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