in the middle ages was that the man who robbed him was such
a boor. Insult was added to injury in that the oppressor was no knight
in shining armour, but a very churl of men; to the courteous and
cultured Irishman a "bodach Sassenach," a man of low blood, of low
cunning, caring only for the things of the body, with no veneration
for the things of the spirit--with, in fine, no music in his soul.
The things that the Irishman loved he could not conceive of. Without
tradition or history himself he could not comprehend the passionate
attachment of the Irishman to both, and he proceeded to wipe both out,
so far as in him lay, from off the map of Ireland and from out the
Irishman's consciousness.

Having, as he believed, with some difficulty accomplished his task,
he stands to-day amazed at the result. The Irishman has still a
grievance--nay more, Ireland talks of "wrongs." But has she not got
him? What more can she want except his purse? And, that too, she
is now taking. In the indulgence of an agreeable self-conceit which
supplies for him the want of imagination he sees Ireland to-day as a
species of "sturdy beggar," half mendicant, half pickpocket--making
off with the proceeds of his hard day's work. The past slips from
him as a dream. Has he not for years now, well, for thirty years
certainly, a generation, a life time, done all in his power to meet
the demands of this incessant country that more in sorrow than in
anger he will grant you, was misgoverned in the past. That was its
misfortune, never his fault. This is a steadily recurring phase of the
fixed hallucination in his blood. Ireland never _is_, but only always
has been cursed by English rule. He himself, the Englishman of the
day, is always a simple, bluff, good-hearted fellow. His father if you
like, his grandfather very probably, misgoverned Ireland, but never he
himself. Why, just look at him now, his hand never out of his pocket
relieving the shrill cries of Irish distress. There she stands, a
poverty-stricken virago at his door, shaking her bony fist at him,
Celtic porter in her eye, the most fearful apparition in history, his
charwoman, shaming him before the neighbours and demanding payment for
long past spring cleanings that he, good soul, has forgotten all about
or is quite certain were settled at the time. Yes, there she stands,
the Irish charwoman, the old broom in her hand and preparing for
one last sweep that shall make the house sweet and fit for her