the entrance to the station. There
was a mocking shout of "Dynamite," followed by a roar of laughter, and
despite the frantic efforts of the railway men, who humanely struggled
to avoid the seemingly impending sacrifices _a la_ Juggernaut, the
more active members of the crowd storming the train, instantly sprang
aloft and manned the tops of the carriages with a solid mass of
vociferating humanity. Soon Mr. Balfour's face appeared, and a moment
after he was standing amidst the throng, swayed hither and thither by
loyalists who shook his hands, patted him on the back, deafened him
with their cheers. Out came the horses, dashing through the people,
snorting and plunging like so many Gladstonians, but happily injuring
no one. In went the men, Mr. Balfour laughing merrily, and looking
uncommonly fit, lifting his soft brown hat in mute recognition of the
magnificent welcome accorded by men who are perhaps among the most
competent judges of his merit as a benefactor of Ireland. Away went
the carriage, amid tumultuous shouting of "No Home Rule," and "God
save the Queen." This went on for miles, from the Northern Counties'
Terminus to Victoria Street, when Lord Londonderry signalled to
quicken the pace, and after a short speech at the Albert Memorial, the
_cortege_ disappeared over the bridge, and I returned to meet the
English working men who arrived an hour later. Splendid it was to hear
the six hundred miners from Newcastle-on-Tyne shouting "Old Ireland
for ever!" while the generous Irishmen responded with "Rule Britannia"
and cheers for Old England. Cheers for Belfast and Newcastle
alternated with such stentorian vigour, each side shouting for the
other, that you might have been excused for imagining that the Union
of Hearts was an accomplished fact, and that brotherly love had begun
and must ever continue. Said a miner, "We're all surprised to see that
the people here are just like Englishmen. An' I'm blest if they aren't
more loyal than the English themselves."

From Monday morning the city has been resounding with beat of drum and
the shrill sounds of the fife. The houses are swathed in bunting, and
the public buildings were already covered with banners when I arrived
on Friday last. This, however is not characteristic Belfast form. The
Belfasters _can_ rejoice, and whatever they do, is thoroughly done,
but work is their vocation, as befits their grave and sober mood. They
are great at figures, and by them they try to sh