Government. A courteous and discreet Private
Secretary, having attended to those who have come to the wrong
department, and to those who are satisfied with an interview with him or
with the officer who would have to attend to their particular business,
brings into my not august presence a procession of all sorts and
conditions of men. Some know me personally, some bring letters of
introduction or want to see me on questions of policy. Others--for these
the human link is most needed--must see the ultimate source of
responsibility, which, in Ireland, whether it be head of a family or of
a Department, is reduced from the abstract to the concrete by the
pregnant pronoun 'himself.' I cannot reveal confidences, but I may give
a few typical instances of, let us say, callers who might have called.

First comes a visitor, who turns out to be a 'man with an idea,' just
home from an unpronounceable address in Scandinavia. He has come to tell
me that we have in Ireland a perfect gold mine, if we only knew it--in
extent never was there such a gold field--no illusory pockets--good
payable stuff in sight for centuries to come--and so on for five
precious minutes, which seem like half a day, during which I have
realised that he is an inventor, and that it is no good asking him to
come to the point. But I keep my eye riveted on his leather bag which is
filled to bursting point, and manifest an intelligent interest and
burning curiosity. The suggestion works, and out of the bag come black
bars and balls, samples of fabrics ranging from sack-cloth to fine
linen, buttons, combs, papers for packing and for polite correspondence,
bottles of queer black fluid, and a host of other miscellaneous wares. I
realise that the particular solution of the Irish Question which is
about to be unfolded is the utilisation of our bogs. Well, this _is_
one of the problems with which we have to deal. It is physically
possible to make almost anything out of this Irish asset, from moss
litter to billiard balls, and though one would not think it, aeons of
energy have been stored in these inert looking wastes by the apparently
unsympathetic sun, energy which some think may, before long, be
converted into electricity to work all the smokeless factories which the
rising generation are to see. Indeed, the vista of possibilities is
endless, the only serious problem that remains to be solved being 'how
to make it pay,' and upon that aspect of the question, unhappily, m