mr. clotworthy added, "i'd be glad to see them!" "thank you," said john. "not at all," the editor replied without glancing up. he left the _daily sensation_ office, and walked towards charing cross. a queer depression had settled upon his spirits. hinde had treated him as if he were mentally deficient, and he knew that mr. clotworthy and tarleton, particularly tarleton, regarded him with coldness, but he was not deeply affected by their disapproval. nevertheless, depression possessed him. he felt that eleanor would fail to keep her appointment. quietly considered, there seemed to be no reason why she should keep it. she knew absolutely nothing of him except what he had told her while she leaned out of the window. how was she to know that he was speaking the truth? what right had he to expect her to pay any heed to him at all? dreary, drizzling thoughts poured through his mind. he felt as certain that his novel would not be published as he felt that eleanor would not be at the bookstall at charing cross station when he arrived there. the tragedy on which he was working had seemed to him to be a very marvellous play, but now he thought it was too poor to be worth finishing. he had been in london for what was quite a long time, but he had achieved nothing. he had not even written the music-hall sketch for the creams. he had not earned a farthing during the time that he had been in london. all the exaltation which had filled him as he walked along the bayswater road on the previous night, with his mind full of eleanor and love and starshine and moonlight and gleaming streets and trees hanging with mist and friendliness for all men, had gone clean out of him. fleet street was a dirty, ill-ventilated alley full of scuffling men and harassed women. london itself was a great angry thing, a place of distrust and contention, where no one ever offered a friendly greeting to a stranger. he would go to charing cross station and he would stand patiently in front of the bookstall, but eleanor would not come to meet him. he would stand there, dumb and uncomplaining, and no one of the hurrying crowd of people would turn to him and say, "you're in trouble. i'm sorry!" they would neither know nor care. they would be too busy catching trains. he would stand there for an hour, for two hours ... until his legs began to ache with the pain of standing in one place for a long time ... and then, when it was apparent that waiting was useless and he had, perhaps, aroused the suspicions of policemen and railway porters concerning his purpose in loitering thus so persistently in front of the bookstall, he would go home in his misery to a contemptuous hinde!... ii and while these bitter thoughts poured through his mind, he entered charing cross station, and there in front of the bookstall was eleanor moore. the bitter thoughts poured out of his mind in a rapid flood. he felt so certain that his novel would be published that he could almost see it stacked on the bookstall behind eleanor. he would finish the tragedy that week and in a short while england would be acclaiming him as a great dramatist!... he hurried towards her and held out his hand, and she shyly took it. "have you been here long?" he anxiously asked. "no," she answered, "i've only just come!" "let's go and have some tea," he went on. "i've had mine, thanks!..." "well, have some more. i've not had any!..." "i don't think i can, thanks. i've really come to say that i can't!..." "there's a little place near here," he interrupted hurriedly, "where they give you lovely home-made bread. i found it one day when i was wandering about. we'll just go there and talk about whatever you want to say. give me that umbrella of yours!" he took it from her hand as he spoke. "this is the way," he said, leading her from the station. as they crossed the road, he took hold of her arm. "these streets are terribly dangerous," he said. "you never know what minute you're going to be run over!" he still held her arm when they were safely on the pavement, but she contrived to free herself without making a point of doing so. he tried to bring her back to the mood in which they were when she leaned out of the window to listen to him ... "like romeo and juliet," he told himself ... but the congestion of the streets made such intimacies impossible. they were constantly being separated by the hurrying foot-passengers, and so they could only speak in short, dull sentences. he brought her at last to the quiet tea-shop where he ordered tea and home-made bread and honey!... "eleanor," he said, when the waitress had taken his order and had departed to fulfil it, "it's no good, you telling me that you can't go out with me. you must, my dear. i want to marry you!..." "but it's absurd," she expostulated. "how can you possibly talk like that when we're such strangers to each other!" "you're no stranger to me. i've loved you for two months now. i've hardly ever had you out of my mind. i was nearly demented mad when i lost you. i used to go and hang about that office of yours day after day in the hope that you'd come out!... and if ever i get the chance, i'll break that liftman's neck for him. he insulted me the day i asked him what office you were in. he called me a nosey parker!" she laughed at him. "but that was right, wasn't it?" she said. "you wouldn't have him give information about me to any man who chooses to ask for it?" "he should have known that i was all right. a child could have seen that i wasn't just playing the fool. but you're mebbe right. i'll think no more about him. do you know what happened last night?" "no." he told her of his relationship with the _daily sensation_. "then you've lost your work?" she said. he nodded his head, and they did not speak again for a few moments. the waitress had brought the tea and bread and honey, and they waited until she had gone. "i'm so sorry," she said. "it doesn't bother me," he replied. "i only told you to show you how much i love you. i'm not codding you, eleanor. you matter so much to me that i'd sacrifice any job in the world for you. i told clotworthy that ... he's the editor of the paper ... i told him i'd rather be your husband than have his job a hundred times over. and so i would. will you marry me, eleanor?" "i've never met anyone like you before!..." "i daresay you haven't but i'm not asking you about that. will you marry me? we can fix the whole thing up in no time at all. i looked it up in a book this morning, and it says you can get married after three weeks' notice. if i give notice the morrow, we can be married in a month from to-day!" "oh, stop, stop," she said. "your mind is running away with you. i spoke to you for the first time last night!..." "beg your pardon," he said, "you spoke to me the first day we met. i handed you your letter!..." "oh, but that doesn't count. that was nothing. i really only spoke to you last night, and i don't know you. i'm not in love with you ... no, please be sensible. how can i possibly love you when i don't know you!..." "i love you, don't i?" he demanded. "you say so!" "well, if i love you, you can love me, can't you. that's simple enough!" she passed a cup of tea to him. "do all irishmen behave like this?" she said. "i don't know and i don't care. it's the way i behave. i know my mind queer and quick, eleanor, and when i want a thing, i don't need to go humming and hahhing to see whether i'm sure about it. i want you. i know that for a fact, and there's no need for me to argue about it. i'll not want you any more this day twelvemonth than i want you now, and i won't want you any less. will you marry me?" "no!" "how long will it be before you will marry me, then?" she threw her hands with a gesture of comical despair. "really," she said, "you're unbelievable. you seem to think that i must want to marry you merely because you want to marry me. i take no interest whatever in you!..." "no, but you will!" she shrugged her shoulders. "it isn't any use talking," she said. "your mind is made up!..." "it is. i want to marry you, eleanor, and i'm going to marry you. i have a lot to do in the world yet, but that's the first thing i've got to do, and i can't do anything else till i have done it. so you might as well make up your mind to it, and save a lot of time arguing about it when it's going to happen in the end!" she pushed her cup away, and rose from her seat. "i'm going home," she said. "this conversation makes me feel dizzy!" "there's no hurry," he exclaimed. she spoke coldly and deliberately, "it's not a question of hurry," she replied. "it's a question of desire, i _wish_ to go home. your conversation bores and annoys me!" "why?" "because you treat me as if i were not human, and had no desires of my own. i'm to marry you, of whom i know absolutely nothing, merely because you want me to marry you. i don't know whether you are a gentleman or not. you have a very funny accent!..." "what's wrong with my accent?" he demanded. "i don't know. it's just funny. i've never heard an accent like that before, and so i can't tell whether you're a gentleman or not. if you were an englishman, i should know at once, but it's different with irish people. your very queer manners may be quite the thing in ireland!" he put out his hand to her, but she drew back. "sit down," he said. "just for a minute or two till i talk to you. i'll let you go then!" she hesitated. then she did as he asked her. "very well!" she said primly. "listen to me, eleanor, i know very well that my behaviour is strange to you. it's strange to me. till last night we'd never exchanged a dozen words. i know that. but i tell you this, if you live to be a hundred and have boys by the score, you'll never have a man that'll love you as i love you. i'm in earnest, eleanor. i'm not codding you. i'm not trying to humbug you. i love you. i'm desperate in love with you!..." she leant forward a little, moved by his sincerity. "but," she said, and then stopped as if unable to find words, adequate to her meaning. "there's no buts about it," he replied. "i love you. i don't know why i love you, and i don't care whether i know or not. all i know is that the minute i saw you, i loved you. i wanted to see you again, and i schemed to make you talk to me!..." "yes, and very silly your schemes were. asking me if i wanted the _graphic_ back again!..." "you remember that, do you?" he asked. "well, it was so obvious and so stupid," she answered. "listen. tell me this. do you believe me when i tell you i love you? it's no use me telling you if you don't believe me!" "it's so difficult to say!..." "do you believe me," he insisted. "do i look like a man that would tell lies to a girl like you. answer me that, now?" she raised her eyes, and gazed very straightly at him. "no," she said; "i don't think you would. i ... i think you mean what you say!..." "i do, eleanor. as true as god's in heaven, i do. will you not believe me?" "but i don't love you," she burst out. "well, mebbe you don't. that's understandable!" he admitted. "and the whole thing's so unusual," she protested. "what does that matter? if i love you and you get to love me, does it matter about anything else? have wit, woman, have wit!" "don't speak to me like that. you're very abrupt, mr. macdermott!..." "my name's john to you! now, don't flare up again. you were nice and amenable a minute ago. you can stop like that. you and me are going to marry some time. the sooner the better. all i want you to do now, as you say you don't love me, is to give me a chance to make you love me. come out with me for a walk ... or we'll go to a theatre, if you like! anyway, let's be friends. i don't know anybody in this town except one man, and him and me's had a row over the head of the _daily sensation!_..." "yes," she interrupted, "you've lost your work through your foolishness. what are you going to do now? it isn't very easy to get work." "i'll get it all right if i want it, i've enough money to keep me easy for a year without doing a hand's turn, and i daresay my mother and my uncle william 'ud let me have more if i wanted it. i don't want to be on a paper much. i want to write books!" her interest was restored. "tell me about the book you've written. is it printed yet?" she said. he told her of his work, and of the creams and of hinde. he told her, too, of his life in ballyards. "where do you come from?" he said. "devonshire," she answered. "my father was rector of a village there until he died. then mother and i lived in exeter until she died!..." "you're alone then?" he asked. "yes. my mother had an annuity. that stopped when she died. my cousin ... he's a doctor in exeter ... settled up her affairs for me, and when everything was arranged, there was just enough money to pay for my secretarial training and keep me for a year. i trained for six months and then i went as a stop-gap to that office where you saw me. i'm in an office in long acre now--a motor place!" "and have you no friends here--relations, i mean?" "some cousins. i don't often see them. and one or two people who knew father and mother!" "you're really alone then ... like me?" he said. "yes," she answered. "yes, i suppose i am!" he leant back in his chair. "it seems like the hand of god," he said, "bringing the two of us together!" "i wish," she said, "you wouldn't talk about god so much!" iii when he went home that evening, he wrote to his mother. _dear mother_, he wrote, _i've got acquainted with a girl here called eleanor moore, and i've made up my mind i'm going to marry her. she's greatly against it at present, but i daresay she'll change her mind_.... there was more than that in the letter, but it is not necessary to repeat the remainder of it here. he also wrote to eleanor. _my dearest_, the letter ran, _i'm looking forward to meeting you again tomorrow night at the same place. i know you said you wouldn't meet me, but i'm hoping you'll change your mind. i'll be waiting for you anyway, and i'll wait till seven o'clock for you. remember that, eleanor! if you don't turn up, it'll be hard for you to sit in comfort and you thinking of me waiting for you. you'll never have the heart to refuse me, will you? we can have our tea together, and then go for a walk or a ride on a 'bus till dinner-time, and then, if you like, after we've had something to eat, we'll go to a theatre. don't disappoint me, for i'm terribly in love with you. yours only, john macdermott. p. s. don't be any later than you can help. i hate waiting about for people._ iv she came, reluctantly so she said, to the bookstall at charing cross station, but only to tell him that she could not do as he wished her to do. she would take tea with him for this once, but it was useless to ask her to go for a walk with him or for a 'bus-ride either, and she certainly would not dine with him nor would she go to a theatre. yet she went for a walk on the embankment with him, and they paced up and down so long that she saw the force of his argument that she might as well have her dinner in town as go back to her club where the food would be tepid, if not actually cold, by the time she was ready to eat it. she need not go to a theatre unless she wished to do, but he could not help telling her that a great deal of praise had been given to a piece called _justice_ by a man called galsworthy. mebbe she would like to see it. she was not to imagine that he was forcing her to go to the theatre.... and so she went, and they sat together in the pit, hearing with difficulty because of the horrible acoustics of the duke of york's theatre; and when the play was over, he had to comfort her, for the fate of falder had pained her. they climbed on to the top of a 'bus at oxford circus and were carried along oxford street to the bayswater road. they sat close together on the back seat of the 'bus, with a waterproofed apron over their knees because the night was damp and chilly; and as the 'bus drove along to marble arch they did not speak. the rain had ceased to fall before they quitted the theatre, but the streets were still wet, and john found himself again realising their beauty. trees and hills and rivers in the country and flowers and young animals were beautiful, but until this moment he had never known that wet pavements and wooden or macadamised roads were beautiful, too, when the lamps were lit and the cold grey gleam of electric arcs or the soft, yellow, reluctant light of gas lamps fell upon them. he could see a long wet gleam stretching far ahead of him, past the marble arch and the darkness of hyde park and kensington gardens into a region of which he knew nothing; and as he contemplated that loveliness, he remembered that the sight of tramlines shining at night had unaccountably moved him more than once. once, at ballyards, he had stood still for a few moments to look at the railway track glistening in the sunshine, and he remembered how puzzled he had been when, in some magazine, he had read a complaint of trains, that they marred the beauty of the fields. he had seen trains a long way off, moving towards him and sending up puffs of thick white smoke that trailed into thin strips of blown cloud, and had waited until the silence of the distant engine, broken once or twice by a shrill, sharp whistle, had become a stupendous noise, and the great machine, masterfully hauling its carriages behind it, had galloped past him, roaring and cheering and sending the debris swirling tempestuously about it! ... the sight of a train going at a great speed had always seemed to him to be a wonderful thing, but now he realised that it was more than wonderful, that it was actually beautiful.... he turned his head a little and looked past eleanor to the park. little vague yellow lights flickered through the trees, all filmy with the evening mists, and he could smell the rich odour of wet earth. he looked at eleanor and as he did so, they both smiled, and he realised that suddenly affection for him had come to life in her. beneath the protection of the waterproofed apron, his hand sought for hers and held it. half-heartedly she tried to withdraw her fingers from his grasp, but he would not let them go, and so she did not persist in her effort. "look!" he said, snuggling closer to her. she turned towards the park, and then, after a little while, turned back again. "i've always loved the park," she said. "it's the most friendly thing in london!" he urged his love for her again. he had seen affection for him in her eyes and had felt that her hand was not being firmly withdrawn from his. "no, no," she protested, "don't let's talk about it any more. i don't love you!..." "well, marry me anyhow!" backwards and forwards their arguments passed, returning always to that point: _but i don't love you! well, marry me anyhow!..._ he took her to the door of her club, and for a while, they stood at the foot of the steps talking of the play they had seen that evening and of his love for her. "it's no good," she said, trying to leave him, but unable to do so because he had taken hold of her hand and would not release it. "don't go in yet," he pleaded. "wait a wee while longer!" "what's the use?" she exclaimed. "you'll meet me again to-morrow?..." "i can't meet you _every_ night!" "why not?" he demanded. "tell me why not!" "well... well, because i can't. it's ridiculous. you're so absurd. you keep on saying the same thing over and over... and it's so silly. if i were in love with you, i might go out with you every evening, but!..." "do you like me!" "i don't know. i... i suppose i must or i wouldn't go out with you at all. really, i'm sorry for you!..." "well, if you're sorry for me, come out with me tomorrow night. we'll have our dinner in town again!" "no, no! don't you understand, mr. macdermott!..." "john, john, john!" he said. "i can't call you by your christian name!..." "why not? i call you by yours, don't i?" "yes, but you oughtn't to. i've asked you not to call me eleanor, but it doesn't seem to be any good asking you to do anything that you don't want to do. but even you must understand that i can't let you take me out every evening. i can't let you pay for things!..." "oh," he said, as if his mind were illuminated. "is that your trouble? we can soon settle that. if you won't let me pay for things, pay for them yourself ... only let me be with you when you're doing it. you have to have food, haven't you? well, so have i. we have no friends in london that matter to us, and you like me ... you admitted it yourself ... and i love you ... so why shouldn't we have our meals together even, if you do pay for your own food?" "of course, it sounds all right as you put it," she answered, "but it isn't all right. i can't explain things. i don't know how to explain them, but i know about them all the same. and i know it isn't all right. you'll begin to think i'm in love with you!..." "i hope you will be, but you'll never be certain unless you see me fair and often. you'll come again to-morrow, won't you?" "oh, good-night," she said impatiently, suddenly breaking from him. "you're like a baby. you think you've only got to keep on asking for things and people will get tired of saying 'no!' i won't go out with you again. you make me feel tired and cross!..." "well, if you won't meet me to-morrow night, will you meet me the next night?" "no!" "then will you stay a wee while longer now?" she turned on the top step and looked at him, and he saw with joy that the anger had gone out of her eyes and that she was smiling at him. "you really are!..." she said, and then she stopped. he waited for her to go on, but she shrugged her shoulders and said only, "i don't know! it simply isn't any good talking to you!" he went up the steps and stood beside her and took hold of her hand. "let me kiss you, eleanor," he said. she started away from him. "no, of course i won't!" "just once!" "no!" "well, why not? you've let me hold your hand. what's the difference?" "there's every difference. besides i didn't let you hold my hand. you took it. i couldn't prevent you. you're so rough!..." "no, my dear, not rough. not really rough. eleanor, just once!..." "no," she said again, this time speaking so loudly that she startled herself. "please go away. i shan't go out with you again. i was silly to go out with you at all. you don't know how to behave!..." she broke off abruptly and turned to open the door, but she had difficulty with the key because of her anger. "let me open it for you," he said, taking the key from her hand and inserting it in the lock. "there!" he added, when the door was open. "thank you," she said, taking the key from him. "good-night!" "good-night, eleanor!" he replied very softly. they did not move. she stood with, her hand on the door and he stood on the top step and gazed at her. "well--good-night," she said again. "dear eleanor," he replied. "my dear eleanor!" she gulped a little. "goo--good-night!" she said. "i love you, my dear, so much. i shall never love anyone as i love you. i have never loved anybody else but you, never, never!... well, i thought i loved someone else, but i didn't!..." "it's no good," she began, but he interrupted her. "well, meet me again to-morrow night at the same place!..." "no, i won't!" "at five o'clock. i'll be there before you ... long before you. you'll meet me, won't you?" "no." "please, eleanor!" she hesitated. then she said, "oh, very well, then! but it'll be the last time. good-night!" she pushed the door to, but before she could close it, he whispered "good-night, my darling!" to her, and then the door was between them. he waited until he saw the flash of the light in her room, and hoped that she would come to the window; but she did not do so, and after a while he went away. v up in her room, she was staring at her reflection in the mirror, while he was waiting below on the pavement for her to come to the window, and as he walked away, she began to talk to the angry, baffled girl she saw before her. "i won't marry him," she said. "i won't marry him. i don't love him. i don't even like him. i _won't_ marry him!..." the sixth chapter i now that he had found eleanor again, he was able to settle down to work. it was necessary, he told himself, that he should have some substantial achievements behind him before she and he were married, particularly as he had lost his employment on the _daily sensation_. the money he possessed would not last for ever and he could hardly hope to sponge on his uncle william ... even if he were inclined to do so ... for the rest of his life. he must earn money by his own work and earn it quickly. in one way, it was a good thing that he had lost his work on the newspaper ... for he would have all the more time to write his tragedy. the sketch for the creams had been hurriedly finished and posted to them at a music-hall in scotland where they were playing, so cream wrote in acknowledging the ms., to "enormous business. dolly fetching 'em every time!..." two pounds per week, john told himself, would pay for the rent and some of the food until he was able to earn large sums of money by his serious plays. the tragedy would establish him. it would not make a fortune for him, for tragedians did not make fortunes, but it would make his name known, and hinde had assured him that a man with a known name could easily earn a reasonable livelihood as an occasional contributor to the newspapers. it was hinde who had proposed the subject of the tragedy to him. for years he had dallied with the notion of writing it himself, he said, but now he knew that he would never write anything but newspaper stuff!... "do you know anything about st. patrick?" he said to john. "a wee bit. not much." "well, you know he was a slave before he was a saint?" john nodded his head. "a man called milchu," hinde continued, "was his master. an ulsterman. he was the chieftain of a clan that spread over down and antrim. our country. he had patrick for six years, and then he lost him. patrick escaped. he returned to ireland as a missionary and sent word to milchu that he had come to convert him to christianity, and milchu sent word back that he'd see him damned first. milchu wasn't going to be converted by his slave. no fear. and he destroyed himself ... set fire to his belongings and perished in his own flames rather than have it said that an ulster chieftain was converted by his own slave. that's a great theme for a tragedy. i suppose you're a christian, mac?" "i am. i'm a presbyterian!" "oh, well, you won't see the tragedy of it as well as i see it. think of a slave trying to convert a free man to a slave religion. there's a tragedy for you!..." "i don't understand you," said john. "no? well, it doesn't matter. there's a theme for you to write about. a free man killing himself rather than be conquered by a slave! of course, the real tragedy is that st. patrick converted the rest of ireland to christianity! ... milchu escaped: the others surrendered. it wasn't the english that beat the irish, mac. they were beaten before ever the english put their feet on irish ground. st. patrick beat them. the slave made slaves of them!..." "is that what you call christians?" john indignantly demanded. "slaves?" hinde shrugged his shoulders. "the irish people are the most christian people on earth," he said. "that's all!..." they put the subject away from them, because they felt that if they did not do so, there must be antagonism between them. but john determined that he would write a play about st. patrick and the pagan milchu. hinde lent him his ticket for the london library, and he spent his mornings reading biographies of the saint: todd and whitley, stokes and zimmer and professor j. b. bury; and accounts of the ancient irish church. slowly there came into his mind a picture of the saint that was not very like the picture he had known before and was very different from hinde's conception of the relationship between milchu and st. patrick. to him, the wonderful thing was that the slave had triumphed over his owner. milchu, in his conception, had not been sufficiently manly to stand before patrick and contend with him, and to own himself the inferior of the two. he had run away from st. patrick! with that conception of the two men in his mind, he began to write his play. "you're wrong" said hinde. "milchu was a gentleman and patrick was a slave!..." "the son of a magistrate!" john indignantly interrupted. "a lawyer's son!" hinde sneered. "and milchu, being a gentleman, would not be governed by a slave. think of an irish gentleman being governed by an irish peasant!" there was a wry look on his face, "and a little common irish priest to govern a little common irish peasant!... they won't get gentlemen to live in a land like that!" "i'm a peasant," said john. "there's not much difference between a shopkeeper and a peasant!..." "i'm talking of minds," said hinde, "not of positions. i believe in making peasants comfortable and secure, but i believe also in keeping them in their place. i'm one of the world's milchus, mac. i'd rather set fire to myself than submit to my inferiors!" john sat in his chair in silence for a few moments, trying to understand hinde's argument. "then why do you write for papers like the _daily sensation_?" he asked at last. hinde winced. "i suppose because i'm not enough of a milchu," he replied. ii john had met eleanor at their customary trysting-place, in front of the bookstall at charing cross road, and they had walked along the embankment towards blackfriars. the theme of his tragedy was very present in his mind and he told the story to eleanor as they walked along the side of the river in the glowing dusk. they stood for a while, with their elbows resting on the stone balustrade, and looked down on the dark tide beneath them. the great, grim arches of waterloo bridge, made melancholy by the lemon-coloured light of the lamps which surmounted them, cast big, black shadows on the water. they could hear little lapping waves splashing against the pillars, and presently a tug went swiftly down to the pool. neither of them spoke. behind them the tramcars went whirring by, and once when john looked round, he felt as if he must cry because of the beauty of these swift caravans of light, gliding easily through the misty darkness of a london night. he had turned quickly again to contemplate the river, and as he did so, eleanor stirred a little, moving more closely to him, demanding, so it seemed, his comfort and protection, and instantly he put his arm about her and drew her tightly to him. he did not care whether anyone saw them or not. it was sufficient for him that in her apprehension she had turned to him. both his arms were about her, and his lips were on her lips. "dear eleanor," he said.... then she released herself from his embrace. "i felt frightened," she said. "i don't know why. it's so lovely to-night ... and yet i felt frightened!" "will we go?" he asked. "yes!" he put his arm in hers and she did not resist him. "you're my sweetheart now, aren't you, eleanor?" he whispered to her, as they walked along towards westminster. she did not answer. "my dear sweetheart," he went on, "and presently you'll be my dear wife, and we'll have a little house somewhere, and we'll love each other for ever and ever. won't we?" he pressed her arm in his. "won't we, eleanor? every night when i come home from work and we have had our supper, we'll go for a walk like this, and i'll talk and you'll listen, and we'll be very happy, and we'll never be lonely again. oh, i pity the poor men who don't know you, eleanor!..." she smiled up at him, but still she did not speak. "i couldn't have believed i should be so happy as i am," he continued. "i wonder if it's right for one woman to have so much power over a man ... to be able to make him happy or miserable just as the fancy takes her ... but i don't care whether it's right or wrong. i'm content so long as i have you. we're going to be married, aren't we, eleanor? aren't we?" he stopped and turned her round so that they were facing each other. "aren't we, eleanor?" he repeated. "don't let's talk about that," she murmured. "i'm so happy to-night, and i don't want to think about what's past or what's to come. i only want to be happy now!" "with me?" "yes," she replied. "then you do love me?..." "i don't know. i can't tell. but i'm frightfully happy. i expect i shall feel that i've made a fool of myself ... in the morning, but just now i don't care whether i'm fool or not. i'm like you. i'm content. let's go on walking!" they turned back at boadicea's statue, and when they were in the shadows again, he took his arm from hers and put it about her waist. "let's pretend there's nobody else here but us," he said. iii they dined in soho, and when they had finished their meal, they walked to oxford circus and once more climbed to the top of a 'bus that would take them along the bayswater road. "you must like me, eleanor," he said to her, as they sat huddled together on the back seat, "or you wouldn't come out with me as you do!" "yes," she answered, "i think i do like you. it seems odd that i should like you, and i made up my mind that i shouldn't ever like you. but i do. you're very likeable, really. it's because you're so silly, i suppose. and so persistent!" "then why can't we get married, my dear? isn't it sickening for you to be living in that club and me to be living at brixton, when we might be living in our own home? i hate this beastly separation every night. let's get married, eleanor!" "i suppose we will in the end," she said, "but i don't feel like getting married to you. after all, john!..." she called him by his christian name now. "after all, john, if i were to marry you now, when we know so little of each other, it would be very poor fun for me, if you discovered after we were married that you did not care for me as much as you imagined. and suppose i never fell in love with you?" "yes," he said gloomily. "how awful!" "but i'd have you. i'd have the comfort of being your husband and of having you for my wife!" "it mightn't be a comfort. oh, no, it's too risky, john. we must wait. we must know more of each other!..." "will you get engaged to me then?" he suggested. "but that's a promise. no. let's just go on as we are now, being friends and meeting sometimes!" "supposing we were engaged without anybody knowing about it?" he said. "would that do?" "i don't want either of us to be bound ... not yet. oh, not yet. do be sensible, john!" "i am sensible. i know that i want to marry you. that's sensible, isn't it?" "yes, i suppose it is," she replied, laughing. "well, isn't it sensible to want to be sensible as soon as possible? you needn't laugh. i mean it. it's just foolishness to be going on like this. i'm as sensible as anybody, and i can't see any sense in our not marrying at once. get engaged to me for a while anyway!" "but what would be the good of that?" "all the good in the world. i just want the comfort of knowing there's a chance of you marrying me!" "it seems so unsatisfactory to me ... and so risky!" she protested. "i'm willing to take the risk. i'll wait as long as you like." "i'll think about it. but if i do get engaged to you, we won't get married for a long time!" "how long?" "oh, a long time. a very long time." "what do you mean? six months?" "no, years. oh, five years, perhaps!" "my god almighty!" he said. "do you know what you're saying! five years? we might all be dead and buried long before then. what age will i be in five years time. oh, wheesht with you, eleanor, and don't be talking such balderdash. five years! holy o!" "what does 'holy o!' mean?" she demanded. "i don't know. it's just a thing to say when you can't think of anything else. five years! five minutes is more like it!" "we're too young to be married yet, and in five years' time we'll know each other much better!" "i should think so, too," he said. "it's a lifetime, woman! whatever put that idea into your head!" "if i get engaged to you at all," she replied, "and i'm not sure that i will, it'll be for five years or not at all. you may be willing to take risks, but i'm not. risks are all right for men ... they can afford to take them ... but women can't. if you don't agree to that, you'll have to give up the idea altogether!" "then you'll get engaged to me?" "no, i didn't say that. i said that if i got engaged to you at all, it would be for five years. i'm not sure that i shall get engaged to you. i don't think i really like you. i think i'd just get tired of saying 'no' to you!..." she could see that his face had become glum, and she hurriedly reassured him. "yes, i do like you! i like you quite well ... but i'm not going to marry you ... if i ever marry you ... till i'm sure about you!" they descended from the 'bus and walked towards her club. "anyway," he said, "i consider myself engaged to you. and i'll buy you a ring the morrow morning!" "indeed, you won't," she said. "indeed, i will," he replied. "i'll have it handy for the time you agree to have me!" "you won't be able to get one until you know the size, and i won't tell you that!..." they wrangled on the doorstep until it was late, but she would not yield to him. he could consider himself engaged to her if he liked ... she could not prevent him from considering anything he chose to consider ... but she would not consider herself engaged to him nor would she wear a ring until she was sure of her feelings. he kissed her when they parted, and she did not resist him. it was useless to try to resist an accomplished thing. his childlike insistence both attracted and irritated her. she felt drawn to him because his mind seemed to be so completely centred upon her, and repelled by him because his own wishes appeared to be the only considerations he had. she could not decide whether the love he had for her ... and she believed that he loved her ... was complete devotion or complete selfishness. love at first sight was a perfectly credible, though unusual thing. it was possible that he had fallen in love with her ... her vanity was pleased by the thought that he had done so ... but she certainly had not fallen in love with him either at first or at second sight. she was not in love with him now. she felt certain of that. he was likeable and kind and a very comforting person, and there was much more pleasure to be had from a walk with him than from an evening spent in the club!... ugh, that club, that dreadful conglomeration of isolated women! oh, oh, oh! she gave little shudders as she reflected on her club-mates. most of them were girls like herself, working as secretaries either in offices or in other places ... to medical men or writers ... and, like her, they had few friends in london. their homes were in the country. among them were a number of aimless spinsters, subsisting sparely on private means ... poor, wilting women without occupation or interest. they were of an earlier generation than eleanor, the generation which was too genteel to work for its living, and they had survived their friends and their families and were left high and dry, without any obvious excuse for existing, among young women who were profoundly contemptuous of a woman who could not earn a living for herself. they sat about in the drawing-room and sizzled! they knew exactly at what hour this girl came in on monday night, and at exactly what hour the other girl came in on tuesday night. they whispered things to each other! they thought it was very peculiar behaviour for a girl to come back to the club alone with a man at twelve o'clock ... "midnight, my dear!" they would say, as if "midnight" had a more terrible sound than twelve o'clock ... and they were certain that miss dilldall's parents should be informed of the fact that on saturday evening she went off in a taxi-cab with a man who was wearing dress-clothes and a gibus-hat. miss dilldall publicly boasted of the fact that she had smoked a cigarette in a restaurant in soho!... ugh! even if john were selfish, he was preferable to these drab women, these pitiful females herded together. women in the mass were very displeasing to look at, and they frightened you. they turned down the corners of their mouths and looked coldly and condemningly at you. it was extraordinary how unanimous the girls were in their dislike of working under women. the woman in authority was more hateful to women even than to men. eleanor had done some work for an advanced woman, an eminent suffragette, who had crept about the house in rubber-soled shoes so that she might come unexpectedly into the room where eleanor was working and assure herself that she was getting value for her money!... she was always spying and sneaking round! what an experience that had been! how impossible it had been to work with that woman! a girl in the club had worked for a royal princess ... not at all an advanced woman ... and she, too, had had to seek for employment under a man. the princess was a foolish, spoilt, utterly incompetent person who did not know her own mind for two consecutive hours. she sneaked around, too, and spied!... all these women in authority seemed to spend half their day peering through keyholes.... perhaps it was because the club was such a dingy, cheerless hole that she liked to go out with john. the food was meagre and poor in quality and vilely cooked. somehow, women living together seemed unable to feed themselves decently. miss dilldall, gay little woman of the world, had solemnly proposed that a man should be hired to _growse_ about the meals. "we'll never get good food in this damned compound," she said, "until we get some men into it. bringing them as guests isn't any good. they're too polite to their hostesses to say anything, but i'm sure that every man who has a meal in this place goes away convinced that the food we are content to eat is a strong argument against votes for women! and so it is. what a hole!" "that's really why i like going out with him," eleanor confided to her reflection in the looking-glass as she brushed her hair. "it's really to escape from this dreary club! but i can't marry him for that reason. it wouldn't be fair to him. it would be much less fair to me. of course, i _like_ him!... oh, no! no, no!..." iv lizzie was in the hall when john let himself into the house that night. "hilloa," he said, "not gone to bed yet?" "i never 'ave time to go to bed," she said. "'ow can i get any sleep when i 'ave to look after men! you an' mr. 'inde!" she came nearer to him. "you'll get a bit of a surprise when you go upstairs," she said very knowingly. "me!" she nodded her head and giggled. "what sort of a surprise?" he demanded. "you'll see when you get upstairs. it's been, waitin' for you 'ere since seven o'clock!..." "seven o'clock! what is it? a parcel?" lizzie could not control her laughter when he said "parcel." "ow!" she giggled. "ow, dear, ow, dear! a parcel! ow, yes, it's a parcel all right! you'll see when you get up!..." he began to mount the stairs. "you're an awful fool, lizzie," he said crossly, leaning over the banisters. "losin' your temper, eih?" she replied, bolting the street door. he hurried up to the sitting-room and as he climbed the flight of stairs that led directly to it, hinde called out to him, "is that you, mac?" "yes," he answered. hinde came to the door and opened it fully. "there's someone here to see you," he said. "to see me! at this hour?" he entered the room as he spoke. his mother was sitting in front of the fire. "mother!" he exclaimed, remembering just in time not to say "ma!" which would have sounded very childish in front of hinde. "this is a nice hour of the night to be coming home," she said, trying to speak severely, but she could not maintain the severity in her voice, for his arms were about her and she was hugging him. "you never told me you were coming," he said. "what brought you over?" "i've come to see this girl you've got hold of," she answered. v "but why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he asked. "i'd have met you at the station!" she ignored his question. "this is a terrible town," she said. "mr. hinde says there's near twice as many people in this place as there is in the whole of ireland. how in the earthly world do they manage to get about their business?" "oh, quite easily," he said nonchalantly, and as he spoke he realised that he had come to be a londoner. "when i got out at the station," mrs. macdermott continued, "i called a porter and said to him, 'just put that bag on your shoulder and carry it for me!' 'where to, ma'am?' says he, and then i gave him your address. i thought the man 'ud drop down dead. 'is it far?' says i. 'far!' says he. 'it's miles!' by all i can make out, john, you live as far from the station as millreagh is from ballyards. i had to come here in one of them things that runs without horses ... what do you call them?" "taxi-cabs!" "that's the name. it's a demented mad place this. such traffic! worse nor belfast on the fair-day!" "it's like that every day, mrs. macdermott!" hinde interjected. "what bothers me," she went on, "is how ever you get to know your neighbours!" "we don't get to know them," hinde replied. "i've lived in this house for several years, but i don't know the names of the people on either side of it!" "my god," said mrs. macdermott, "what sort of people are you at all! are you all fell out with each other?" "no. we're just not interested!" "i wouldn't live in this place for the wide world," she exclaimed. "and you," she continued turning to her son, "could come here where you know nobody from a place where you knew everybody. the world's queer! what was that water i passed on the way out?..." "water!" "aye. we went over it on a bridge!" "oh, the river!" "what river!" she said. "why, the thames, of course!" "is that what you call it?" hinde smiled at john. "so you've learned to call it the river, have you? mrs. hinde, in this town we always talk as if there were only one river in the world. a londoner always says he's going up the river or down the river or on the river. he always speaks of it as the river. he never speaks of it as the thames. in belfast, you speak of the lagan ... never of the river. the same in dublin. they speak of the liffey ... never of the river. john's become a londoner. he knows the proper way to speak of the thames!" "london seems to be full of very conceited and unneighbourly people," mrs. macdermott said. john demanded information of his mother. how were uncle william and mr. cairnduff and the minister and willie logan?... "his wife's got a child," mrs. macdermott replied severely. "a boy or a girl?" "a boy, and the spit of his father, god help him. thon lad logan'll come to no good. aggie's courting hard. some fellow from belfast that travels in drapery. she told me to remember her to you!" "thank you, mother!" hinde rose to leave them. "you'll have a lot to say to each other, and i'm tired," he explained, as he went off to bed. "i like that man," said mrs. macdermott when he had gone. "and now tell me about this girl you've got. are you in earnest?" "yes, ma!" john answered, using the word "ma," now that he was alone with his mother. "will she have you?" "i hope so. she hasn't said definitely yet, but i think she will!" "who is she? moore you said her name was. that's an irish name!" "but she's not irish. she's english. her father was a clergyman, but he's dead. so is her mother. she has hardly any friends!" "does she keep herself?" "yes, ma. she works in a motor-place ... in the office, typing letters. she's an awful nice girl, ma! i'm just doting on her, so i am!" "do you like her better nor that belfast girl that married the peeler?..." "och, that one," john laughed. "i never think of her now ... never for a minute. eleanor's the one i think about!" "are you sure of yourself?..." "as sure as god's in heaven, ma!" "oh, yes, we know all about that, but are you sure you're sure? you were queerly set on that belfast girl, you know!" he pledged himself as convincingly as he could to eleanor, and told his mother that he could never be happy without her. "and how do you propose to keep her?" she said, when he had finished. "work for her, of course!" "how much have you earned since you came here?" "nothing!" "and you've no work fornent you?" "no, not at the minute. i had a job, but i lost it!" he gave an account of his relationship with the _daily sensation._ "you'll not be able to buy much with that amount of work," she interrupted. he told her of the sketch for the creams and of the tragedy of st. patrick. "what's the use of writing about him," she said. "sure, he's been dead this long while back!" he did not attempt to make her understand. "and then there's the novel i wrote when i was at home," he concluded. "but you've heard nothing of it yet. as far as i can see you've done little here that you couldn't have done at home!" "oh, yes i have. i've learned a great deal more than i could ever have learned in ballyards. and i've met eleanor!" "h'm!" she said, rising from her seat. "i'm going to my bed now. that girl lizzie seems a good-natured sort of a soul. where does eleanor live?" "oh, a long way from here!..." "give me her address, will you?" "yes, ma, but why?" "i'm going to see her the morrow!" he had to explain that eleanor could not be seen in the day-time because of her employment, and he proposed that his mother should go with him in the evening to meet her at the bookstall at charing cross station. "very well," she said as she kissed him, "good-night!" the seventh chapter i mrs. macdermott had remained in london for a week. john, eager to show the sights to her, had tried to persuade her to stay for a longer period, but she was obstinate in her determination to return to ireland at the end of the week. "i don't like the place," she said; "it's not neighbourly!" she repeated this objection so frequently that john began for the first time in his life to understand something of his mother's point of view. he remembered how she had insisted upon the fact that the macdermotts had lived over the shop in ballyards for several generations; and now, with her repetition of the statement that london was an unneighbourly town, he realised that ballyards in her mind was a place of kinsmen, that the people of ballyards were members of one family. she was horrified when she discovered that hinde had been stating the bare truth when he said that he had lived in miss squibb's house for several years, but still was ignorant of the names of his neighbours. miss squibb had told her that people in london made a habit of taking a house on a three-years' lease. "when it expires, they go somewhere else," she had said. miss squibb had never heard of a family that had lived in the same house in london for several generations. she did not think it was a nice idea, that. she liked "chynge" herself, and was sorry she could not afford to get as much of it as she would like to have. "i do not understand the people in this place," mrs. macdermott had complained to hinde. "they've no feeling for anything. they don't love their homes!..." but although she had stayed in london for a week only, she had seen much of eleanor moore in that time. it had not occurred to john, until the moment his mother and he entered charing cross station, that mrs. macdermott and eleanor might not like each other. he imagined that his mother must like eleanor simply because he liked her, but as he held a swing-door open so that his mother might pass through, a sudden dubiety took possession of him and he became full of alarm. supposing they did not care for each other?... the doubt had hardly time to enter his mind when it was resolved for him. eleanor arrived at the bookstall almost simultaneously with themselves. (it struck him then that eleanor was a remarkably punctual girl.) "this is my mother, eleanor!" he had said, and stood anxiously by to watch their greeting. the old woman and the girl regarded each other for a moment, and then mrs. macdermott had taken eleanor's outstretched hand and had drawn her to her and had kissed her; and john's dubiety disappeared from his mind. they had dined together in soho that night, but mrs. macdermott had not enjoyed the meal. the number of diners and the clatter of dishes and knives and the foreign look and the foreign language of the waiters disconcerted her and made her feel as if she were a stranger. above all else in the world, mrs. macdermott hated to feel like a stranger! she demanded familiar surroundings and faces, and was unhappy when she found herself without recognition. the menu made her suspicious of the food because it was written in french. she distrusted foreigners. london appeared to be full of all sorts of people from all parts of the world. never in her life had she seen so many black men as she had seen in london that day. john had taken her to st. paul's cathedral in the afternoon and had shown her the place where queen victoria returned thanks to almighty god for her diamond jubilee ... and there, standing on the very steps of a christian church, was a chinaman! there were no chinamen in ballyards, thank god, nor were there any black men either. she realised, of course, that god had made black men and chinamen and every other sort of men, but she wished that they would stay in the land in which god had put them and would not go trapesing about the world!... "what about us, then?" said john. "we don't stay in the one place!" "i know that," she replied. "that's what's wrong with the world. everyone should stay in his own country!" the dinner had not entirely pleased john. somehow, in a way that he could not understand, he found himself being edged out of the conversation, not altogether, but as a principal. his mother and eleanor addressed each other primarily; they only addressed him now and then and in a way that seemed to indicate that they had suddenly remembered his presence and were afraid he might feel hurt at being left out of their talk. he was glad, of course, that his mother and eleanor were getting on so well together, but after all he was in charge of this affair.... when his mother proposed to eleanor that they should meet on the following evening and go somewhere for a quiet talk, he could hardly believe his ears. "but what about me?" he said. "oh, you! you'll do rightly!" his mother replied. "but!..." "you can come and bring me home from wherever we go," mrs. macdermott continued. eleanor had suggested that mrs. macdermott should meet her at the bookstall and go to her club from which john would fetch her at ten o'clock. "that'll do nicely, eleanor!" mrs. macdermott said. john hardly noticed that his mother had called eleanor by her christian name: it seemed natural that she should do so; but he was vaguely disturbed by the arrangement that had just been made. "i wonder what she's up to?" he said to himself as he moodily examined his mother's face. he sat back in his chair and listened while eleanor and his mother talked together. he was not accustomed to taking a subsidiary part in discussions and he greatly disliked his present position, but he could not think of any way of altering it. "do you like living in london?" mrs. macdermott had suddenly said to eleanor. "no, i hate it," eleanor vehemently answered. "then why do you stay?" mrs. macdermott continued. "i have to. a girl gets better-paid work in london than in the provinces. that's the only reason!" "would you rather live in the country, then?" "yes!" eleanor said. "i wonder would you like ballyards!" mrs. macdermott said almost as if she were speaking to herself. then she began to talk of something else. ii he had taken his mother to charing cross station on the following day, hoping that they would relent and allow him to go to eleanor's club with them, but neither of them made any sign of relenting. his mother, indeed, turned to him immediately after eleanor had arrived and said, "well, we'll say 'good-bye' for the present, john. we'll expect you at ten!" and very sulkily he had departed from them. he saw eleanor lead his mother out of the station. she had taken hold of mrs. macdermott's arm and drawn it into hers, and linked thus, they had gone out, but neither of them had turned to look back at him. he had not known how to fill in the time between then and ten o'clock ... whether to go to a theatre or walk about the streets ... and had ended by spinning out his dinner-time as long as possible, and then walking from soho to eleanor's club. he had arrived there before ten o'clock, but they allowed him to sit with them!... he had an overwhelming sense of being _allowed_ to do so. suddenly and unaccountably all his power had gone from him, his instinctive insistence upon his own will, his immediate assumption that what he desired must be acceptable to others and his complete indifference to whether what he desired was acceptable or not to others... suddenly and unaccountably these things had gone from him and he was submitting to the will of his mother and of eleanor. his mother's conversation, too, had been displeasing to him. she talked of ballyards and of the shop all the time. she talked of the prosperity of the business and of the respect in which the macdermotts were held in their town. mr. hinde had told her of the harsh conditions in which journalists and writers had to work, particularly the journalists. they had no settled life... they went here, there and everywhere, but their wives stayed always in the one place... and sometimes money was not easily obtainable. anything might happen to put a journalist out of employment!... "but i don't want to be a journalist, mother!" john had testily interrupted. "i want to write books and plays!" "that's even worse." she had said. "it takes a man years and years before he can earn a living out of books. mr. hinde told me that!..." "he seems to have told you a fearful lot," john sarcastically exclaimed. "i asked him a lot," mrs. macdermott replied. "if you ever get that book of yours printed at all, he says, you'll not get more nor thirty pounds for it, if you get that much. and there's little hope of you making your fortune with the tragedy you're wasting your time over. now, your uncle william has a big turnover in the shop!..." "i daresay he has," john snapped, "but i'm not interested in the shop, and i am interested in books!" "oh, well," mrs. macdermott murmured, "it's nice to have work that takes your fancy, but if you get married i'm thinking your wife'll have a poor job of it making ends meet on the amount of interest you take in your work, if that's all the reward you get for it. you were a year writing that story of yours, and you haven't had a penny-farthing for it yet. however, you know best what suits you. i suppose it's time we were thinking about the road!" she rose as she spoke, and eleanor rose too. "come up to my room," eleanor said, "and we'll get your things!" they left john sitting in the cheerless room. "that's a queer way for her to be talking," he said to himself. "making little of me like that!" he maintained a sulky manner towards his mother as they returned to brixton, but mrs. macdermott paid no heed to him. "fancy having to go all this way to see your girl," she said, as they climbed the steps of miss squibb's house. "in ballyards you'd only have to go round the corner!" "i daresay," he replied, "but you wouldn't find eleanor's match there if you went!" "no," she agreed. "eleanor's a fine girl. i like her queer and well. she was very interested to hear about ballyards and the shop. very interested!" she turned to him at the top of the stairs. "good-night, son," she said. "i'm away to my bed. i'm tired!" she put her arms round him. "you're a queer headstrong wee fellow," she said. "queer and headstrong! good-night, son!" "good-night, ma!" he replied as he kissed her. he held her for a moment. "i can't make out what you and eleanor had to talk about," he said. "what were you talking about?" "oh, nothing!" she replied. "just about things that interest women. you wouldn't be bothered with such talk. and you know, son, women likes to have a wee crack together when there's no men about. it's just a wee comfort to them. good-night!" "good-night, ma!" she went up the stairs, and when she had disappeared round the bend of the bannisters, john went into the sitting-room. there was a postal packet for him lying on the table. it contained the ms. of his novel. messrs. hatchway and seldon informed him that they had read his story with great interest, but they were sorry to have to inform him that conditions of the publishing trade at present were such that they saw no hope of a return for the money they would be obliged to spend on the book. they would esteem it a favour if he would permit them to see future work of his and they begged to remain his faithfully per pro hatchway and selden, j.p.t. "asses!" he said, as he wrapped the ms. up again in the very paper in which messrs. hatchway and selden had returned it to him. then he tied the parcel securely and addressed it to messrs. gooden and knight, who, he told himself, were much better publishers than messrs. hatchway and selden. he would post it in the morning. iii and then a queer thing happened to him. he had been about to extinguish the light and go to bed, when he remembered that the parcel of ms. was lying on the table and that his mother would see it in the morning. she would probably ask questions about it ... and he would have to tell her that messrs. hatchway and selden had refused to publish it. he seized the parcel and tucked it under his arm. he would keep it in his room and post it without saying anything to her about it. he did not wish her to know that it had been declined. messrs. hatchway and selden had given a very good excuse for not publishing it--conditions of the publishing trade--and they had manifested a desire to see other work of his. that could hardly be said to be a refusal to print the book ... at all events, it could not be called an ordinary, condemnatory refusal. no doubt, had the conditions of the publishing trade been easier, messrs. hatchway and selden would have been extremely pleased to print the book. it was not their fault that the conditions of the publishing trade were so difficult!... anyhow, he did not wish his mother to know that the book had been refused, even though the conditions of the publishing trade were so difficult. so he took the ms. up to his bedroom with him. iv he had been enormously relieved when his mother returned to ireland. eleanor and he had seen her off from euston ... hinde had come for a few moments snatched from an important job ... and he had been very conscious of some understanding between the two women which was not expressible. it was as if his mother were not his mother, but eleanor's mother ... as if he were simply eleanor's young man come to say good-bye to eleanor's mother ... and she were being polite to him, because eleanor would like her to be polite to him. he felt that things were being taken out of his control, that he had ceased to have charge of things and was now himself being ordered and controlled; but he could not definitely say what caused him to feel this nor could he think of any notable incident which would confirm him in his fear that control had passed out of his hands. all he knew was that he was glad his mother had resisted his importunities to her to stay for a longer time in london. this state of uncertainty had not begun until mrs. macdermott suddenly and without warning had arrived at his lodgings. he hoped that it would end with her departure from euston. eleanor's attitude towards him during the week of his mother's visit had been very odd. she accepted him now without any qualms, but not, he felt, as her husband to be, hardly even as her lover. she accepted him, instead, as one who might become her lover if she could persuade herself to consent to allow him to do so. once, in a moment of dreadful humility, he imagined that she accepted him merely as mrs. macdermott's son!... he had watched the train haul itself out of the station and had waved his hat to his mother until she was no longer distinguishable, and then he had turned to eleanor with a curiously determined look in his eye. "are you going to marry me?" he demanded. "yes," she said, "i think i will. i like your mother awf'lly, john!..." "it's me you're going to marry. not her. do you like me?" "yes, i like you ... though you're frightfully conceited and selfish!..." "selfish! me? because i try hard to get what i want?" he indignantly exclaimed. "oh, we won't argue about it. you'll never understand. i don't know whether i love you or not. but i like you. i like you very much. of course, we may be making a mistake. it's foolish of me to marry you when i know so little about you ... and that little scares me!..." "what scares you!" "your selfishness scares me. you are selfish. you're frightfully selfish. you think of nothing and no one but yourself!..." "amn't i always thinking of you?" "oh, yes, but only because you want me to marry you. that's all!" he was very puzzled by this statement. "what other reason would a man have for thinking of a woman?" he asked. "that's just it," she replied. "you can't think of any other reason for thinking about a woman ... and i can think of a whole lot of reasons. but i shall marry you in spite of your selfishness because i know you're as good as i'm likely to get!..." "that's a queer reason for marrying a man!" "i suppose it is. you're really rather a dear, john, and i daresay i shall get to love you quite well ... but i don't now. why should i? i haven't known you very long ... and you've rather pestered me, haven't you?" "no, i haven't!" "yes, you have. but i don't mind that. being pestered by you is somehow different from being pestered by other men...." "have any other men bothered you?" he interrupted. they were walking towards tottenham court road as they spoke, and her arm was securely held in his. "of course they have," she answered. "do you think a girl can walk about london without some man pestering her. old men!..." she shuddered and said "oh!" in tones of disgust. "why are old men so beastly?" "are they?" "oh, yes, of course they are. beastly old things. i think old men ought to be killed before they get nasty ... but never mind that. being pestered by you is very different from that sort of thing. i know very well that you won't stop asking me to marry you until i either say i will or i run away from london altogether and hide myself from you; and i don't want to do that. so i'll marry you!" he glanced at her in a wrathful manner. "is that what my mother told you to say?" he asked. "your mother? she never said anything at all about it!" john laughed. "i told her about it," he said. "that's what she came over about. she wanted to have a look at you!" "yes, i suppose i ought to have guessed that. i did in a way, but i didn't know you'd said anything definite about it!" "i'm always definite," said john. "yes. m' yes, i suppose you are!" they walked down tottenham court road and caught a 'bus going along oxford street. "you don't seem very pleased now that i've said i'll marry you," she murmured, as they sat together on the back seat on top of the 'bus. "i believe you're only marrying me to get away from that club you're living in!" he replied. "that's one reason, but it isn't the only reason. i _do_ like you, john. really, i do!" "i want you to love me, love me desperately, the way i love you." "but you've no right to expect that. women don't love men for a long time after men love them ... and sometimes they never love them. there's a girl in our club ... well, she's not a girl, but she's unmarried, so, of course we call her a girl ... and she says that most of us can live fairly happily with quite a number of people. she says that a person has one supreme love affair ... which may not come to anything ... and enough liking for about a hundred people to be able to marry and live happily with anyone of them. i think that's true. i've known plenty of men that i think i could have married and been happy enough with. you're one of them!..." "this is a nice thing to be telling me when my heart's bursting for you. i tell you, eleanor, i love you till i don't know what i'm doing or thinking, and all you tell me is that i'm one out of a hundred and you like me well enough to put up with me!..." "you don't want me to tell you that i'm in love with you ... like that ... when i'm not?" "no, of course not ... only!..." "perhaps you don't want to marry me now!" he put his arm round her and pressed her so tightly that she gave a little cry of rebuke. "i love you so much," he said, "that i'm thankful glad for the least bit of liking you have for me. i wish i'd known sooner. i'd have told my mother before she went back to ballyards!" "i'll write and tell her myself," said eleanor. "i'd like to tell her myself!" v "i'm going to be married," john said to hinde that night. "i thought as much," hinde replied. "why?" "well, when a man does one dam-fool thing, he generally follows it up with another. you lose your job on the _sensation,_ and then you get engaged to be married. i daresay your wife'll have a child just about the time you've spent every ha'penny you possess. i suppose that was her at the station to-night?" john nodded his head. "well, you're a lucky man!" "thank you," said john. "i don't know whether she's a lucky woman or not!" "_thank_ you," said john. "if you've no more compliments to pay, i'll go to my bed!" "good-night. cream's coming back to-morrow. miss squibb had a letter from him this evening!" but john took no interest in the creams. "if i were you, i wouldn't fall out with the creams," said hinde. "now that you're going to get married, the money he'll pay you for a sketch will be useful. i suppose you'll begin to be serious when you're married?" "i'm serious now," john replied. "at present, mac, you're merely bumptious. i was like that when i first came to london. i had noble ideals, but i very soon discovered that the other high-minded men were not quite so idealistic as i was. i know one high-souled fellow who went into a newspaper office and asked to be allowed to review a novel with the express intention of damning it because he had some grudge against the author. half the exalted scribblers in london are busily employed scratching each other's backs, and if you aren't in their little gang, you either are not noticed at all in their papers or you are unfairly judged or very, very faintly praised. you've either got to be in a gang in london or to be so immeasurably great or lucky that you can disregard gangs ... otherwise there's very little likelihood of you getting a foothold in what you call good papers. i know these papers. mr. noblemind is editor of one paper and mr. greatfellow is a regular contributor to another and mr. praisemeandi'llpraiseyou is the literary editor of a third, and they employ each other; and mr. noblemind calls attention to the beauty of his pals' work in his paper, and they call attention to the beauty of his in theirs. my dear mac, if you really want to know what dishonesty in journalism is, worm yourself into the secrets of the highbrow press and the noble poets. i'm a yellow journalist and a failure, but by heaven, i'm an honest yellow journalist and an honest failure. i'm not an indifferent journalist pretending to be a poet!..." "i don't see what all this has got to do with me," john said. "no," hinde replied in a quieter tone. "no, i suppose it hasn't anything to do with you. you're quite right. i'm in a bad temper to-night. i'm glad you're engaged to that girl. she looks a sensible sort of woman. heard any more about your book?" "yes. it's been returned to me!..." "oh, my dear chap, i'm very sorry!" "i've sent it out again. it's sure to be printed by someone," john said. "i hope so. i wish you'd let me read it!" "yes, i'd like you to read it. i wish i'd kept it back a while. but you'll see it some day. good-night!" "good-night, mac!" vi the creams returned to miss squibb's on the following evening, and cream came to see hinde and john soon after they arrived. dolly, he said, was too tired after her journey to do more than send a friendly greeting to them. "i wanted to have a talk to you about that sketch," he said to john. "it's very good, of course, quite classy, in fact, but it wants tightening up. snap! that's what it wants. and a little bit of vulgarity. oh, not too much. of course not. but it doesn't do to overlook vulgarity, mac. we've all got a bit of it in us, and pers'nally, i see no harm in it, _pro_-vided ... _pro-vided_, mind you ... that it's comic. that's the only excuse for vulgarity ... that it's comic. now, the first thing is the title!" mr. cream took the ms. of john's sketch from his pocket and spread it on the table. "this won't do at all," he said, pointing to the title-page of the play. "_love's tribute!_ my dear old mac, what the hell's the good of a title like that? where's the snap in it? where's the attraction, the allurement? nowhere. a title like that wouldn't draw twopence into a theatre. _love's tribute!_ i ask you!..." his feelings made him inarticulate and he gazed round the room in a helpless manner. "well, what would you call it?" john demanded. "something snappy. i often say a title's half the play. now, take a piece like _the girl who lost her character_ or _the man with two wives_ ... there's a bit of snap about that. titles like those simply haul 'em into the theatre. _snap! go! ginger!_ something that sounds 'ot, but isn't ... that's the stuff to give the british public. you make 'em think they're going to see something ... well, _you_ know ... and they'll stand four deep in the snow waiting to get into the theatre. if you were to put the book of genesis on the stage and call it _the girl who took the wrong turning_, people 'ud think they'd seen something they oughtn't to ... and they'd tell all their friends. now, how about _the guilty woman_ for your sketch, mac?" john looked at him in astonishment. "but the woman in it isn't guilty of anything," he protested. "that doesn't matter. the title needn't have anything to do with it. very few titles have anything to do with the piece. so long as they're snappy, that's all you need think about. pers'nally, i like _the guilty woman_ myself; but dolly's keen on _the sinful woman_. and that just reminds me, mac! here's a tip for you. always have _woman_ in your title if you can. _a sinful woman_'ll draw better than _a sinful man_. people seem to expect women to be more sinful than men when they are sinful ... or p'raps they're more used to men being sinful than women. i dunno. but it's a fact ... _woman_ in the title is a bigger draw than _man_. and you got to think of these little things. if you want to make a fortune out of a piece, take my advice and think of a snappy adjective to put in front of _woman_ or _girl!_ really, you know, play-writing's very simple, if you only remember a few tips like that!..." "but my play isn't about sin at all," john protested. "well, what's the good of it then?" cream demanded. "all plays are about sin of some sort, aren't they? if people aren't breaking a rule or a commandment, there's no plot, and if there's no plot, there's no play. of course, bernard shaw and all these chaps, they don't believe in plots or climaxes or anything, and they turn out pieces that sound as if they'd wrote the first half in their oxford days and the second half when they were blind drunk. you've got to have a plot, mac, and if you've got to have a plot, you've got to have sin. what 'ud hamlet be without the sin in it? nothing! why, there wasn't any drama in the world 'til adam and eve fell! you take it from me, mac, there'll be no drama in heaven. why? because there'll be no sin there. but there'll be a hell of a lot in hell! now, i like _the guilty woman_. it's not quite so bare-faced as _the sinful woman_, but as dolly likes it better ... she's more intense than i am ... we'll have to have it, i expect!" "i don't like either of those titles," john said, gulping as he spoke, for he felt that there was a difference of view between cream and him that could not be overcome. "well, think of a better one then," cream good-naturedly answered. "there's another thing. as i said, the piece wants overhauling, but you can leave that to me. when i've had a good go at it!..." "but!..." "now, look here, mac," cream firmly proceeded, "you be guided by me. you're a youngster at the game, and i'm an old hand. i never met a young author yet that didn't imagine his play had come straight from the mind of god and mustn't have a word altered. the tip-top chaps don't think like that. they're always altering and changing their plays during rehearsal ... and sometimes after they've been produced, too. look at pinero! he's altered the whole end of a play before now. he had a most unhappy end to _the profligate_ ... the hero committed suicide in the last act ... but the public wouldn't have it. they said they wanted a happy end, and pinero had the good sense to give it to them. in my opinion the public was right. the happy end was the right end for that piece!..." "but artistically!..." john pleaded. "artistically!" cream exclaimed in mocking tones to hinde. "i ask you! artistically! what's art? pleasing people. that's what art is!" "oh, no," john protested. "pleasing yourself, perhaps!..." "and aren't you most pleased when you feel that people are pleased with you, i ask you! what do you publish books for if you only want to please yourself? why don't you keep your great thoughts to yourself if you don't want to please anybody else? yah-r-r, this art talk makes me feel sick. you'd rather sell two thousand copies of a book than two hundred, wouldn't you? of course, you would. i've heard these highbrow chaps talking about the mob and the tasteful few. i acted in a play once by a fellow who was always bleating about the tasteful few ... and you should have heard the way he went on when his play only drew the tasteful few to see it. if his piece had had a chance of a long run, do you think he'd have stopped it at the end of a month because he objected to long runs as demoralizing to art? not likely, my lad!... now, this piece of yours, mac, has too much talk in it and not enough incident, see! you'll have to cut some of it. the talk's good, but in plays the talk mustn't take the audience off the point, no matter how good it is. see! you don't want long speeches: you want short ones. the talk ought to be like a couple of chaps sparring ... only not too much fancy work. i've seen a lot of boxing in my time. there's boxers that goes in for what's called pretty work ... nice, neat boxing ... but the spectators soon begin to yawn over it. what people like to see is one chap getting a smack on the jaw and the other chap getting a black eye. and it's the same with everything. ever seen cinquevalli balancing a billiard ball on top of another one? took him years to learn that trick, but he'll tell you himself ... he lives round the corner from here ... that his audiences take more interest in some flashy-looking thing that's dead easy to do. when he throws a cannon-ball up into the air and catches it on the back of his neck ... they think that's wonderful ... but it isn't half so wonderful as balancing one billiard ball on top of another one. see? so it's no good being subtle before simple people. they don't understand you, and they just get up and walk out or give you the bird!..." "i'm going to tell you something," he continued, as if he had not said a word before. "i've noticed human nature a good deal, and i think i know something about it. there was a sketch we did once, called _the twiddley bits_. it was written by the same chap that did _the girl who gets left_ ... he had a knack, that chap ... only he took to drink and died. there was a joke in _the twiddley bits_ that went down everywhere. here it is. i played the part of a comic footman, and i had to say to the villain, 'what are you looking at, guv'nor?' and he replied, 'i'm wondering what on earth that is!' and then he pointed to my face. that got a laugh to start with. then i had to say, 'it's my face. what did you think it was? a sardine tin?' that got a roar. brought the house down, that did. we played that piece all over the world, mac, and that joke never failed once. not once. we played it in england, ireland, scotland, wales, america, new zealand, south africa and australia, and it never missed once. fetched 'em every time. human nature's about the same everywhere, once you get to understand it, mac, and if you like you can put that joke in your play. it'll help it out a bit in the middle!..." vii "well?" said hinde to john when cream had left them. "i'd rather sell happorths of tea and sugar than write the kind of play he wants," john replied. hinde paused for a few moments. then he said, "why don't you sell tea and sugar. you've got a shop, haven't you?" "because i'm going to write books," john answered tartly. "i see," said hinde. the eighth chapter i three months after mrs. macdermott departed from london, eleanor and john were married. they walked into st. chad's church in the bayswater road, accompanied by mr. hinde and mrs. macdermott (who had come hurriedly to london again for the ceremony) and lizzie and a cousin of eleanor's who excited john's wrath by using the marriage ceremony for propaganda purposes in connexion with women's suffrage; and there, prompted by an asthmatic curate, they swore to love and cherish each other until death did them part. mrs. macdermott had begged for a presbyterian marriage in ballyards ... "where your da and me were married"... but there were difficulties in the way of satisfying her desire, and she had consented to see them married in what, to her mind, was an imitation of a papist church. eleanor had stipulated for at least a year's engagement, partly so that they might become more certain of each other and partly to enable john to prove that he could earn enough money to maintain a home, but john had worn down her opposition to an immediate marriage by asserting repeatedly that he could easily earn money for her, would, in fact, be better able to do so because of his marriage which would stimulate him to greater activity, and, finally, by his announcement that his tragedy had been accepted for production by the cottenham repertory theatre. the manager had written to him to say that the reading committee were of opinion that his interesting play should be performed, and he enclosed an agreement which he desired john to sign and return to him at his convenience. he had not been able to restrain his joy when he received the letter, and he had hurried to the nearest post office so that he might telephone the news to eleanor. "my dear!" she said proudly over the telephone. "didn't i tell you i could do it," he exclaimed. "didn't i?" "yes, darling, you did!" "wait till hinde conies back! this'll be one in the eye for him. he thought the play was a very ordinary one, but this proves that it isn't, doesn't it, eleanor?" "yes, dear!" "it's a well-known theatre, the cottenham repertory. one of the best-known in the world. can you get off for the day, do you think, and we'll go out and celebrate it?..." "don't be silly, john!..." "well, we'll have lunch together. we'll have wine for lunch!... oh, my dear, i'm nearly daft with joy. we ought to make enough money out of the play to set up house at once. i don't know how much you make out of plays, but you make a great deal. we'll get married at once!..." "but we can't!..." "och, quit, woman! this makes all the difference in the world. aren't you just aching for a wee house of your own, the same way that i am!..." and after a struggle for time to think, eleanor had consented to be married much sooner than she had ever meant to be. they were married in june, and the play was to be performed at the cottenham repertory theatre in the following september. the manager had written to john, after the business preliminaries were settled, to say that if the play were successful in cottenham, he would include it in the company's repertoire of pieces to be performed in london during their annual season. "and of course, it'll be successful," said john when he had read the letter to eleanor. "i should think we'd easily make several hundred pounds out of the play ... and there's always the chance that it may be a popular success!" his high hopes were dashed by the return of his novel from messrs. gooden and knight who regretted that the novel was not suitable for publication by them; but he recovered some of them when he reflected that the fame he would achieve with his play would cause messrs. gooden and knight to feel exceedingly sorry that they had not jumped at the chance of publishing his book. hinde had read it and thought it was as good as most first novels. "nothing very great about it," he said, "but it isn't contemptible!" that seemed very chilly praise to john, and he was grateful to eleanor for her enthusiasm about the book. "of course, it has faults," she admitted. "i daresay it has, but then it's your _first book_. you wouldn't be human if you could write a great book at the first attempt, would you?" that had consoled him for much, and very hopefully he sent the book on its third adventure, this time to mr. claude jannissary, who called himself "the progressive publisher." ii on the night before he was married, john, vaguely nervous, left his mother at miss squibb's and went for a walk. all day, he had been "on pins and needles," and now, although it was nine o'clock, he could not remain in the house any longer. he felt that his head would burst if he stayed indoors. the house seemed to be unusually stuffy, and the spectacle of lizzie gazing at him with mawkish interest, made him wish to rise up and assault her. he had fidgetted about the room, taking a book from its shelf and then, without reading in it, replacing it, until his mother, observing him with cautious eyes, proposed that he should go for a walk. "i won't wait up for you," she said, "so you needn't hurry back!" "very well, ma!" he said, getting ready to go out. he left the house and started to walk towards streatham, but before he had gone very far, he felt drawn away from streatham, and he turned and walked past his home and on towards kennington. at the horns, he paused indecisively. there were more light and stir towards the elephant and castle than there was in the kennington road, and light and stir were attractive to him, but to-night he ought to be in quiet places and in shadows. he was beginning to feel dubious about himself. marriage, after all, was a very serious business, but here he was thrusting himself into it with very little consideration. eleanor had protested all along that they were insufficiently acquainted with each other and had pleaded for a long engagement, but he had overruled her: they knew each other well enough. the best way for a man and woman to get to know each other, he said, was to marry. eleanor had exclaimed against that doctrine because, she said, if the couple discovered that they did not care for each other, they could not get free without misery and possibly disgrace. "you have to run the risk of that," said john. that always had been his determining argument: that one must take risks. now, on this night before his marriage, the risk he was about to take alarmed him. the fidgettiness, the nervous irritability which had been characteristic of him all day now concretely became fright. who was this woman he was about to marry? what did he know of her? she was a pleasant, nice-looking girl and she had an extraordinary power over him ... but what did he _know_ of her? nothing. nothing whatever. he liked kissing her and holding her in his arms, but he had liked kissing maggie carmichael and holding her in his arms; and now he was very thankful he had not married maggie. how was he to know that he would feel any more for eleanor in six months' time than he now felt for maggie ... for whom he had once felt everything? eleanor had told him that she only liked him ... was not in love with him ... that he was one of a hundred men, anyone of whom she might have married and lived with in tolerable happiness!... a cold shiver ran through his body as he thought that he might be about to make the greatest mistake that any man could make ... marry the wrong woman. ought he to postpone the marriage so that eleanor and he should have more time in which to consider things? postponement would mean terrible inconvenience to everybody, but it would be better to suffer such inconvenience than to enter into a dismal marriage because one was reluctant to upset arrangements. this marrying was a terrible affair!... he walked steadily along the kennington road and presently found himself in westminster bridge road, and then he crossed the river and turned on to the embankment. there was a cool breeze blowing from the sea, and he took his hat off and let the air play about his head. he leant against the parapet and gazed across the water to the dark warehouses on the lambeth side and wondered why they were so beautiful at night when they were so hideous by day. even the railway bridge at charing cross seemed to be beautiful in the dusk, and when a train rumbled across it, sending up clouds of lit smoke from the funnel of the engine and making flickering lights as the carriages rolled past the iron bars of the bridge-side, it seemed to him to be a very wonderful and appealing spectacle. his fidgettiness fell from him as he contemplated the swift river and the great dark shapes of warehouses and the black hulks of barges going down to the pool and the immutable loveliness of waterloo bridge. he had walked along the embankment past hungerford bridge, and then had stopped to look at waterloo bridge for a few moments. even the moving lights of the advertisements of tea and whiskey on the lambeth side of the river made beauty for him as they were reflected in the water. there were little crinkled waves of green and red and gold on the river as the changing lights of the advertisements ran up and down.... he had seen articles in the newspapers protesting against these illuminated signs ... "the ugly symbols of commercialism" ... but to-night they had the look of loveliness in his eyes. very often since he had come to london had he found himself in disagreement with the views of men who wrote as if almighty god had committed beauty to their charge ... he had never been able to understand or agree with their arguments against great engines and the instruments of power and energy ... and it seemed to him that many of these writers were querulous, fractious people who had not the capacity to make themselves at ease in a striving world. that poet fellow ... what was his name? ... whom he had met at hampstead ... palfrey, that was the man's name ... had sneered at commerce! john had not been able to make head or tail of his arguments against commerce, and he had found himself defending it against the poet ... "the very word is beautiful!" he had asserted several times ... mainly on his recollection of his uncle william. palfrey had had the best of the argument, because palfrey could use his tongue more effectively, but john had felt certain that the truth was not in palfrey, and here to-night, in this place where commerce was most compactly to be seen, he knew that there was beauty in the labours of men, that bargaining and competition and striving energies and rivalry in skill were elements of loveliness. "these little poets sitting in their stuffy attics scribbling about the moon!... yah-rr-r!" he said, putting his hat on to his head again. his mind was quieter now. he was certain of his love for eleanor. how wise his mother had been to suggest that he should go out for a walk. she had guessed, no doubt, that he was ill at ease and full of doubt, and had sent him forth to find rest in movement and ease in energy. it was a great comfort to have his mother by him now. that morning he had looked at her, sitting in the light of the window, and had seen for the first time the great depth of her eyes and the wonderful patience in her face.... he must consider her more in future. eleanor liked her, and she liked eleanor. that was all to the good!... he must go home now. he would walk to blackfriars bridge, cross the river and go home by the elephant and castle. he started to walk briskly along the embankment, but he had not gone very far on his way when he heard his name called. "oh, john!" the call was, and looking round, he saw eleanor rising from one of the garden-seats near the kerb. "eleanor!" he exclaimed. "what are you doing here?" she came quickly to him and he took hold of her hands. "i was frightened," she said, half sobbing as she spoke. "frightened!" "yes. i lost my nerve this evening and i ... i came out to think. oh, i wonder are we wise!..." he drew her arm in his. "come home, my dear," he said. he led her across the road, through the district railway station and up villiers street to the strand, and as they walked along he told her of his own fears. "you were frightened, too?" she said in astonishment. "not frightened," he replied, "only ... well, dubious!" "perhaps we'd better wait," she suggested. "oh, no, no. i should feel such a fool if i were to tell people we'd postponed our marriage because we'd both got scared about it!" "it's better to feel a fool than!..." "and anyhow i know that it's all right. i feel sure it's all right. when i walked along the embankment before i met you, i became certain that i wanted you, eleanor, and no one else but you. my dear, i'm terribly happy!" "are you?" "yes. why, of course, i am. how can i be anything else when i shall be your husband this time to-morrow?" they walked along bond street because they had discovered that bond street, when the shops are shut, is dark and quiet, and once they stopped and faced each other, and john took her in his arms and kissed her. "sweetheart!" he murmured, with his lips against hers. then he took her to her club. "what a place for you to be married from!" he said, as he bade her good-night. "this is my last night in it," she answered. "i shall never live in a place where there are only women again!" she paused for a moment, and then, with a sigh of relief, added, "thank goodness!" iii on the following morning they were married; and in the evening they went to ireland for their honeymoon. they were to go to dublin for a week, and then up to ballyards for a fortnight. eleanor had proposed that mrs. macdermott should cross to ireland with them, but she shook her head and smiled. "i'm foolish enough," she said, "but i'm not as foolish as all that. you'll want to be by yourselves, my dear!" "i'll see your mother safely off from euston," hinde said, "when she makes up her mind to go!" they spent the day quietly together until the time came for eleanor and john to go to the railway station. mrs. macdermott took him out of the room. "i want to have a wee talk with you," she said in explanation. "here," she said, putting an envelope into his hand. "that's a wedding present for you from me!..." "but you've given me one already," he interrupted. "oh, aye, that was just an ordinary one, but this is the one that matters. it'll be useful to you sometime!" he opened the envelope, and inside it were ten notes for ten pounds each. "ma!" he said. "now, now, never mention it," she exclaimed hurriedly. "what does an old woman like me want with money when there's two young ones in need of it. it'll help to keep you going till you're earning!" he hugged her to show his gratitude. "my son," she said, patting his back. "listen, john," she went on, "while i speak to you!" "yes, ma!" "don't forget that eleanor's a young girl with no one to tell her things. she's very young, and ... and!..." she stumbled over her words. "you'll be very kind to her, won't you, son?" "of course, i will, ma," john replied with no comprehension whatever of what it was she was trying to say. then she let him go back to eleanor. they gathered in the hall to make their "good-byes." there was a telegram from the creams to wish them happiness that eleanor insisted on taking with her although she had never seen the creams; and miss squibb mournfully insisted on giving a packet of sandwiches to them to eat on the journey. she told them that they knew what these trains and boats were like, and that they would be lucky if they got anything at all to sustain them during their travels. "though you probably won't want to eat nothink when you get on the boat," she added encouragingly. "good-bye! good-bye! good-bye!" john went up the hall to lizzie. "good-bye, lizzie!" he said, and then, "what on earth are you crying for?" "i dunno," she answered, wiping her eyes. "just 'appiness, i s'pose. i'll be doin' it myself some dy. see if i down't. it'd annoy aunt, anyway!" they scrambled into the cab and were driven off. they leant back against the cushions and looked at each other. "well, we're married, eleanor. i always said we would be," john said. "it's frightfully funny," eleanor replied. "isn't it?" he did not answer. he took her in his arms instead. * * * * * the third book of the foolish lovers ask, is love divine, voices all are, ay. question for the sign, there's a common sigh. would we through our years, love forego, quit of scars and tears? ah, but no, no, no! meredith. the first chapter i the honeymoon at ballyards had been a triumph for eleanor. uncle william had immediately surrendered to her, making, indeed, no pretence to resist her. she had demanded his company on a boating excursion on the lough, and when he had turned to her, sitting behind him in the bow of the boat, and had said, "this is great health! it's the first time i've been in a boat these years and years!" she had retorted indignantly, "the first time! but why?" "och ... busy!" he had explained. she had called to john, sitting with his mother in the stern, and demanded an explanation of the causes which prevented uncle william from taking holidays like other people. "sure, he likes work!" said john. "nobody likes work to that extent," eleanor replied, and then mrs. macdermott gave the explanation. "there's no one else but him to do it," she said. "uncle matthew had his head full of romantic dreams and john fancied himself in other ways, so uncle william had to do it all by himself!" john flushed, and was angry with his mother for speaking in this way before eleanor. he felt that she was stating the case unfairly. had he not once offered to quit from his monitorial work to help in the shop and had not his offer been firmly refused?... "there'll be no need for uncle william to work hard when my play is produced," he said. "ah, quit blethering about hard work," uncle william exclaimed, bending to the oars. "sure, i'd be demented mad if i hadn't my work to do. what would an old fellow like me do gallivanting up and down the shore in my bare feet, paddling like a child in the water! have sense, do, all of you. eleanor, i'm surprised at you trying to make a loafer out of me!" she leant forward and pulled him suddenly backwards and he fell into the bottom of the boat. "we'll all be drowned," he shouted. "i'll cowp the boat if you assault me again!..." "what does 'cowp' mean?" she demanded. "in god's name, girl, where were you brought up not to know what 'cowp' means! upset!" said he. "well, why don't you say upset, you horrible old orangeman," she retorted. "i'm no orangeman," he giggled at her. "i wouldn't own the name!" "you are. you are. you say your prayers every night to king william and carson!..." "ah, you're the tormenting wee tory, so you are! here, take a hold of these oars and do something for your living!" she had changed places with uncle william, and john felt very proud of her as he observed the skilful way in which she handled the oars. her strokes were clean and strong and deliberate. she did not thrust the oars too deeply into the water nor did she pull them, impotently along the surface nor did she lean too heavily on one oar so that the boat was drawn too much to one side or sent ungainly to this side and to that in an exhausting effort to keep a straight course. he lay back against his mother and regarded eleanor out of half-shut eyes. she mystified him. her timidity when he had first spoken to her had seemed to him then to be her chief characteristic and it had caused him to feel tenderly for her: he would be her protector. but she was not always timid. he had discovered courage in her and something uncommonly like obstinacy of mind. she uttered opinions which startled him, less because of the flimsy grounds on which they were built, than because of the queer chivalry that made her utter them. she defended the weak because they were weak, whereas he would have had her defend the truth because it was the truth. the attacked had her sympathy, whether they were in the right or in the wrong, and john demanded that sympathy should be given only to those who were in the right even if they happened also to be the stronger of the contestants. he had seen her behaving with extraordinary calmness at a time when he had been certain that she would show signs of hysteria, and while he was marvelling at her imperturbability, he had heard her screaming with fright at the sight of an ear-wig. he had rushed to her help, imagining that she was in terrible danger, and had found her trembling and shuddering because this pitiful insect had crawled on to her dressing-gown.... he had been very frightened when he heard her screaming to him for help, and he suffered so strange a reaction when he discovered that her trouble was trivial that he lost his temper. "don't be such a fool," he said, putting his foot on the ear-wig. "you couldn't have made more noise if someone had been murdering you!" "i hate ear-wigs!" she replied, still shuddering. "i hate all crawly things. oh-h-h!" and here was another aspect of her: her skill in doing things that required effort and thought. she handled a boat better than he could handle it. he was more astonished at this feat than he had been when he discovered that she had great skill in managing a house and in cooking food, for he assumed that all women were inspired by almighty god with a genius for housekeeping and that only a deliberately sinful nature prevented a woman from serving her husband with an excellently-prepared dinner. in a vague way, he had imagined that eleanor would need instruction in housekeeping, but that she would "soon pick it up." any woman could "soon pick it up." his mother, he decided, would give tips to eleanor while they were at ballyards, and thereafter things would go very smoothly. he had determined that the flat at hampstead which they had rented should be furnished according to his taste so that there should be no mistake about it; but when they began to choose furniture, he found that eleanor had better judgment than he had, and he wisely deferred to her opinion. he was inclined, he discovered, to accept things which he disliked or did not want rather than take the trouble to get only the things he desired and appreciated; but eleanor had no compunction in making a disinterested shop-assistant run about and fetch and carry until she had either obtained the thing for which she wished or was satisfied that it was not in the shop. john always had a sense of shame at leaving a shop without making a purchase when the assistant had been given much bother in their behalf; but eleanor said that this was silliness. "that's what he's there for," she said of the shop-assistant. "i'm not going to buy things i don't want just because you're afraid of hurting his feelings!" he began to feel, while they were furnishing their flat, that she knew her own mind at least as well as he knew his, and a fear haunted his thoughts that perhaps this adequacy of knowledge might bring trouble to them. gradually he found himself consulting her as an equal, even accepting her advice, and seldom instructing her as one instructs a beloved pupil. when she required advice, she asked for it. at ballyards, he had seen his mother quickening into zestful life because of eleanor's desire to be informed of things. one evening he had come home from a visit to mr. cairnduff to find eleanor seated on the high stool in the "counting house" of the shop while uncle william explained the working of the business to her. "she's a great wee girl, that!" uncle william said afterwards to john. "the great wee girl! you've done well for yourself marrying her, my son. she's a well-brought-up girl ... a girl with a family ... and that's more nor you could say for some of the women you might 'a' married. that logan girl, now!..." "i'd never have married her," john interrupted. "no, i suppose you wouldn't. they're no family at all, the logans ... just a dragged-up, thrown-together lot. they've no pride in themselves. they'd marry anybody, that family would. willie's away to the bad altogether ... drinking and gambling and worse ... and aggie got married on a traveller from belfast, and two hours after she married the man, he was dead drunk. he's been drunk ever since, they say. aw, she's a poor mouth, that woman, and not fit to hold a candle to eleanor. i'm thankful glad you've married a sensible woman with her head on the right way, and not one of these flyaway pieces you see knocking around these times. i'd die of despair to see you married to a woman with no more gumption than an old hen!..." ii he had experienced his most humiliating defect in comparison with eleanor on board the mail-boat from kingstown to holyhead. he had been sea-sick, but she had seemed unaware of the fact that she was afloat on a rough sea. that terribly swift race of water that beats against a boat off holyhead and causes the least queasy of stomachs a certain amount of discomposure, affected eleanor not at all; and when they disembarked, it was she who found comfortable seats in the london train for them and saw to their luggage; for john still felt ill and miserable. "poor old thing," she said, "you do look a sight!" iii mrs. macdermott had begged him to stay beyond the stipulated time in ballyards, and uncle william, with a glance towards eleanor, had reinforced her appeal; but john had refused to yield to it. there was work to be done in london, and eleanor and he must return to town to do it. in a short while, his play would be produced ... he must attend the rehearsals of it ... and then there was his novel for which he had yet to find a publisher; and he must write another book. eleanor had hesitated for a few moments, not irresponsive to uncle william's look, but the desire to be in her own home had conquered her desire to remain in ballyards, and so she had not asked john to stay away from london any longer. the flat was a small and incommodious one, but it was in a quiet street and not very far from hampstead heath. they had spent more money on furnishing it than they had intended to spend, but john had soothed eleanor's mind by promising that his play would more than make up for their extravagance; and when, a fortnight after their return to town, mr. claude jannissary, "the progressive publisher," wrote to john and invited him to call on him, they felt certain that their anxieties had been very foolish. john visited mr. jannissary on the morning after he had received that enlightened gentleman's letter, and was overwhelmed by the praise paid to his book. mr. jannissary said that he was not merely willing, but actually eager to publish it. he felt certain that its author had a great future before him, and he wished to be able to say in after years that he had been the first to recognize john's genius. he did not anticipate that he would make any profit whatever out of _the enchanted lover_ ... the title of the story ... at all events for several years, partly because john still had to create a reputation for himself and partly because of the appalling conditions with which enlightened publishers had to contend. in time, no doubt, john would attract a substantial body of loyal readers, but in the meantime there was, if john would forgive the gross commercialism of the expression, "no immediate money in him." nevertheless, mr. jannissary was prepared to gamble on john's future. even if he should never make enough to cover the expense of publishing john's book, he would still feel compensated for his loss merely through having introduced the world to so excellent a novel. idealism was not very popular, he said, but thank god he was an idealist. he believed in art _and_ literature _and_ beauty, and he was prepared to make sacrifices for his beliefs. he could not offer any payment in advance on account of royalties to john ... much as he would like to do so ... for the conditions with which an enlightened publisher who tried to preserve his ideals intact had to contend were truly appalling; but he would publish the book immediately if john would consent to forego all royalties on the first five hundred copies, and would accept a royalty of ten per cent on all copies sold in excess of that number, the royalty to rise to fifteen per cent when the copies sold exceeded two thousand. mr. jannissary would put himself to the great inconvenience of trying to find a publisher for the book in america, and would only expect to receive twenty-five per cent of the author's proceeds for his trouble.... john had not greatly liked the look of mr. claude jannissary. so uncompromising an idealist might have been expected to possess a more pleasing appearance and a less shifty look in his eyes ... but soothed vanity and youthful eagerness to appear in print and a feeling that very often appearances were against idealists, caused him to sign the agreement which mr. jannissary had already prepared for him. a great thrill of pleasure went through him as he signed the long document, full of involved clauses. he was now entitled to call himself an author. in a little while, a book of his would be purchaseable in bookshops.... "we'll print immediately," said mr. jannissary, handing a copy of the agreement, signed by himself, to john and putting the other copy carefully away. "i'm sure the book will be a great success ... _artistically_, at all events ... and after all, that's the chief thing. _that's_ the chief thing. ah, art, _art_, mr. macdermott, what a compelling thing it is! i often feel that i have thrown my life away ever since i resolved to publish books instead of writing them. there are times when i long to throw up everything and run away into the country and meditate. meditate! but one can't escape from the bonds of the body, mr. macdermott!" "oh, no," john vaguely answered. "the world is too much for us ... poor, bewildered idealists, searching for the gleam and so often losing it. rent has to be paid, butchers demand payment for their meat ... i'm speaking figuratively, of course, for i'm a vegetarian myself ... and one must pay one's way. so the body has us, and we have to compromise. ah, yes! but at the bottom of pandora's box, mr. macdermott, there is always.... hope! this way, please, and _good_ afternoon! it's been very nice indeed to meet you!..." hinde had disturbed john's complacency very considerably when he saw the agreement which john had signed. eleanor had begun the process by failing to understand why the first five hundred copies of the novel should be published free of royalty. if mr. jannissary was to make money out of these five hundred copies why was john not to make any? he quelled her doubts momentarily by informing her that she was totally ignorant of the conditions of publishing. if she only knew how appalling they were!... mr. jannissary had so impressed john with the terrible state of the publisher's business that he had gone away from the office feeling exceedingly fortunate to have his book published at all without being asked to pay for it. eleanor's doubts, however, had revived when hinde, who dined with them on the evening of the day on which the agreement had been signed, declared with extraordinary emphasis that mr. jannissary was a common robber and would, if he had his way, be enduring torture in gaol. "he's a notorious little scoundrel who has been living for years on robbing young authors by flattering their vanity. i suppose he told you you were a marvel and bleated about his ideals?" john could not deny that mr. jannissary had spoken of his ideals several times during their interview. "i know him, the greasy little bounder!" hinde exclaimed. "you'll never get one farthing from that book of yours, for he won't print more than five hundred copies!..." "he will if they're demanded." "_if_ they're demanded. do you think they will be?" "i hope so!" "oh, we can all hope, but there's not much chance of you realising your hope. your book isn't a very good one!..." eleanor glanced up at this. she had not felt very certain about john's book herself, but now that hinde was belittling it, she was angry with him. "_i_ think it's good," she said decisively. "even if it is," hinde retorted, "it will only sell well if it's advertised well. lots of good books don't sell even when they are advertised. but jannissary doesn't advertise. he hasn't got enough money to advertise. look at the newspapers! how many times do you see jannissary's list in the advertisements?" john could not remember. "very seldom," said hinde. "his books get less attention from reviewers than other people's because the reviewers know that he's a rascal and that nine out of ten of his books aren't worth the paper they're printed on. booksellers will hardly stock them. he makes his living by selling copies to the libraries and persuading mugs to pay for the publication of their books. that's how jannissary lives!..." "he didn't ask me to pay for publishing my book," john murmured. "that's a wonder," hinde replied. "why didn't you ask for advice before you signed this thing?" "i want the book published as soon as possible. i have to make my name and i daresay i shall have to pay for making it!" hinde put the agreement down. "oh, well, if you look at it like that," he said, "there's no more to be said, but you've done a silly thing!" "i don't see it," john boldly asserted, though there was doubt in his mind. "you'll see it some day!" hinde had parted from them earlier that evening than he had intended or they had expected. he made an excuse for leaving them by saying that he was tired and needed sleep after late nights of work, but he went because john's vanity had been hurt by his criticism of the agreement and also because he had said that john's book had no remarkable qualities. "i'm telling you the truth that you're always demanding, and i won't tell you anything else. you've been very anxious to tell it to other people and now you'll have a chance of hearing it yourself. your book is not a good book. there are dozens like it published every year. the _sensation_ reviews them six-a-time in three or four hundred words. you may write good books some day, but _the enchanted lover_ is just an ordinary, mediocre book. i think your tragedy is better!..." "well, it ought to be. it was written afterwards," john said, trying hard to speak without revealing resentment. "yes. yes, of course!" hinde murmured. a little later, he had taken his leave of them. "i wonder if he's right!" eleanor said to john when he had gone. "of course he isn't," john tartly replied. "i believe he's jealous!" "jealous!" "yes. he's been talking for years of writing a tragedy about st. patrick, but he's not done it, and then i come along and do it quite easily and get the play accepted. and my novel's to be published, too. of course he's jealous! any disappointed man's jealous when he sees someone else doing things he's failed to do. i'm sorry for him really!" "perhaps that is it," eleanor said, taking comfort to herself. "no doubt about it. anyhow, even if the novel is a failure, there's the play. that's good. i know it's good. the novel was bound to have some faults. all first books have!" iv then came the disappointment of the tragedy. the manager of the cottenham repertory theatre wrote to say that they were compelled to postpone the production of it for a few weeks because their season had been unfortunate and they were eager to replenish their treasury by the production of popular pieces. they all admired john's play very much and were quite certain that it would be a great artistic success, but its tragical nature made it unlikely to be profitable to any of them just at present.... "it's funny how these people keep on talking about _artistic_ success when they think a thing isn't going to be any good," eleanor said when he had finished reading the letter to her. "no good!" he exclaimed. "what do you mean, no good!" "well ... of course i don't mean that your play isn't any good ... only i begin to feel doubtful about things when i hear the word _artistic_ mentioned." "they're only postponing the play for a short while until they've got enough money together to keep on. that's reasonable, isn't it?" "oh, yes. it's reasonable. i'm not saying anything about that ... only it's a disappointment!" "i'm disappointed myself," he said, ruefully contemplating the letter. "how much do you think you'll make out of it, john?" eleanor asked pensively. "make? oh, i don't know. about a hundred pounds or so on the first performances ... and then there's the london season ... and of course if the play's a great success, we shall make our fortune. but i think we can reckon on a hundred pounds anyhow. i don't want to expect too much. why do you ask?" "well, i'm getting anxious about money. you see, dear, you haven't earned much since we got married, have you?" "no, not much. one or two articles in the _sensation._ but you needn't worry about that. i'll look after the money part. don't you worry!" "perhaps you could get a regular job on the _evening herald_ now that mr. hinde's in charge of it," she suggested. hinde had recently been appointed editor of the _evening herald._ "oh, no, eleanor, i don't want a journalist's job. i'm a writer ... an artist ... not a reporter. besides, i shouldn't have time to work at the book i'm doing now. look at hinde. he never has time to do anything but journalism. the worst of work like that is that after a time you can't do anything else. you think in paragraphs!..." "supposing the play isn't a success ... i mean a financial success?" she asked. "well, i'll make money for you some other way. leave it to me, eleanor, i'm pretty confident about myself. i feel convinced that the play _and_ the novel will be successful financially as well as artistically. i've always been confident about myself!" "yes." "and i feel quite confident about this. so don't worry your head any more like a good girl!" the receipt of the proofs and the excitement of correcting them caused eleanor to forget her anxiety about their finances. john and she sat in front of the fire, she with one batch of galley sheets in her lap, he with another; and he read the story to her, correcting misprints and making alterations as he went along, while she copied the corrections on to her proofs. "do you like it?" he asked, eager for her praise. "yes," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder, "i do like it. it's ... it's quite good, isn't it?" he imagined that there was a note of dubiety in her voice, but he did not press her for greater praise, and they finished the correction of the proofs and sent them to mr. claude jannissary as quickly as they could. "what does it feel like to have written a book?" eleanor said to him when the proofs had been dispatched. "fine," he replied. "i wish my uncle matthew were alive. he'd feel very proud of me!" "i'm proud of you," she said, drawing nearer to him. "are you?" he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. he put his arm round her neck and she took hold of his hand. "do you like me better now, eleanor, than you did when we were married?" "oh, yes, dear, of course i do." "do you remember that night on the embankment when we were both so scared of getting married?" "yes. weren't we silly? i very nearly ran away that night ... only i didn't know where to run to. i was awfully frightened, john. i thought we were both making terrible mistakes!..." "well, we haven't regretted it yet, have we?" "no, not yet. so far our marriage has been successful!" "i told you it would be all right, didn't i? i knew i could make you happy. you're such a darling ... how could i help loving you?" v the novel was published in the same week that the tragedy was produced at the cottenham repertory theatre. john had intended to be present at all the rehearsals of his play, but the manager of the theatre informed him that this was hardly necessary. it would be sufficient if he were to attend the last two and the dress rehearsal, and when john considered the state of his work on the second novel, he decided to accept the manager's advice. "after all," he said to eleanor, "i don't know anything at all about producing plays and this chap spends his life at the job, so i can safely leave it to him!" the complimentary copies of his novel reached him on the evening before he was to travel to cottenham to attend his first rehearsal. he opened the parcel with trembling fingers and took out the six red-covered volumes and spread them on the table. he liked the bold black letters in which the title of the book and his name were printed on the covers: the enchanted lover by john macdermott. it seemed incredible to him that a book should bear his name, but there, in big, black letters on a red ground, was his name. he turned the pages, reading a sentence here and a sentence there until eleanor, who had been out when the parcel arrived, came in. "look!" he said, holding one of the books towards her. she exclaimed with delight and ran forward to take the book from him. "oh, my dear," she said, clasping the novel with one hand while she embraced him with the other. "i'm so proud of you, you clever creature!" he was greatly moved by her affection, and he felt that he wanted to cry. there were very queer sensations in his throat, and he had tremendous difficulty in keeping his eyes from blinking. "it's rather nice?" he said, touching the book. "it's lovely," she said. she went to the table. "are these the others?" she drew a chair forward and sat down. "let's send them out to-night. this one to your mother and this one to uncle william. i'll keep this one!" she opened the book at the dedication "to eleanor." "here," she said, "write your name in it!" he found a pen and ink and wrote under the dedication, "from her devoted husband," and when she saw what he had written, she hugged him and told him again that she was proud of him. "what about the others? are you going to send them out, too?" she asked, and he proposed to her that one should be sent to hinde, one to mr. cairnduff and one to mr. mccaughan.... "we shan't have any left, except my copy, if you do that!" she objected. "we can easily get some more," he replied. "i'd like to send one to that beastly cousin in exeter just to let him see how clever you are. he hadn't the decency to send us a wedding present, the stingy miser!" they packed up the books after john had inscribed them, and went off to the post-office together to send them off. "won't it be fun reading the reviews?" said john as they walked up high street. "i hope they'll like it, the people who review it," she answered. "don't let's go in just yet. let's walk along the spaniards' road a little while!" they walked up heath street, and when they came to the railings above the vale of health, they stood against them and looked towards london. a blue haze had settled over the city and the trees were like long hanging veils through which little, yellow lights from the street-lamps shone like tiny jewels. the air was full of drowsy sounds, as if the earth were happily tired and were resting for a while before the pleasures of the night began. "would you like to go back to your club, eleanor?" john said. "silly old silly!" she replied, pinching his arm. "i feel as if i want to tell everybody that you've written a book and a play," she said, as they walked on. "it doesn't seem right that all these people don't know about you!" he went to cottenham on the next day, carrying with him an early edition of the _evening herald_ in which hinde had printed a very flattering review of _the enchanted lover._ eleanor had been puzzled by the promptness with which the review had appeared until john explained to her that review copies of books were sent to the newspapers a week or a fortnight before the date of publication. "it's a very good review," she said. "i thought he didn't like the book much!" "so did i. i hope he isn't just writing like this to please me. i don't want insincere reviews!..." "i expect," said eleanor, "he didn't tell you how much, he really liked it!" "hmmm! perhaps that's it," john replied. he put the paper in his pocket, and as the train drew out of easton and started on its journey to cottenham, he speculated on the sincerity of hinde's review. he took the paper out of his pocket and read it again. the review was headed, "a remarkable first novel" and was full of phrases that seemed fulsome even to john. "we prophesy that this notable novel will have a very great success among the reading public. it is certainly the finest story of its kind that has been _published in this country for a generation_." "i wouldn't have said that about it myself," john reflected. "of course, i'd like to think it's true, but!... i hope this isn't just logrolling!" he remembered how fiercely hinde had described the back-scratching, high-minded poets who boomed each other in their papers. "i don't want to get praise that way," he thought, putting the paper back into his pocket. "i'll order half-a-dozen copies of the _herald_ when i get back from cottenham. my uncle william will be glad of a copy, and so will mr. cairnduff and the minister!..." vi the cottenham repertory theatre was a dingy, ill-built house in a back street in cottenham. it had been a music-hall of a low class until the earnest playgoers of cottenham, extremely anxious about the condition of the drama, formed themselves into a society to improve the theatre. by dint of agitation and much hard work, they contrived to get enough money together to take the music-hall over from its owner who was unable to compete against the syndicate halls and was steadily drinking himself to death in consequence, and turned it into a repertory theatre. their success had been moderate, for they united to their good intentions a habit of denunciation of all plays that were not "repertory" plays which had the effect partly of irritating the common playgoer and partly of frightening him. all the plays that were labelled "repertory" plays were praised by these earnest students of the drama without any sort of discrimination, and when, as often happened, a very poor play was produced at the repertory theatre, any common playgoer who saw it and was bored by it, went away in the belief that he was not educated up to the standard of such austere work and resolved that he would seek his entertainment elsewhere in future. it was to this theatre that john went on the day after his arrival in cottenham. the town itself depressed him immeasurably. it was the most shapeless, nondescript, undignified town he had ever seen, and yet it was one of the richest places in england. there was no seemliness in its main streets; little huckstering shops hustled larger and more pretentious shops, but all of them had an air of vivacious vulgarity. they had not been given the look of sobriety which age gives even to ugly streets in ugly towns. they seemed to be striving against each other in a competition to decide which was the commonest and shoddiest shop in the city. it seemed to john that all these cottenham shops dropped their aitches!... the clouds were grey when he arrived in cottenham, dirty-grey and very cheerless; they were still dirty-grey when he went to the theatre, and rain fell before he reached it; and the clouds remained in that dismal state until he quitted cottenham after the first performance of _milchu and st. patrick: a tragedy_. it seemed to john that they would never be otherwise than dirty-grey, that the streets would always be wet and the shops always clamantly vulgar. "i wouldn't live in this place for the wide world," he said, as he turned into the stage-door of the repertory theatre. he was directed to the manager's office by the doorkeeper. the manager was on the stage, so the girl secretary informed him, and if mr. macdermott would kindly follow her she would take him there at once. he had never seen the stage side of the proscenium before, and although the place was dark and he stumbled over properties, he felt enormously interested in what he saw. "is that the scenery?" he said to the secretary as they passed some tawdry looking flats lying against the walls of the scene-dock. "yes," she answered. "it looks awful in the daylight, doesn't it? but when the footlights are on and the limes are lit, you'd be surprised to see how fine it looks. they say that common materials look better in limelight than good things do. funny, isn't it?" she led him on to the stage and brought him to the manager. "this is mr. macdermott," she said to a tall, lean, worried man who was standing immediately in front of the footlights, directing the rehearsal which was then beginning. "oh, ah, yes!" said the manager, and then he turned to john. "i'm gidney," he said. john murmured a politeness. "now, let me introduce you to people!" he turned to the players, all of whom had that appearance of depression which actors habitually wear in daylight, as if they felt naked and ashamed without their grease-paint. "this is the author of the play," he exclaimed to them. "mr. macdermott!" he led john to each of the players, naming them as he did so, and each of them murmured that he or she was delighted to have the pleasure!... "i think if you were to sit in the front row of the stalls, mr. macdermott!" said gidney, "while the rehearsal proceeds, that would be best. you can tell me at the end of each act what alterations or suggestions you wish to propose!" "very good," said john, feeling his spirits running rapidly into his boots. what were these cheerless people going to do with the play over which he had laboured and sweated for weeks and weeks?... they went through their parts with a lifeless facility that turned his tragedy, he imagined, into a neat piece of machinery and left it without any glow of emotion whatever. now and then the ease with which they recited their words was interrupted by forgetfulness and the player, whose memory had failed him, would snap his fingers and call to the prompter, "what is it?" or "give me that line, will you?" "how do you think it's going?" said the manager to john at the end of the first act. "well, i don't know," he answered with a nervous laugh. "they aren't putting much enthusiasm into it, are they?" "ah, but this is only a rehearsal. wait till you see the dress rehearsal!" he felt considerably relieved. a rehearsal, of course, must be very different from a performance. but on the night of the dress rehearsal ... it took place on sunday, for the stage was occupied on week-nights by regular performances ... the players seemed to go to pieces. all of them had difficulty in remembering their lines, and when at the end of the last act, a piece of the scenery collapsed upon st. patrick, john felt that he could have cheerfully seen the entire theatre collapse on everybody concerned with it. he went to the grubby temperance hotel in which he had taken a room, and gave himself completely to gloom and despair. he felt that his play was not quite so brilliant as he had imagined it to be, but he was not sure that his dissatisfaction with it ought not really to be displayed against the actors. any play, treated as his had been treated, must seem to be a poor piece. gidney had appeared to be pleased with the dress rehearsal and had wrung john's hand with great heartiness when they separated. "going splendidly!" he murmured. "congratulate you. excellent piece!..." on the way to his hotel, he had seen a play-bill in the window of a tobacconist's shop, and a thrill of pleasure had quickened him as he stood in front of the glass and read his name beneath the title of the play. he must remember to ask gidney for a copy of the play-bill to hang up in his flat! now, in the dull and not very clean bedroom of the temperance hotel, he felt indifferent to play-bills and the thrill of seeing his name in print. he wished that eleanor were with him. they had decided that she should not be present at the first night in cottenham because of the expense of hotel bills and railway fares. "i'll see it in london," she had said bravely, trying to conceal her disappointment. now, however, he wished that she were with him. she had remarkable powers of comforting. if he were depressed, eleanor would draw his head down to her shoulder and would soothe him into a good temper again. there had been times since their marriage when he had been dubious about her ... when it seemed to him that she had only a kindly affection for him and still had not got love for him ... and the thought filled him with resentment against her. why could she not love him? he was lovable enough and he loved her. a woman ought to love a man who loved her!... then some perception of the self-sufficiency and the smugness of these thoughts went through his mind and he would abase himself in spirit before her and reproach himself for unkindnesses that he imagined he had shown to her ... hasty words that hurt her. his temper was quick to rise, but equally quick to fall; and sometimes he failed to realise that in the sudden outburst of anger he had said cruel, hurting things which made no impression on him because they were said without any feeling, but left a hard impression on those to whom they were addressed. he had seen pain in eleanor's eyes when he had spoken some swift and biting word to her, and then, all repentance, he had tried to kiss the pain from her.... to-night, in this grubby bedroom, smelling of teetotallers and grim, forbidding people in whom are to be found none of the genial foibles of ordinary, hearty men, he felt an excess of remorse for any unkind thing he had ever said to eleanor. his pessimism about his play caused him to exaggerate the enormity of his offences. he pictured her, looking at him with that queer air of puzzled pathos that had so impressed him when he first saw her, and intense shame filled him when he thought that he had done or said anything to make her look at him in that way. well, he would compensate her for any pain that he had caused her. he would love her so dearly that her life would be passed in continual sunshine and comfort. even if she were never to return his love or to return only a slight share of it, he would devote himself to her just as completely as if she gave everything to him. his play might be miserably acted and be a failure, apart from the acting, but what mattered that! while he had eleanor he had everything. vii he went down to the theatre on the evening of the first performance in a state of calm and quietness which greatly astonished him. he had expected to tremble and quake with nervousness and to be reluctant to go near the theatre. he remembered to have read somewhere an account of the way in which some melodramatist of repute behaved on a first night. he walked up and down the embankment while his play was being performed, mopping his fevered brow and groaning in agony. someone had found the melodramatist on one occasion, sitting at the foot of cleopatra's needle, howling into his handkerchief.... john, however, had no terrors whatever when he entered the theatre, and he told himself that the melodramatist was either an extremely emotional man or a very considerable liar. there was a moderate number of people in the auditorium, enough to preserve the theatre from seeming sparsely-occupied, but not enough to justify anyone in saying that the house was full. the atmosphere resembled that of a church. people spoke, when they spoke at all, in whispers, and john was so infected by the air of solemnity that when a small boy in the gallery began to call out "acid drops or cigarettes!" he felt that a sidesman must appear from a pew and take the lad to the police-station for brawling in a sacred edifice. he waited for the orchestra to appear, but the play began without any preliminary music. the lights were lowered, and soon afterwards someone beat the floor of the stage with a wooden mallet ... sending forth three sepulchral sounds that seemed to hammer out of the audience any tendency it might have had to enjoy itself. then the curtain ascended, and the play began. viii the actors were much better than they had promised to be at the dress rehearsal, but they were still far from being good. it was very plain that they had been insufficiently rehearsed and there were some bad cases of mis-casting. nevertheless, the performance was better than he had anticipated, and his spirits rose almost as rapidly as they had fallen on the previous night; and when at the end of the performance there were calls for the author, he passed through the door that gave access from the auditorium to the stage with a great deal of elation. he was thrust on to the stage by gidney, and found himself standing between two of the actresses. there was a great black cavern in front of him which, he realised, was the auditorium, and he could hear applause rising out of it. the curtain rose and fell again, and the buzz of voices calling praise to him grew louder. then the curtain fell again, and this time it remained down. he realised that he had gripped the actresses by the hand and that he was holding them very tightly.... "i beg your pardon!" he said, releasing them. "awf'lly good!" said one of the actresses, smiling at him as she moved across the stage. how horrible actors and actresses in their make-up looked close to! he could not conceive of himself kissing that woman while she had so much paint on her face.... he turned to walk off the stage, and found that walking was very difficult. he was trembling so that his knees were almost knocking together and when he moved, he reeled slightly. "i say," he said to one of the actors, "my nerve's gone to pieces. funny thing ... i ... felt nothing at all ... nothing ... until just now!" the actor took hold of his arm and steadied him. "queer how nerves affect people," he said, as john and he left the stage. "i knew a man who got stage fright two days before the first night of a play in which he had a big part. nearly collapsed in the street. all right afterwards ... never turned a hair on the stage. must congratulate you on your play ... jolly good, i call it. tragedy, of course!..." he had expected some sort of festivity after the performance, but there was none. the players were eager to get home, and gidney had a headache, so john thanked each of them and went back to his hotel. "thank goodness," he said, "i shall be at home tomorrow." he got into bed and lay quietly in the darkness, but he could not sleep, and so he turned on the light again and tried to read; but his head was thumping, thumping and the words had no meaning for him. he put the book down. how extraordinary is the common delusion, he thought, that actors and actresses lead gay lives! could anything be more dull than the life of an actor in a repertory theatre? daily rehearsals in a dingy and draughty theatre and nightly performances in half-rehearsed plays!... "give me the life of a bank clerk for real gaiety," he murmured. "an actor's just a drudge ... and a dull drudge, too! very uninteresting people, actors!... why the devil did i leave eleanor behind?" ix he returned to london on the following morning, carrying copies of the _cottenham daily post_ and the _cottenham mercury_ with him. the notices of his play were mildly appreciative ... that of the _post_ being so mild as to be almost denunciatory. the critic asserted that john's play, while interesting, showed that its author had no real understanding of the meaning of tragedy. he found no evidence in _milchu and st. patrick_ that john appreciated the importance of the pressure of the significant event. the significant event decided the development of a tragedy, but in mr. macdermott's play there was no significant event. the play just happened, so to speak, and it ought not to "just happen." it was an excellent discursus on the drama from the time of the morality plays to the time of the irish players, and it included references to euripides, ibsen, the noh plays of japan, mr. bernard shaw (in a patronising manner), synge and mr. masefield; but john felt, when he had read it, that most of it had been written before its author had seen his play. the other notice was less learned, but it left no doubt in the mind of the readers that although _milchu and st. patrick_ was an interesting piece ... the word "interesting," after he had read these notices, seemed to john to be equivalent to the word "poor" ... it was not likely to mark any epochs. "i don't think much of cottenham anyhow!" said john, putting, the papers in his pocket. eleanor met him at euston. the fatigue which settles on a traveller in the last hour of a long railway journey had raised the devil of depression in john. he had reread the notices in the cottenham papers, and as he considered their very restrained praises of his play, he remembered that hinde had said _the enchanted lover_ was an ordinary novel. "i wonder am i any good," he said to himself as the train hauled itself into euston. he looked out of the window and saw eleanor standing on the platform, scanning the carriage as she sought for him. "well, she thinks i am," he thought, as he alighted from the train. "eleanor!" he called to her, and she turned and when she saw him, her eyes lit and she hurried to him. the second chapter i hinde's enthusiastic review of _the enchanted lover_ had not been followed by other reviews equally enthusiastic or nearly so. many papers failed to do more than include it in the list of books received. _the times literary supplement_ gave six lines of small type to a cold account of it. the reviewer declared that "this first novel is not without merit" but either had not been able to discover the merit or had not enough space in which to describe it, for he omitted to say what it was. john had paid a visit to the local lending library every morning for a week in order that he might see all the london newspapers and such of the provincial papers as were exhibited, and had searched their columns eagerly for references to his book; but the references were few and slight. mr. claude jannissary, when john visited him, wagged his head dolefully and uttered some mournful remarks on the sad state of idealism in england. he regretted to say that the book was not selling so well as he had hoped it would sell. the appalling conditions of the publishing trade were accentuated by the extraordinary reluctance of the booksellers to take risks or to show any enthusiasm for new things. between mr. jannissary and john, he might say that booksellers were a very unsatisfactory lot. most of them were quite uncultured men. hardly any of them read books. mr. jannissary longed for the day when booksellers would look upon their shops as places of adventure and romance!... a curious sensation of distaste for these words passed through john when he heard them spoken by mr. jannissary. the booksellers, said the publishers, should be ambitious to earn the title of the new elizabethans ... hungering and thirsting after dangerous experiences. he would like to see a bookseller turning disdainfully from "best sellers" and eagerly purchasing large quantities of books by unknown authors. "think of the thrill of it," said mr. jannissary; and john, perturbed in his mind, tried hard to think of the thrill of it. his mental perturbation was due to the lean look of his bank balance. money was going out of his house more rapidly than it was coming in, and eleanor had been full of anxiety that morning. he had not yet received a cheque from the cottenham repertory theatre for the royalties due on the week's performance of _milchu and st. patrick_, but he had soothed eleanor's fears by assuring her that there would be the better part of a hundred pounds to come to them from cottenham in a few days. in the meantime, he told her, he would call on jannissary and see whether he could not obtain some money from him. "he must have sold much more than five hundred copies by this time," he said. "if all the bookshops in the country only took one copy each, he'd have sold more than five hundred, and i'm sure they'd all take two or three each. perhaps more!" the suggestion that he might make a small advance to john on account of accrued royalties had a very chilling effect upon mr. jannissary. "my dear fellow," he said, putting up his hands in a benedictory manner and then dropping them as if to say that even he found difficulty in believing in the nobility of man, "impossible! absolutely impossible! i've sunk ... money ... much money ... in your book ... i don't regret it ... not for a moment ... i believe in you, macdermott ... strongly ... but it will be a long time before i recover any of that ... money ... if i ever recover it. i'm sorry!..." john had come away from the publisher in a cheerless state of mind, and as he turned into the strand, he collided with hinde. "how's the book getting on?" hinde demanded when they had greeted each other. john told him of what jannissary had said. "i tell you what i'll do." said hinde. "i'll work up a boom for it in the _evening herald_. i'll turn one of my chaps on to writing half a dozen letters to the editor about it!..." "but you don't like the book," john expostulated. "you told me it wasn't much good!" "och, i know that," hinde replied, "but that doesn't matter. i'd like to do you a good turn. there's a smart chap working for me now ... he can put more superlatives into a paragraph than any other man in fleet street, and he isn't afraid of committing himself to anything. most useful fellow to have on your staff. he does our literary article, and he's discovered a fresh genius every week since he came to me. he'll get on, that chap! i'll turn him on to your book!" "i don't want praise that i don't deserve," john said, thrusting out his lower lip. "oh, you'll deserve it all right. everybody deserves some praise. how's eleanor?" "all right!" then hinde hurried away, and john went home. there was a letter from the cottenham repertory theatre awaiting him, and he eagerly opened the envelope. "you needn't worry any longer," he said to eleanor as he took out the contents of the envelope.... he gaped at the cheque and the returns sheet. "how much is it?" eleanor asked. "there must be a mistake!..." "how much is it?" she repeated. "sixteen pounds, nine shillings and sevenpence! but!..." ii she took the returns sheet from him. "no," she said after she had examined it, "there doesn't appear to be any mistake. it seems to be all right!" she put the paper and the cheque down, and turned away. "it's queer, isn't it?" he said. "yes. yes, very! we shall have to do something, john. we've very little left!" "of course, there's the london season to come yet," he said to comfort her. "not for a very long time," she answered, "and it may not be any better than this!" she hesitated for a moment, then she hurriedly said, "john, why shouldn't i go on with my work!" "on with your work! what do you mean?" "why shouldn't i get a job again? we could manage, i think, and the money i'd earn would be useful. you could finish your new book!..." his pride was hurt. "oh, no," he said at once. "no, no, i can't agree to that. what sort of a husband would i look like if people heard that i couldn't maintain my wife. oh, eleanor, i couldn't think of such a thing!... "i don't see why not. you're not going to make money easily, so far as i can see, and either you or i must get work of some sort. i know you want to finish your book, so why shouldn't i earn something to help us to keep going?" "no," he said, "that's my job. i daresay hinde would give me work if i asked for it!" "but you've always been against doing journalism." "i know. i'm still against it, but one can't always resist things. he might let me do literary work for him. i'll go in and see him to-morrow." he told her of his encounter with hinde that day and of hinde's proposal to boom _the enchanted lover_. "i don't like the idea much, but perhaps it'll be useful!" he picked up the cheque from the cottenham repertory theatre. "i'm actually out of pocket over this affair," he said. "what with the cost of typing the play and my expenses in cottenham...." "i wish we could go back to ballyards," eleanor said. "go back to ballyards!" he exclaimed, staring at her in astonishment. "yes, we'd be much better off there!" "go back and admit i've failed in london! crawl home with my tail between my legs!..." "don't be melodramatic," said eleanor. "i have my pride," he retorted. "you can call that being melodramatic, if you like, but i call it decent pride. i won't admit to anybody that i've failed. i haven't failed!..." "i didn't say you had, dear!" "i won't fail. you wait. just you wait. i'll succeed all right. if i have failed so far, i can try again, can't i? can't i?" "yes, john!..." "i'm not going to take a knock-down blow as a knockout. i know i can write. i feel the stuff inside me. the book i'm doing now, isn't that good?" "well!..." "isn't it good? you'll have to admit it's good!" "i daresay it is. it isn't the kind of book i like, but i'm sure it's good. that's why i want to get a job, so that you can finish it in peace. let me try ... just until you've finished the book. then perhaps things will be all right. i'd like to be able to say that i helped you!" "you're a lot too good for me." "oh, no, i'm not. any girl who _is_ a girl would want to help, wouldn't she?" his temper had subsided now, and the reproach he always felt after such a scene as this made him feel very ashamed of himself. "i'm sorry, eleanor, that i lost my temper just now. i didn't mean to say what i did!..." "but, my dear," she exclaimed, "you didn't say much, and if you did it was because you were upset about the play and the novel. don't worry about that. now, listen to me. i met mr. crawford this morning!..." "crawford?" "yes. he's managing director of that motor place i used to be in. he told me he had never had a secretary so useful as i was, and that he wished i'd never met you!..." "did he, indeed?" "yes. of course, that was only a joke. i'm sure he'd let me go back to my old job for a while!..." "no. no, no!" she stood up, half turned away from him, and said, "well, i'm going to ask for it anyhow!" "you're what?" "yes, john, i'm going to ask for it. don't shout at me! you really must listen to sense. i'm not going to run into debt or have trouble with tradesmen about money just because of your pride. i want you to finish that book!" "i'd rather sweep the streets than let you go back to your old job." "well, i'll get a new one then!" "or any job," he said. "i don't care what it is. that man crawford, what do you think he'd say if you went back to him? i know. 'poor mrs. macdermott, her husband must be a rum sort of a fellow ... not able to keep his wife ... she had to go out to work again soon after he married her!' that's what he'd say!" "but does it matter what he says?" "yes. i'm not going to have anybody say that i can't earn enough to keep you decently!" "that's all very fine, john, but you're not doing it. your novel hasn't brought you any money at all, and you've spent as much on the play as you've got so far. you've had one or two articles printed, and that's all. the rest of the money we've lived on has come from your uncle william!..." "uncle william! none of it came from him. uncle matthew left me his money and my mother gave me the rest!" "yes, and how did they get it? from your uncle william, of course. his work has kept them, hasn't it? and you? we're sponging on your uncle william, and i hate to think we're sponging on him. you're very proud about not letting me go out to work, but you're not so proud about letting uncle william keep you!" this was a blow between the eyes for him. "that's a bitterly unkind thing to say," he murmured. "it's true, isn't it?" she retorted. "i don't want to be unkind, john, but we've really got to face things. i'm frightened. i don't like the thought of getting into debt. i've never been in debt before. never! and i can't see what's going to happen when we've spent our money if one of us doesn't start to earn something now!" she changed her tone. "john, don't be silly about it. do agree to my getting a job for the present. you'll be able to get on with your book at home, and any other writing you want to do, and then perhaps things will get straight and we'll be all right!" "the point is, do you believe in me?" he demanded. "of course i believe in you!..." "ah, but i mean in my work. in my writing. do you believe in that?" "what's that got to do with it? lots of books are very good that i don't much care for. i liked _the enchanted lover_--it was quite good--but i don't much care for the one you're doing now. i can't help that. i daresay other people will like it better!" "why don't you like it?" "well, it doesn't seem to me to be about anything." "listen, eleanor! i don't want just to be one of a mob of fairly good writers. if i can't be a great writer, i don't want to be a writer at all. i'll have everything or i'll have nothing!" "i see!" "so now you know. i feel i have greatness in me ... but you don't feel like that about me," he said. "i don't know anything about greatness. all i know is that i like some things and that i don't like others. i don't know why a book is great or why it isn't. you can't judge things by what i say. it's quite possible that you are a great writer, and that's why i want you to let me get a job, so that you can go on with your work and be able to show the world what you can do. i'd hate to think you'd been prevented from doing your best work because you'd had to use up your energy doing other things. it won't take long to finish this book, will it?" "no." "well, then, i shan't have to work for very long. by the time it's finished, _the enchanted lover_ may have earned a lot of money for us ... and the play, too ... and then we can just laugh at our troubles now!..." iii he remained obdurate for a while, but in the end she wore his opposition down. mr. crawford gladly welcomed her back to her old job, and even offered her a larger salary than she had been receiving before her marriage. "i've learned your value since you went away," he said. "i'm a fool to tell you that, perhaps, but i can't help it. half the young women who go out to offices nowadays would be dear at ninepence a week. the last girl we had here caused me to imperil my immortal soul twice a day through her incompetence. i've sworn more in a week since you left us, than i ever swore in my life before!..." eleanor insisted that john should not inform his mother of her return to work. intuitively she knew that mrs. macdermott's pride would be outraged by this knowledge, and that she would make bitter complaint to john of his failure to maintain his wife in a way worthy of his family; and so she urged john to say nothing at all of the matter either to mrs. macdermott or to uncle william. he had made no comment on the matter, but she knew that he had been relieved by her request. hinde had fulfilled his promise to boom _the enchanted lover_ in the _evening herald_, and mr. jannissary reluctantly admitted that the book was selling. "slowly, of course, but still ... selling! i think i shall get my money back," he said. "do you think i'll get any money out of it?" john asked. "ah, these things are on the knees of the gods, my dear fellow! it is impossible to say!" the second book moved in a leisurely manner to its close, and mr. jannissary declared that he was delighted to hear that _the enchanted lover_ would shortly have a successor. he thought that perhaps he could promise to pay royalties from the first copy of the new novel!... "how do writers manage to live, mr. jannissary?" john said to him at this point, and mr. jannissary murmured that there was a divinity which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may. "oh, is that it?" said john. "some men have been very hungry, macdermott because they served their art faithfully. think of the garrets, the lonely attics in which beautiful things have been imagined!..." "i've no desire to go hungry or to live in a lonely attic, mr. jannissary. let me tell you that!" "no ... no, of course not. none of us have. i trust i am not a voluptuary or self-indulgent in any way, but i too would dislike to be excessively hungry. still, i think it must be a great consolation to a man to think that he had made a great work out of ... his pain, so to speak!" john reflected for a moment on this. then he said, "how do you manage to keep going, mr. jannissary, when you publish so many books that don't bring you any return?" mr. jannissary glanced very interrogatively at john. then he waved his hands, and murmured vaguely. "sacrifices," he said. "we all have to make sacrifices!..." john left the publisher and went on to the office of the _evening herald_ where he saw hinde. "i've brought an article i thought you'd like to print," he said when he had been admitted to hinde's office. hinde glanced quickly through it. "good," he said, "i'll put it in to-morrow. i suppose," he continued, "you wouldn't like to do a job for me?" "what sort of a job?" "there's to be a great ceremony at westminster abbey to-morrow ... dedication of a chapel for the order of the bath. the king'll be there. like to go and write an account of it?" "yes, i would!" "good. i'll get masters to send the ticket of admission on to you to-night!" he felt much happier when he left the herald offices than he had felt when he entered them. he had sold an article and had been commissioned to do an interesting job. eleanor would be pleased. he hurried home so that he might be there to greet her when she returned from her work. iv she was sitting in front of the fire when he entered the flat. "hilloa," he said, "you're home early, aren't you?" she looked up and smiled rather wanly at him. "yes," she said, "i came home about three!..." "why? aren't you well?" "i'm not feeling very grand!" "what's the matter!" "i don't know. at least i ... oh, i don't know. it may only be imagination!" he sat down beside her. "imagination!..." she looked at him very steadily, and he found himself remembering how beautiful he had thought her eyes were that day when he saw her for the first time. they were still very beautiful. "i'm not sure," she said. "i don't know ... but i ... i think i'm going to have a baby!" "holy smoke!" "i don't know. i feel so stupid!..." she had been smiling while she was telling this to him, but now she dismayed him by bursting into tears. "eleanor!" he exclaimed, not knowing what to say or to do, and she let herself subside into his arms and lay there, half laughing and half crying. "i'm being a ... frightful ... fool," she said between sobs, "but i ... i can't help it!" they sat together until the dusk had turned to darkness, holding each other and whispering explanations and hopes and fears. a queer sense of responsibility settled upon john, a feeling that he must bear burdens and be glad to bear them. eleanor seemed to him now to be a very fragile and timid creature, turning instinctively to him for care and protection. immeasureable love for her surged in his heart. this very dear and gentle girl, so full of courage and yet so full of alarm, had become inexpressibly precious to him. she had come to him in doubt and had entrusted her life to him, not certain that she cared for him sufficiently to be entirely happy with him. he had tried to make her happy, and slowly he had seen her liking for him growing into some sort of affection. perhaps now she loved him as he loved her. soon she would be the mother of a child ... his child!... how very extraordinary it seemed! a few months ago, eleanor and he had been strangers to each other ... and now she was about to bear a child to him! "i must work hard," he said to himself, and then to her, "of course, you can't go back to mr. crawford. i'll write to my mother and tell her!" he remembered the commission from hinde, and while he was telling her of it, the postman delivered a letter from the herald in which was the invitation card for the ceremony in westminster abbey. she examined it with interest. "but it says morning dress must be worn," she exclaimed, pointing to the notice in the corner of the card. "you haven't got any morning dress!" "do you think it'll matter?" "they may not let you in if you go as you are now. you haven't even a silk hat!" "what shall i do then?" he asked. "we must think of something. perhaps mrs. townley's husband would lend you his silk hat!" the townleys were their neighbours. "he hardly ever wears it, and he's about your size!" "i shouldn't like to ask them!..." "oh, i'll ask them all right," eleanor said. she left the flat and crossed the staircase to the door of the townleys' flat, and after a little while, she returned carrying a silk hat that was much in need of ironing. "she lent it quite willingly," eleanor said. "she says mr. townley's only used it twice. once when they were married and once at a funeral. put it on!" she fixed it on his head. "it doesn't quite fit," she said. "perhaps if i were to put some paper inside the band, that would make it sit better!" she lined the hat with, tissue paper and then, put it on his head again. "that's a lot better," she exclaimed. "look at yourself in the glass!" "i feel an awful fool in it," he murmured, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. "oh, well, i suppose all men do feel like fools when they put on silk hats ... at first anyhow ... but it isn't any worse than a bowler hat or one of those awful squash-hats that socialists wear. men's hats are hideous whatever shape they are. i don't know what we're to do about a morning coat for you. i didn't like to ask mrs. townley to lend her husband's to me!..." "good lord, no! you can't borrow the man's entire wardrobe from him!" "your grey flannel trousers might look like ordinary trousers, if we could get a morning-coat for you!" she paused as if she were reflecting on the problem. "i know," she said at last. "it's sure to rain, in the morning. king george is going to the thing, so it's sure to rain. wear your overcoat ... then you won't need a morning coat ... and the silk hat and your grey flannel trousers and your patent leather boots!..." "it's a bit of a mixture, isn't it?" "it won't be noticed. that'll do very nicely! thank goodness, we've solved that problem! the money will be useful, dearest!" v "what luck!" said eleanor, looking out of the window in the morning. the sky was grey and the streets were wet and dirty. john had urged her to stay at home, offering to explain to mr. crawford why she was not returning to her employment, but she had insisted that she was well enough now and must treat mr. crawford as fairly as he had treated her. "i'll give notice to him at once," she said, "and he can get someone else as soon as possible ... but i can't leave him in the lurch!" they travelled by tube to town together, and john went on to westminster abbey. he was very early and when he arrived at the entrance nominated on the invitation card he found that he was the first arrival. ten minutes afterwards, a grubby-looking man in a slouch hat ambled up the asphalt path to the narrow door against which john was leaning. "good morning!" john said, glancing at the slouch hat and the shabby reefer coat and the brown boots. "have you come to do this ceremony, too?" the man nodded his head. he was very uncommunicative and had a surly look. "but they won't let you in, like that!" said john. "won't let me in! who won't let me in?" the man demanded. "it says 'morning dress to be worn' on the invitation card," john answered, showing his card as he spoke. "that's all bunkum! they'd let me in if i were naked. i'm here to report the performance, not to display my elegance, and these people want the thing reported as much as possible. i don't suppose you know me?" "no, i don't," said john. "well, i'm known as the funeral expert in fleet street. my paper always sends me out on special occasions to report big funerals. i'm very good at that sort of thing. i seem to have a flair for funerals somehow. i've never done a show like this before, but if i can only persuade myself to believe that there's a corpse about, i'll do it better than anybody else. i make a specialty of quoting the more literary parts of the burial service in my reports!..." "you won't be able to do that to-day. this isn't a funeral," said john. "no, but i can quote the hymns if they've got any merit at all. otherwise i shall drag in the psalms. hymns aren't very quotable as a rule. shocking doggerel most of 'em!..." they were joined by other reporters, and john observed that he alone among them was wearing a silk hat. he commented on the fact to the funeral expert. "there's only one silk hat in the whole of fleet street," the funeral expert replied, "and it belongs to the man who specialises in murders. he never investigates a murder without wearing his silk hat. he says it's in keeping with the theme!" the door was opened by a verger and the journalists entered the abbey and were led up some very narrow and dark and damp stone stairs until at last they emerged on to a rude platform of planks high up in the roof. at one end of the platform a pole had been placed breast-high between two pillars, and against this the journalists were invited to lean. far below, the ceremony was to take place. john felt giddy as he looked down on the floor of the cathedral. "we shan't be able to see anything up here," he said to the funeral expert. "what do you want to see?" was the reply he received. "you've got a programme of the ceremony, haven't you, and an imagination. that's all you need. i suppose you've never done a job of this sort before?" "no. i'm a beginner!" "well, write a lot of slushy staff about the sun shining through the rose-coloured window just as the king entered the abbey. that always goes down well. there are three psalms to be sung during the service. if you quote the first one, i'll quote the second, and then we shan't clash. is that agreed?" "all right!" half the journalists retreated from the pole-barrier and sat on a pile of planks at the back of the platform. like john, they suffered from giddiness. they had their writing-pads open, however, and were busily engaged in inventing accounts of the ceremonial that was presently to be performed. john glanced over a man's shoulder and caught sight of the words, "as his majesty entered the ancient abbey, a burst of sunlight fell through the old rose window and cast a glorious crimson light on his beautiful regalia!...." "lord!" said john, moving away. he went to the end of the platform, and then, moved by some feeling which he could not explain, descended the dark, stone stairs which he had lately mounted. he could hear the music of the organ, and presently the choir began to sing an anthem. "i suppose it's beginning," he thought. he reached the ground-floor, and presently found himself standing behind a stone-screen in the company of selected persons and officials in brilliant uniforms. there were three special reporters here, to whom an official in a gorgeous green garb, looking very like a figure on a pack of cards, was giving information. john edged nearer to them, and as he did so, he saw that some ceremony was proceeding in one of the chapels. "what's happening?" he asked in a whisper. his neighbor whispered back that this was to be the chapel of the order of the bath, and that the king was about to conduct some ceremonial with the knights of the order. he raised himself on the edge of a tomb and saw two lines of old men in rich claret-coloured robes facing each other, with a broad space between them, and while he looked, the king passed between the knights who bowed to him as he passed towards the altar. he heard the murmur of old, feeble voices as the knights swore to protect the widow and the orphan and the virgin from wrong and injury!... "they haven't the strength to protect a fly," john whispered to his neighbour. "ssh!" his neighbour whispered back, "it's a symbolical promise!..." vi he hurried to the offices of the _evening herald_ and wrote his account of the ceremony he had seen. he described the old and venerable men who had sworn to protect the widow and the orphan and the distressed virgin, and demanded of those in authority by what right they degraded an ancient and honourable order by allowing feeble octogenarians to make promises they were incapable of fulfilling. heaven help the distressed virgin who depended on these tottering knights for succour!... he had written half a column of very vituperative stuff when hinde came into the room. "hilloa," said hinde, "done that job all right?" john smiled and nodded his head. "i've got a letter for you," hinde continued. "cream sent it to me and asked me to pass it on to you. he hasn't got your address!" he handed the letter to john and then picked up some of the sheets on which the report of the ceremony in the abbey was being written. he read the first two sheets and then uttered a sharp exclamation. "anything wrong?" john asked. "wrong!" hinde gaped at him, incapable of expressing himself with sufficient force. he swallowed and then, with a great effort, spoke very calmly. "my dear chap," he said, "i regard it as a merciful act of god that i came into this room when i did. what the!... oh, well, it's no good talking to you. you're absolutely hopeless!" "why, what's the matter?" "matter! i can't print your stuff. i should get the sack if i were to let this sort of thing go into the paper. haven't you any sense of proportion at all?" "but the whole thing was ridiculous!..." "what's that got to do with it? half the world is ridiculous, but there's no need to run about telling everybody!" "but if you'd seen them ... _old_ fellows swearing to draw their swords in defence of women and children, and them not fit to do more than draw their pensions!..." "yes, yes, we know all about that. but a certain amount of humbug is decent and necessary!" he turned to a young man who had just entered the room. "here, chilvers, i want you to do a couple of columns on that stunt at the abbey this morning!" "righto," said chilvers. "but he wasn't there!" john protested. "wasn't there!" hinde echoed scornfully. "a good journalist doesn't need to be there. just give the programme to him, will you?" john handed the order of proceedings to chilvers, and hinde added a few instructions. "write up the king," he said. "every inch a sovereign and that sort of stuff. royal dignity!... was kitchener there?" he said turning again to john. "yes. a disappointing-looking man!..." "write him up, too. say something about soldierly mien and stern, unbending features!" "i see," said chilvers. "the other chaps.... i'll work them off as venerable wiseacres!..." "no, don't rub their age in. venerable's not a nice word to use about anything except a cathedral. you can call the abbey a venerable edifice or the sacred fane, but it would look nicer if you call the old buffers "the elder statesmen." good phrase that! hasn't been used much, either. get it done quickly, will you?" he turned to john. "you might have made us miss the home edition with your desire to tell the truth!" john turned away. the sense of failure that had been in possession of him since the production of _milchu and st. patrick_ filled him now and made him feel terribly desolate. whatever he did seemed to fail. he set off with high hopes and fine intentions, but when he reached his destination, his arrival seemed to be of very little importance and his small boat seemed to be very small and his cargo of slight value. almost mechanically he opened cream's letter. hinde, having discussed other matters with chilvers, called to john. "come and see me in my room, will you, before you go!" and john answered, "very good!" he read cream's note. cream had suddenly to produce a new sketch, and he had overhauled john's piece and put it on at the wolverhampton coliseum. _"it went with a bang, my boy! absolutely knocked 'em clean off their perch! i wish you'd do another!..."_ he enclosed postal orders for two pounds, the fee for one week's performance. john put the letter into his pocket and, nodding to chilvers, now busily writing up the king and lord kitchener, he left the room and went to hinde's office. "i'm. sorry, mac," hinde said to him, "i'm sorry i let out at you just now, but you gave me a fright. i'd have been fired if i'd let your thing go to press!" "i quite understand," john answered. "i see that i'm not fit for this sort of work. i don't seem to be much good at anything!" "what about cream? he told me he'd done your sketch very successfully!" john passed cream's letter to him. "well, you can do that sort of thing all right anyhow," hinde said when he had read the letter. "cream re-wrote it," john murmured. "and even if he hadn't, it's not much of an achievement, is it? i wanted to write good stuff, and i can't do it. i can't even do decent journalism!..." "oh, those articles you do aren't too bad," hinde said encouragingly. "what are a few articles! the only success i have is with a low music-hall sketch, and even that has to be rewritten!" "come, come!" said hinde. "you're feeling depressed now. you'll change your mind presently. i daresay there's plenty of good stuff in you and one of these days it'll come out. you needn't get into the dumps because you've failed to make good as a journalist. god knows that's no triumphant career! plenty of good writers have tried to make a living at journalism and failed hopelessly. haven't had half the success you've had! finished that new book of yours yet?" "very nearly!" "i suppose jannissary is going to do it, too?" "yes. i've contracted for three novels with him!" "i wonder how that man would live if it weren't for the vanity of young authors!" "i don't know," said john. "i'm too busy wondering how young authors manage to live!" the third chapter i the money derived from cream's sketch had compensated them for the loss of the money earned by eleanor; but two pounds per week was insufficient for their needs, and, now that the bank balance was exhausted and they were dependent upon actual earnings, john had less time for creative work. free lance journalism seemed likely to provide an adequate income for them, but he soon discovered that if he were to make a reasonable livelihood from it, he must give up the greater part of his time and thought to it. he could not depend upon certain or immediate acceptance of any article he wrote for the newspapers. sometimes a topical article was sent to the wrong newspaper and kept there until too late for publication in another newspaper. regularly-employed journalists, engaged to choose contributions from outside writers, were extraordinarily inconsiderate in their relationships with him. they would hold up a manuscript for a long time and then arbitrarily return it; they would return a manuscript in a dirty state, even scribbled over, because they had capriciously changed their minds about it, and he would waste time and money in having it re-typed; they even mislaid manuscripts and offered neither compensation nor apology for so doing.... in a very short while, john discovered that the more high-minded were the principles professed by a newspaper, the worse was the payment made to its contributors and the longer was the time consumed in making the payment. the low-minded journals paid for contributions well and quickly, but the noble-minded journals kept their contributors waiting weeks for small sums.... he could not depend upon the publication of one article each week. could he have done so, his financial position, while meagre, would have been fairly easy and regular. there were weeks when no money was earned, and there were weeks when he earned ten or twelve guineas ... gay, exhilarating weeks were those ... and there were even weeks when he could not think of a suitable theme for an acceptable article. in this state of uncertainty and constant effort to get enough money to pay for common needs, the second novel became neglected, and it was not until several months after the adventure at westminster abbey that the manuscript was completed and sent to mr. jannissary. by that time, john was in debt to tradesmen and to a typewriting company from which he had purchased a typewriter on the hire system. the cottenham repertory theatre had failed to arrange a london season, consequently he had had no further income from _milchu and st. patrick,_ and mr. jannissary, when john talked about royalties from _the enchanted lover_, never failed to express his astonishment at the fact that the sales of that excellent book had not exceeded five hundred copies. he had been certain that at least a thousand copies would have been sold as a result of the boom in the _evening herald._ "why don't you put a chartered accountant on his track?" said hinde when john told him of what mr. jannissary had said. john shrugged his shoulders. his experience with the cottenham repertory theatre had cured him of all desire to send good money after bad. he wished now that he had taken hinde's advice and had kept away from mr. jannissary, but it was useless to repine over that. he turned instinctively to hinde for advice, and hinde was generous with it. he was generous, too, with more profitable things. he put work in john's way as often as he could, and in spite of the fiasco over the abbey ceremony, had offered employment on the _herald_ to him, but john had refused it, feeling that his novel would never reach its end if he were tied to a newspaper. when, however, the book was completed, he went to hinde again and consulted him about the prospect of obtaining regular work. his immediate needs were important, but overshadowing these was the need that would presently come upon him. eleanor in a few months would be brought to bed ... and he had no money saved for that time. she would need a nurse ... there would be doctor's bills!... "i must get a job of some sort that will bring a decent amount of money," he said to hinde. hinde nodded his head. "there's nothing on the _herald_," he said, "but i may hear of something elsewhere. what about a short series of articles for us? write six or seven articles on london streets. take fleet street, piccadilly, bond street, the strand and the mile end road, and write about their characteristics, showing how different they are from each other. that kind of stuff. i'll give you three guineas each for them, and i'll take six for certain if they're good. if they're very good, i'll take some more. that'll help a bit, won't it?" "it'll help a lot," said john very heartily. ii soon after this interview, hinde informed john that the _sensation_ had a vacancy for a sub-editor, and that mr. clotworthy was willing to try him in the job for a month. "and for heaven's sake, don't make an ass of yourself this time!" he added. "clotworthy was very unwilling to take you on, but i convinced him that you are sensible now and so he consented!" john had taken the news to eleanor, expecting that she would be elated by it, but when he told her that his work would keep him in fleet street half the night, she showed very little enthusiasm for it. her normal dislike of being alone was intensified now, and the thought of being in the flat by herself until one or two in the morning frightened her. "i shan't see anything of you," she complained. "i shall be at home in the daytime," he replied. "yes ... writing," she said bitterly. "people like you have no right to get married or ... have children!" he considered for a while. "i wonder if my mother would come and stay with us?" he said at last. "and leave uncle william alone?" "oh, he could manage all right!" "don't be childish, john. how can he manage all right? is he to attend to the house and cook his meals as well as look after the shop? it looks as if someone has got to be left alone through this work of yours ... either me or uncle william ... and you don't care much who it is!..." "that's unfair, eleanor!" "everything's unfair that isn't just exactly what you want it to be. i'm sick of this life ... debt and discomfort ... and now i'm to be left alone half the night!..." he remembered that she was overwrought, and made no answer to her complaint. he would write to his mother and ask her to think of a solution of their problem that would not involve uncle william in difficulties. it was useless to talk to eleanor while she was in this nervous state of mind. he could see quite plainly that decisions must be made by him even against her desire. poor eleanor would realise all this after the baby was born, and would thank him for not showing signs of weakness!... he wrote to mr. clotworthy, as hinde had suggested, about the sub-editorial work, and to his mother about the problem that puzzled them. iii mrs. macdermott solved the problem, not by letter, but by word of mouth. she telegraphed to john to meet her at euston, and on the way from the station to hampstead, she told him of her plan. "i'd settled this in my mind from the beginning," she said, "and you've only just advanced things a week or two by your letter. i'm going to take eleanor back to ballyards with me!..." "what for?" "what for!" she exclaimed. "so's your child can be born in the house where you were born and your da and his da!... that's why! where else would a macdermott be born but in his own home?" "but what about me?" "you! you can come home too, if you like!" "how can i come home when i have my work to do? it'll be three months yet before the child is born!..." "well, you can stay here by yourself then!" "in the flat ... alone?" "aye. what's to hinder you? that's what your uncle william that's twice your age would have to do, if you had your way!" "i don't see that at all. he could easily give cassie mcclurg a few shillings a week to come and look after him while you stay here with us!..." "i'm not thinking about you or your uncle william. i'm thinking about eleanor and the child. i want it to be born at home!" "och, what does it matter where it's born," john impatiently demanded, "so long as it is born?" "you _fool_!" said mrs. macdermott, and there was such scorn in her voice as john had never heard in any voice before. she turned away and would not speak to him again. he lay back against the cushions of the cab and considered eleanor would certainly be well cared for at home, but ... "what about me?" he asked. he supposed he could manage by himself. of course, he could. that was not the point that was worrying him. he hated the thought of being separated from eleanor!... "no," he said to his mother, "i don't think i can agree to that!" "it doesn't matter whether you agree to it or not," she replied. "it's what's going to happen!" she turned on him furiously. "have you no nature or pride? where else would eleanor be so well-tended as at home?..." "it isn't her home," he objected. "it _is_ her home. she's a macdermott now, and anyway the child is. you'd keep her here in this godforsaken town, surrounded by strangers, and no relation of her own to be near her when her trouble comes!... there's times, john, when i wonder are you a man at all? your mind is so set on yourself that you're like a lump of stone. you and your old books ... as if they matter a tinker's curse to anybody!..." "i know you never thought anything of my work," he complained, "and eleanor doesn't think much of it either. i get little encouragement from any of you!" "you get encouragement," mrs. macdermott retorted, "when you've earned it. it's no use pulling a poor mouth to me, my son. i come from a family that never asked for pity, and i married into one that never asked for pity. my family and your da's family went through the world, giving back as much as we got and a wee bit more, and we never let a murmur out of us when we got hurt. there were times when i thought it was hard on the women of the family, but i see now, well and plain, that there's no pleasure in this world but to be keeping your head high and never to let nothing downcast you. i'd be ashamed to be a cry-ba!..." "i'm no cry-ba!" he muttered sulkily. "well, prove it then. let eleanor come without making a sour face over it. come yourself if you want to, but anyway let her come!" "i don't believe she'll go," he said. "she will, if you persuade her!" suddenly her tone altered, and the hard tone went out of her voice. she leant towards him, touching him on the arm. "persuade her, son!" she said. "my heart's hungry to have her child born in its own home among its own people!" she looked at him so pleadingly that he was deeply moved. he felt his blood calling to him, and the ties of kinship stirring strongly in his heart. pictures of ballyards passed swiftly through his mind, and in rapid succession he saw the shop and uncle matthew and uncle william and mr. mccaughan and mr. cairnduff and the logans and the square and the lough, and could smell the sweet odours of the country, the smell of wet earth and the reek of turf fires and the cold smell of brackish water.... "have your own way," he said to his mother, and she drew him to her and kissed him more tenderly than she had kissed him for many years. iv when they told their plan to eleanor her eyes lit up immediately, and he saw that she was eager to go to ballyards, but almost at once, she turned to him and said, "oh, but you, john? what about you?" "i'll be all right," he replied. "don't worry about me!" "couldn't you come, too?" "you know i can't. how can i give up this job on the _sensation_ the minute i've got it!" "easy enough," mrs. macdermott interjected. "if you've only just got it, there'll be no hardship to you or to them if you give it up now!" "i have to earn our keep," he insisted. "there's the shop," mrs. macdermott insisted. "i won't go next or near the shop," he shouted in sudden fury. "i came here to write books and i'll write them!" "you're not writing books when you're sitting up half the night in a newspaper office!" "i know i'm not. but i must get money to ... to pay for!..." "are you worrying yourself about eleanor's confinement, son? never bother your head about that. i'll not let her want for anything!..." "i know you won't," he replied in a softer voice, "but i'd rather earn the money myself!" mrs. macdermott tightened her mouth. "very well," she said. "i've a good mind to let the flat till you come back," john murmured to eleanor. "what's that?" mrs. macdermott demanded. "i was saying i'd a good mind to let the flat until she comes back. i could go to miss squibb's for a while. it 'ud really be cheaper!..." "would you let strangers walk into your house and use your furniture?" "yes. why not? we shall be able to pay the rent and have a profit out of what we shall get for sub-letting it." "making a hotel out of your home," mrs. macdermott said in disgust. "och, we're not all home-mad," john retorted. "that's the pity," his mother rejoined. v three weeks later, eleanor, and mrs. macdermott departed for ballyards. eleanor had refused to go away from london until she had seen john settled in his work and the flat sub-let to suitable tenants. she arranged for his return to miss squibb who, most opportunely, had his old room vacant, and she made lizzie promise to take particular care of his comfort. "i can tyke care of 'im all right," lizzie said. "i've tyken care of mr. 'inde for years, an' i feel i can tyke care of anybody after 'im. you leave 'im to me, mrs. macdermott, an' i wown't let 'im come to no 'arm!" she leant forward suddenly and whispered to eleanor. "i do 'ope it's a boy," she said. "why?" said eleanor blushing. "ow, i dunno. looks better some'ow to 'ave a boy first go off. you can always 'ave a girl afterwards. wot you goin' to call it, if it's a boy?" "john, of course!" said eleanor. "um-m-m. well, i suppose you'll 'ave to, after 'is father, but if i 'ad a son i'd call 'im perceval. i dunno why! i just would. it sounds nice some'ow. i mean it 'as a nice sound. only people 'ud call 'im perce, of course, an' that would be 'orrible. i dessay you're right. it's better to be called john than to be called perce!" "why don't you get married, lizzie?" eleanor said. "never been ast. that's why. i'd jump at the chance if i got it. you down't think i'm 'angin' on 'ere out of love for aunt. i'm just 'angin' on in 'ope!..." but before eleanor and mrs. macdermott went to ballyards, they realised that john's sub-editorial work was hard and inconvenient. the unnatural hours of labour in noisy and insanitary surroundings left him very tired and crochetty in the morning, and he felt disinclined for other work. he had written his series of articles on london streets for the _evening herald_, and hinde had professed to like them sufficiently to ask for more of them. twelve of them had been printed ... one each day for a fortnight ... and the money had cleared john of debt and left a little for the coming expense. cream's two pounds per week came regularly every monday morning, and this, with the income from the _sensation_, and an occasional article made the prospects of life seem clearer. "there's no fame in it," he told himself, "but at least i'm paying my way!" in a little while, his second novel would be published, and perhaps it would bring a reward which he had unaccountably missed with his first book and his tragedy. more than anything else now, he wanted recognition. money was good and acceptable and he would gladly have much more of it, but far beyond money he valued recognition. if he had to make choice between a large income and a large reputation, he would unhesitatingly choose a large reputation. he longed to hear hinde admitting that he had been mistaken in john's quality. indeed, in the last analysis, it seemed that more than money and more than general recognition, he craved for recognition from hinde. he wished to see hinde coming to him in a respectful manner!... but there was little likelihood of that happening while he performed sub-editorial work on the _sensation_. every night he and the other sub-editors, young and unhealthy-looking men, sat round a big table, handling "flimsies" and scribbling rapidly. they invented head-lines and cross-headings, and they cut down the work of the outside staff. when a nugget of gold was found in wales and was pronounced to be a lump of quartz with streaks of gold in it rather than a nugget of pure gold, john had headed the paragraph in which the news was reported, all is not gold that glitters. he glanced at the heading after he had written it. "i seem to be getting into the way of this sort of thing," he said with a sigh. he put the paper down and got up from the table. the baskets lying about, full of "copy" or "flimsies" or cuttings from other papers; the hard, blinding light from the unshaded electric globes; the litter of newspapers and torn envelopes; the incessant _rurr-rurr-rurr_ of the printing machines; and the hot, exhausted air of the room ... all these seemed disgusting. he shut his eyes for a moment. "oh, god," he prayed, "let my book be a success! get me out of this, oh, god, for jesus christ's sake!..." he understood the dislike which speedily grew up in eleanor for this work. there would be very little fun for her, less even than for him, in a life that took him to fleet street in the evening and kept him there until the middle of the night. he must escape from it somehow, but in what way he was to escape from it he could not imagine. vaguely, he felt that a book or a play would lift him out of fleet street and set him down in ease and comfort somewhere in agreeable surroundings; but it might be many years before that desired bliss was achieved. he would spend his youth in this atmosphere of neurosis and hasty judgment, and perhaps when he was old and no longer full of zest for enjoyment, he would have leisure for the things he could no longer delight in. and eleanor, too ... she would have to struggle with penury until she grew tired and lustreless!... "no, she won't!" he vowed. "i'm not going to let her down whatever happens. i'll make a position somehow!..." then eleanor and mrs. macdermott went to ballyards. he stood by the carriage-door talking to them both while the train filled with passengers, and as the guard blew a succession of blasts on his whistle, he leant forward to kiss eleanor "good-bye!" a tear rolled down her cheek.... "i wish i weren't going now," she said, clinging to him. "it won't be for long," he murmured. "will it, mother?" he added to mrs. macdermott. but his mother did not make any reply. she sat very tightly in her seat, and he saw that there was a hard look in her eyes and that her lips were closely joined together. vi he wandered out of the station... it was saturday night and therefore he had not to go to the _sensation_ office ... and entered the hampstead tube railway. on monday, the agent would make an inventory of the furniture, and john would move to brixton. until then, he would stay at the flat, taking his meals at restaurants. he left the tube at hampstead and walked home. the flat seemed very dark and cheerless when he entered it, and he wandered from room to room in a disturbed state as if he were searching for something and had forgotten for what he was searching. a petticoat of eleanor's, flung hastily on to the bed, caught his eye, a blue silk petticoat that he remembered her buying soon after they were married. he wondered why she had thrown it aside, for she was fond of blue garments, and this was new from the laundry. he rubbed his hand over its silk surface and listened to the sound it made. dear eleanor! most sweet and precious eleanor!... he left the bedroom and went into the combined sitting and dining-room and then into the kitchen. at the door of the tiny spare bedroom, he stopped and turned away. what was the use of wandering about the house in this disconsolate manner? eleanor had gone and it was idle to pretend that he might suddenly come to her in some corner of the flat. it was much too early to go to bed and, since he could not sit still indoors, he resolved to go out and walk off his mood of depression and loneliness. the trees on hampstead heath stood up in deep darkness, and overhead he saw the innumerable stars shining coldly. in the dusk and shadow he could hear the murmur of subdued voices and now and then a peal of girlish laughter, or the deeper sound of a man's mirth. young, eager-eyed men and women went by, intent on love-making, their faces shining with youth and the happiness of the unburdened. all the beauty of the world lay still before them, untouched and undimmed, drawing them towards it with rich and strange promises of wonderful fulfilment. and no shadow fell upon their happiness to darken it or make it cold.... he could feel his heart singing within him, and he asked himself why it was that he should feel happy in this street, in which eleanor and he had walked in love together, when he had felt restless and unhappy in the flat where they had lived and loved. he stood under a lamp to look at his watch, and wondered where eleanor was now ... what stage of her journey she had reached. the train had left euston at half-past eight, and now the hour was twenty minutes past ten. nearly two hours since she had gone away from him. sixty or eighty miles, perhaps a hundred, separated them, and every moment the distance between them was lengthening. he could stand here, leaning against these rails and looking over the hollows of the heath towards the softened glare of london, and almost tell off the miles that were consumed by the rushing, roaring train!... one mile ... two miles ... three miles!... the laughter and the shining eyes of the young lovers made him feel old, now that eleanor was not with him to make him feel young. he felt old, though he was not old, because he was lonely again, more lonely than he had been before he saw eleanor at the albert hall. he had followed her as a man lost in a desert follows a star, and she had brought him home at last ... and now she was gone from him, bearing a baby. soon, though, very soon, the time would pass and she would return to him and they would never be separated again. he would fulfil his desires. he would write great books and great plays, and eleanor would grow in loveliness and dignity, and his son ... for he was certain that the child would be a boy ... would reach up from childhood to manhood in strength and beauty!... vii the last post had brought the proofs of his second novel to him. he tore the packet open, and began to correct them at once. _hearts of controversy_ was the title of the book, and it was dedicated: to the memory of my uncle matthew. the fourth chapter i when eleanor's son was born, john was still in london. he had intended to be with her, but mr. clotworthy would not give leave to him because of illness among the staff. "i'm sorry," he had said, "but i can't let you go. you'd only be in the way anyhow. a man's a cursed nuisance at a time like that. when corcoran comes back, i'll see if i can manage a few days for you!" john murmured thanks and turned to go. "i hear good accounts of you," mr. clotworthy continued. "tarleton says you're working splendidly. i'm glad you've learned sense at last!" john smiled rather drearily, and then left the editor's room. so he was learning sense, was he?... a few months ago, had mr. clotworthy told him that leave to go to his wife was denied to him, he would have sent mr. clotworthy to blazes ... but he was learning sense now, and so, though he ached to go to eleanor, he was remaining in london. tarleton ... the most common-minded man john had ever encountered ... said that he was working splendidly. they were all pleased with him. he could invent headlines and cross-headings and write paragraphs to the satisfaction of tarleton, whose conception of a romantic love story was some dull, sordid intrigue heard in the divorce court. tarleton always described a street accident as a tragedy. tarleton referred ... in print ... to the greedy amours of a chorus girl as a "thrilling romance of the stage," though he had other words to describe them in conversation. and john was giving satisfaction to tarleton.... he wrote to his mother and to eleanor explaining why he could not immediately go to ballyards. eleanor could not reply to his letter, but mrs. macdermott wrote that she was recovering rapidly from her illness and that the baby was a fine, healthy child. _"a macdermott to the backbone,"_ she wrote. _"it's queer work that keeps a man out of his bed half the night and won't let him go to his wife when she's having a child! your uncle william isn't looking well ... he feels the weight of his years and the work on him ... and he is worried about the shop. but he's greatly pleased with eleanor being here. him and her gets on well together. he's near demented over the child!..."_ ii his son was a month old before john saw him. mrs. macdermott led him to the cradle where the baby was sleeping, and as he looked down on it, the child awoke and screwed up its face and began to cry. mrs. macdermott took it in her arms and soothed it. "well?" she said to john. he looked at the child with puzzled eyes. "is it all right?" he asked. "all right!" she exclaimed. "of course, it's all right! what would be wrong with it?" "it's so ugly-looking!..." she stared incredulously at him. "ugly," she said, "it's a beautiful baby. one of the loveliest children i've ever clapped my eyes on. look at it!..." she held the baby forward to him. "i can see it right enough," he answered. "i think it's ugly!" "you don't know a fine-looking child when you see it," she answered indignantly. he went back to eleanor's room ... she was out of bed now, but because the day was cold was sitting before a fire in her bedroom ... and sat with her while she talked of little things that had happened to her during their separation. "you know, john," she said, "you're not looking well. you're getting thin and grey!..." "grey?" "yes ... your face looks grey. i'm sure that life isn't good for you!" "i feel tired, but that may be the journey. the sea was rough last night, crossing from liverpool to belfast, and i didn't get any sleep. mebbe that's what it is, i daresay i'll be looking all right to-morrow!" "how long are you going to stay?" she asked. "well, clotworthy told me to get back as soon as possible. do you think you'll be able to come home with me at the end of the week?" she did not answer. "of course," he went on, "we've got to get the tenants out of the flat first. i thought mebbe you'd come to miss squibb's with me till the flat was ready!" "i don't think i should like that," she answered. "no, mebbe not, but i'm terribly lonesome without you, eleanor. it's been miserable all this while!..." she put her arms about him and kissed him. "poor old thing," she said. "and i'd like you to come home as soon as possible." mrs. macdermott brought the baby into the room. "john says he's an ugly child," she said to eleanor, glancing angrily at her son. "oh, john!" eleanor exclaimed reproachfully. "he isn't ugly. he's handsome!..." "well, i don't know what women call beautiful or handsome," john said, "but if you call that screwed-up face good-looking, then i don't know what good looks are!" "i'm sure you weren't half so beautiful as baby is," eleanor murmured. mrs. macdermott put the child in its mother's arms, and happed the covering about its head. "eight pounds he weighed when he was born," she said. "eight pounds! and then you say he isn't beautiful! and him your own son, too!" "oh, well, if you only mean he's weighty when you say he's beautiful, mebbe you're right!..." "you're unnatural, john," said mrs. macdermott. "are all babies like that?" he asked. "all the good-looking ones are. give him to me again, eleanor, dear!" she took the baby from its mother, and holding it tightly in her arms, walked up and down the room singing it to sleep. "he's asleep," she said in a whisper, coming closer to them. she held the child so that they could see the tiny face in the firelight. they did not speak. eleanor, leaning back in her chair, and john sitting forward in his, and mrs. macdermott standing with the baby in her arms, looked on the child. "i'm its father," said john, at last. "that seems comic!" "and i'm its mother," eleanor murmured. mrs. macdermott lifted the child so that her lips could touch its tiny mouth. "five generations in the one house," she said. "i bless god for this day!" iii "will you be able to come with me to london at the end of the week?" john said at tea that evening. "she's not near herself yet," uncle william exclaimed. "no, indeed she's not. you'd best leave her here another month," mrs. macdermott added. "you're forgetting, aren't you that she's been here more than three months already." "och, what's three months when you're young," uncle william replied. "a great deal," said john. "will you be ready, do you think, eleanor?" eleanor hesitated. "i don't know," she said. "i don't feel very well yet. can't you stay on a while longer, john? you know you're tired and need a rest, and it'll do you a lot of good to stay on for a week or two!" "i must get back. i've a living to earn for three of us now!" "i shall be sorry to leave ballyards," eleanor replied. "there's no need for either of you to leave it," mrs. macdermott exclaimed. "your home's here and there's no necessity for you to go tramping the world among strangers!" "we've settled all that, ma!" john retorted. "you don't like that life on newspapers, do you, john?" eleanor asked. "no, but i have to live it until i can earn enough to keep us from my books. it's no use arguing, ma. my mind's made up on that subject. it was made up long ago!" constraint fell upon them, and john, feeling that he must make conversation again, turned to his uncle. "how's the shop doing?" he asked. "middling ... middling," uncle william replied. "we're having a wee bit of opposition to fight against. one of these big firms has just opened a branch here. pippin's! they're causing me a bit of anxiety, the way they're cutting prices down, but i think we'll hold our own with them. we always gave good value for the money, and some of these big shops only pretends to do that. but it's anxious work!" "a macdermott ought to be ready to fight for the good name of his family," said mrs. macdermott. "oh, i'm willing to fight all right," uncle william answered. "i know you are. i wasn't doubting you," mrs. macdermott assured him. their conversation became vague and disjointed. several times john turned to eleanor and tried to settle a date on which she should return to town, but on each occasion something interrupted them, and eleanor showed no inclination to be definite. "there's no hurry for a day or two, is there?" she said at last, and then, pleading fatigue, she went to bed. "i can't see what you want to go back to london for," mrs. macdermott said when eleanor had gone. "the neither of you don't look well on that life, and you could write your books here just as well as you can there. better, mebbe! eleanor likes ballyards. she doesn't care much for london." suspicion entered john's mind. "have you been putting notions into her head?" he demanded. "notions! what notions?" she answered innocently. "you know rightly what notions. have you been trying to persuade her to stay here?" "it's well you know, my son, i never try to persuade no one to do anything. i just let them find things out for themselves. it's the best way in the end." "as long as you act up to that, you can do what you like," john said. "you may as well know, though, for good and all, that we're going back to london. i've a new book coming out soon!..." "i wonder will you make as much out of it as you made out of your other book," mrs. macdermott said. iv there was a letter for john in the morning. his subtenant wrote to say that he liked the flat and found it so convenient that he was very anxious to know whether there was a chance of john giving up possession of it. he was willing to buy the furniture at a fair valuation!... "damned cheek," said john. he told the others of the contents of the letter. "if we were to stay here," eleanor said, "that offer would be very useful, wouldn't it?" "it's of no use to us," he answered. "we're not going to stay here!" in the afternoon, a telegram came from clotworthy instructing john to return to london immediately. "will you come with me or come later by yourself?" john said to eleanor. she hesitated for a few moments, then going quickly to him and putting her arms about his neck, she whispered, "i don't want to go back to london, john. i want to stay here!" "you what?" "i want to stay here. oh, give up this work and stay at home. your uncle is getting old and needs help, and i'll be much happier here than in london!..." "give up writing!..." "you'll be able to do some writing here if you want to!" "uncle william hasn't time to take a holiday. what time will i have to write if i take on his work?" "he has no one to help him. i'll help you!" "the thing's absurd!" "no, it isn't. i like being in the shop. i've helped uncle william a lot. i've made suggestions!..." "my mother put this idea into your head!" "no, she didn't. she's talked to me about ballyards, of course, and the macdermotts and the shop, but she has not asked me to stay here. it's my own idea. i like this little town, john, and its quiet ways and the comfort of this house. i've always wanted comfort and quietness, and i've got it here. i don't want to go back to the misery of london ... always wondering whether we shall have enough money to pay our bills, and you out half the night. oh, let's stay here!" he put her away from him. "no," he said obstinately. "i'm not going to give in!..." "i'm not asking you to give in!" "you are. you're asking me to come back here where everybody knows me and knows what i went out to do, and you're asking me to admit to them that i've failed!" "no, no, dear!..." "yes, you are. because i haven't made a fortune at the start, you all think i'm a failure. hasn't every man had to struggle and fight for his position, and amn't i fighting and struggling for mine? if you cared for me!..." "i do care for you, john!" "then you'd be glad to fight with me ... and struggle!..." "yes, i am prepared to fight with you ... but i'm not going to take risks with the baby!..." "what's he got to do with it?" she turned on him angrily. "are you willing to let him suffer for your books, too? do you think i'm going to let my child go without things to feed your pride?..." "he won't have to go without things. i'll earn enough for him and for you." "yes, i know. we've seen something of that already. well, i'm not going back to london, john. i'm simply not going back. you can't expect me to go from this house where i'm happy to that little poky flat in hampstead and sit there night after night while you are at the office!..." "other women do it, don't they?" "other women can do what they like. if they're content to live like that, they can, but i'm not content. i don't like that life, and i won't live it. you must make up your mind to that. it isn't necessary for you to go back to the _sensation_ office--you can stay here and help uncle william!" "become a grocer!..." "why not? isn't it better to be a good grocer than a bad novelist?" his face flushed and he breathed very heavily. "you're all against me, the whole lot of you. you make little of me. i get no help or encouragement at all. my ma and you and hinde!..." "if you were good at that work, you would not need encouragement, would you?" "i don't need it. i can do without it. i'll prove to you yet that i can write as well as anybody. never you fear, eleanor!..." "i'm not going back to london," she said. "well, then, you can stay behind. i'll go back by myself!" mrs. macdermott came into the room. "what's the matter?" she asked. "nothing," john replied. "i'm going back to london this evening. eleanor says she's going to stay here!..." "for good?" "aye ... for good." "and you? when are you coming back?" "i'm not coming back. she'll have to come to me. you're always talking about the pride of the macdermotts. well, i'll show you some of it. i'll not put my foot inside this house till eleanor comes back to me. it's me that settles where we live ... not her ... not anybody. do you think i'm going to throw up everything now when i've made a start? i've a new book coming out soon. you know that well ... the whole of you. i know you don't think much of it, eleanor!..." "i didn't say that," she interjected. "but i think a lot of it. i know it's good. i'm sure it's good. and if it does well. i'll be able to leave the _sensation_ office, and we can live happily together ... but you'll have to come to me. i won't come here to you!..." he turned to his mother. "mebbe you're content now," he said. "you've got your way. there's a macdermott in the house to carry on the business when he's old enough. you'll not need me now!" he went out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and a little while later, they heard him leaving the house. "wait, daughter," said mrs. macdermott, taking hold of eleanor by the hand. "don't fret yourself, daughter, dear. i lived with his father!..." "but he always had his own way. you told me so yourself." "yes, that's true, but john has some of my blood in him, and my blood clings to its home. content yourself a wee while!" v he met uncle william crossing the square, and suddenly he realised how old uncle william was, and how tired he looked. "come a piece of the road with me," he said, putting his arm in his uncle's. "eleanor and me have just have a fall-out, and i want to walk my anger off. i'm going back to london to-night!..." "you're going soon, aren't you?" "yes. i had a telegram from the office a while ago. eleanor doesn't want to go home. she wants to stay here!" "aye, she's well content with us!" "but her place is with me. i'm her husband!..." "indeed, you are. a wife's place is with her husband. it's a pity you can't agree to be in the same place! "listen, john," he went on, as they came away from the town and strolled along the road leading to the lough, "there's a thing i'm going to tell you that i've never said to no one before. it's this. the thing that destroyed your father and your uncle matthew was their pride in themselves. they never stopped to consider other people. they did what they wanted to do regardless of how it affected their neighbours or their friends. and nothing came out of their work. your father died and left an angry memory behind him. your uncle matthew died and left nothing but a wrong view of things to you. your mother ... well, i hardly know what to say about her. she's had much to thole, and it's made her bitter in her mind, and many's a time i think she's demented about the pride of the macdermotts. i'm proud of my name, too, and proud of the respect we've earned for ourselves, but i'm old and tired, john, and i've nothing to comfort me, and the pride of the macdermotts gives me little consolation for the things i've missed. i'd give the two eyes out of my head to have a wife like your wife, and a wee child for my own, but i've had to do without the both of them. you see, john, i had to keep the family going when the others failed to support it, i'd be a glad and happy man if i had my wife and my child in the shop!..." "do you want me to come home too, then?" "every man must do the best for himself, i'm only telling you not to eat up other people's lives when you're holding on to your own opinion. i daresay you know what's best for yourself, but i wonder whether you'll think that in ten years' time. or twenty years' time. if you can comfort your mind with the thought that this world is a romance, the way your uncle matthew did, then you'll mebbe be content, but i never saw any romance in it, and the only comfort i get from it is the thought that i'm keeping up a good name. the macdermotts always gave good value for the money. i wouldn't mind if they put that on my gravestone!" he changed his tone abruptly. "do you think you're a good writer, john?" he asked. "i don't know, uncle william. i try hard to believe i am, but i'm not sure. do you think i am?" "how can i tell? i've no knowledge of these things, and i can't distinguish between my pride in you and my judgment. i liked your book well enough, but i'm doubtful would i have bothered my head about it if someone else had written it. is your next book a good one?" "_i_ think so, but eleanor doesn't!" "the position isn't very satisfactory, is it? you're going to leave that young girl for the sake of something that you're uncertain of?" "i want to prove my worth to her!" "you mean you want to content yourself. you want to make her think you were right and she was wrong!" "i have my pride!..." "aye, you have your pride, but i'm wondering would you rather have that than eleanor?" they sat down on the edge of the lough and did not speak for a long time. john picked up pebbles and threw them into the water, while his uncle gazed at the opposite shore. they sat there until it was time to go home to tea. "we'd better be moving," said uncle william. "are you settled in your mind that you're going back to london?" "yes," said john. vi "good-bye, eleanor!" he said when the time came to catch the train to belfast. "good-bye, john!" he took hold of her hand and waited for her to offer her lips to him, but she did not offer them. "if you change your mind," he said, but she interrupted him quickly. "i shan't change my mind," she said. "very well. good-bye!" she did not speak. she was afraid to speak. "well, good-bye again!" he said. he turned to his mother. her eyes were very bright, but there were no tears in them. she looked steadily at him. "it's a pity," she said. her hand sought eleanor's and pressed it. "we must all do what's for the best," she said. "none of us can do any more!" the fifth chapter i he oscillated between an almost uncontrollable desire to return to eleanor and a cold rage against her. women, he told himself, always stepped between men and their work. women drew men away from great labours and made creatures of comfort of them. they took an aspiring angel and made a domestic animal of him. he was prepared to endure hunger and thirst for righteousness' sake, but eleanor demanded that first of all he should provide comfort and security for her and her child. she would gladly turn a creative artist into a small tradesman for the sake of the greater profit that was made by the small tradesman. he would not be seduced from his proper work ... and yet, when he went back to miss squibb's after the _sensation_ had gone to bed, walking sometimes all the way from fleet street, over blackfriars bridge, he would spend the time of the journey in dreaming of eleanor as he first saw her or as he saw her in the box at the albert hall when tetrazzini sang. he would conjure up pictures of her standing at the bookstall at charing cross, waiting for him, or saying goodbye to him at the steps of the women's club in bayswater or kneeling beside him in st. chad's church as the priest blessed their marriage or sitting before the fire in ballyards holding her baby in her arms. and when these visions of her went through his mind, he felt an intense longing to go away from london at once and stay contentedly with her wherever she chose to be. sometimes his mind was full of thoughts about his child. he had not felt much emotion about it when he was at ballyards ... he had thought of it mostly with amazement and with some dislike of its shapeless face ... but now there were stirrings in his heart when he thought of it, and he wished that he could be with eleanor and watch the gradual growth of the baby into a recognising being. his work at the _sensation_ office had become mechanical, and he worked at the table in the sub-editors' room without any consciousness of it; but he consoled himself for the fatigue and the dullness by promising himself a swift and brilliant release from fleet street when his second book was published. even if his book were not to make money, it would establish his reputation, and when that was done, he could surely persuade eleanor to believe that his life must be lived elsewhere than behind the counter of the shop. he had written to her several times since his return to london, and she had written to him, but there were signs of restraint in his letters and in hers. he told her that he had made arrangements for the sub-tenants to remain in the flat for the present. he wrote "for the present" deliberately. the phrase that shaped itself in his mind as he wrote the letter was "until you come back to london," but he changed it before he put his thoughts into written words. she gave long accounts of the baby to him, and described her life in ballyards. she was helping uncle william who said that her help was very useful to him. they were going to fight pippin's multiple shops and beat them. she had suggested some alterations in the shop to uncle william, and he, agreeing that one must move with the times, had consented to make the alterations. she did not ask john to come back, but when he read her letters, he felt that she was preventing herself, with difficulty, from doing so. ii a month after his return to london, _hearts of controversy_ was published. he took the complimentary copies out of their parcel and fingered them, turning the leaves backward and forward, and looking for a long while at the dedication "to the memory of my uncle matthew." how pleased and proud uncle matthew would have been of this book, but how little pleasure john was deriving from it. he hardly cared now whether it failed or succeeded. if only something would happen that would enable him to return to ballyards and eleanor with some sort of pride left! ... uncle matthew's romantic dreams had remained romantic dreams because he had never left ballyards; but john had gone out into the world to seek adventures, and all of them had ended dismally ... except his adventure with eleanor. he had pursued her and won her and made her his wife and the mother of his son, and she was still his, even although he had left her and was living angrily away from her. he remembered how he had wandered into hanging sword alley when he first came to london, and had been bitterly disappointed to find that this romantically-named lane was a dirty, grimy gutter of a street.... "i've been living a fool's life," he said to himself. "i had one great adventure, finding eleanor, and i did not realise that that was the only romance i could hope for!" he put the book down. "i'm not a writer," he said mournfully, "i'm a grocer. i'm not even a grocer. i'm ... a hack journalist!" he had written a tragedy that was dead. he had written a novel that was dead. this second novel ... in a little while it, too, would be dead. perhaps it was dead already. perhaps it had never been alive. and he had written a music-hall sketch ... that lived. he had done no other work than his sub-editing on the _sensation_ since his return to london, and he realised that he would never do any more while he remained in fleet street.... hinde entered the room while these thoughts were in his mind. "when's eleanor coming back?" he asked, throwing himself into a chair in front of the fire. "she's not coming back," john answered. hinde looked up sharply. "oh?" he said in a questioning manner. "i'm going to her ... as soon as i can. i've had my fill of this life. do you remember asking me why i didn't sell happorths of tea and sugar?" hinde nodded his head. "well, i'm going back to sell them. the author of _the enchanted lover_ and _hearts of controversy_ has retired from the trade of writing and will now ... now devote himself to ... selling happorths of tea and sugar!" he laughed nervously as he spoke. hinde did not make any reply. "i shall go and see the man who has the flat to-morrow. he wants to buy our furniture. it's a piece of luck, isn't it? the only piece of luck i've had.... by god, hinde, this serves me right. eleanor always said i was selfish, and i am. i'm terribly self-satisfied and thick-skinned. i had no qualification for this work ... nothing but my conceit ... and i've been let down. i'm a failure!..." "we're all failures," said hinde. "the only thing we can do, all of us, is to lull ourselves to sleep and hope for forgetfulness. compared with you, i suppose i'm a success ... as a journalist anyhow ... but this is the end of my work ... this room, with lizzie and miss squibb and sometimes the creams. you've got eleanor and a son ... what more do you want? isn't it enough luck for a man to have a wife that he loves and who loves him, and to have a child? what's a book anyway? paper with words on it. all over the world, there are thousands and thousands of books ... with millions and millions of words in them. what's the good of them? we make a little stir and then we die ... we poor scribblers. and that's all. it's much better to marry and breed healthy babies than to live in an attic making songs about the stars. the stars don't care, but the babies may!" "you're a cheerful fellow, hinde," said john, rallying a little. "don't pay any heed to me. i was always a dismal devil at the best of times. you see, mac, i've got ink in my veins. i'm not a man ... i'm part of a printing press. that's what you'd become if you were to stay in fleet street. go home, my lad, and get more babies!..." iii he wrote to eleanor that night, telling her that he would capitulate. immediately he had settled about the flat and had arranged for his withdrawal from the office of the _sensation_, he would return to ballyards. he would write no more books!... in the morning, there was a letter from eleanor. she could hold out no longer. if he would come and fetch her and the little john, she would do whatever he asked of her. she loved him so much that she could not keep up this pretence of strength!... he laughed to himself as he read her letter. "she wrote before i did," he said. "i suppose i've won. i suppose i held out longer than she did ... but i don't feel that i've gained anything!" the copies of _hearts of controversy_ were lying where he had left them on the previous night. "i don't care what the papers say about them," he said to himself picking one of them up. "what's a book anyway when i've got eleanor!" he was able to arrange the sale of his furniture to the sub-tenant and get his release from the _sensation_ in less than a week, and he wired to eleanor to say that he was coming home and would arrive at ballyards on sunday. "i'm going home with my tail between my legs," he said to himself, as he walked down the gangway from the liverpool boat on to the quay at belfast. he was too early for the ballyards train, and he went for a walk to fill the time of waiting. he passed the restaurant where maggie carmichael had been employed, and saw that a new name was on the lintel of the door. "well, i hope she's happy with her peeler!" he said to himself. he went on, and presently found himself before the theatre royal, and when he glanced at the playbills, he saw that a shakespearian company were in possession of it. _romeo and juliet_ had been performed on saturday night, and he remembered the line that had sustained him after his love-making with maggie carmichael: _if love be rough with you, be rough with love._ "how can you?" he said aloud. "you can't, no matter what it does to you!" he went at last to the station and caught his train to ballyards. eleanor was waiting on the platform for him. she did not speak when he arrived. she ran to him and put her arms about him and hugged him and cried over him. "my dear, my dear!" she said when she had recovered herself. he took her arm and led her out of the station, and they walked home together. "it was terrible." she said. "i had to fight hard to keep myself from going to you. we've been very foolish, john, haven't we?" he nodded his head. they entered the house by the side-door and went into the kitchen where mrs. macdermott was preparing the mid-day meal. she waited for him to speak to her. "i've come home, mother!" he said, going to her and kissing her. "i'm thankful glad, son!" she replied. iv uncle william took him into the shop, and they sat together on stools in the "counting house." "i'm troubled, john," he said, "about the shop. pippin's have offered to buy the business!..." "buy the business. but we don't want to sell it!" "i know that. they're threatening me. they say they'll undercut me till my trade's gone. i'm too old to fight them!..." john called to his mother and eleanor. "come here a minute," he said, and when they had done so, he told them of pippin's offer and threat. "what do you think of that?" he demanded. "i think we should fight them," said eleanor. "so we will," john replied. "the macdermotts had a name in this town before ever a pippin was heard of, and the macdermotts'll still have a name when the pippins are dead and damned!" he stopped suddenly, and then began to laugh. "by the hokey o," he exclaimed, "there's a romance at the end of it all!" he looked at his mother. "i'm going to carry on the shop, mother!" he said. she did not answer. she put out her hands to him, and he saw that she was smiling with great content. and yet she was crying, too. 