Dick” we used to call him—­a patriotic Liverpool-born Irishman.  He was an exceedingly able artist, making rapid progress in his profession, and, about this time, having some very fine pictures, for which he got good prices, on the walls of the Liverpool Academy Exhibition.  Richards supplied all the trappings for the part that Ryan was playing, and also sent him letters of a somewhat humorous character, which he sometimes read to me before sending off.  In these he was anticipating all sorts of adventures for his friend in the then disturbed state of Ireland.  As John Ryan had much artistic taste, and was himself a fair draughtsman, and well up in all the necessary technicalities, and as Richards’ letters, which he always carried for emergencies like this, were strong evidences in his favour, he had not much difficulty in convincing the Dublin police he was what he represented himself to be.

Some of Jack Ryan’s reminiscences had their droll sides, for he had a keen sense of humour.  One of his stories was in connection with the well-known old tradition of the Gaels—­both Irish and Scottish—­that wherever the “Lia Fail” or “Stone of Destiny” may be must be the seat of Government.  There is some doubt, as is well known, as to where the real stone now is.  At all events, the stone which is under the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey is that which was taken from Scone by King Edward, and that on which the Scottish monarchs were crowned, having been originally brought from Ireland, the cradle of the Gaelic race.  The tradition is still, as it happens, borne out by the fact that Westminster is now the seat of Government.

Now two of John Ryan’s Fenian friends, Irish-American officers, stranded in London—­a not unusual circumstance—­just when affairs looked very black indeed, conceived the brilliant idea of stealing the stone, bringing it over to Ireland, and, once for all, settling the Irish question.  This, notwithstanding their oath to “The Irish Republic now virtually (virtuously some of our friends used to say) established,” for it did not seem to strike them that they were proposing to bring to Ireland an emblem of royalty.

I never heard if they took any actual steps to accomplish their object.  Perhaps they were impressed by the mechanical difficulties, as I was myself one day, when standing with David Barrett, an Irish National League organiser, in Edward the Confessor’s Chapel, in front of the famous “Lia Fail.”  It is a rough-hewn stone, about two feet each way, and ten inches deep.  I was telling my friend the story of the plot to carry off the “Stone of Destiny,” and was making a calculation, based on the weight of a cubic foot of stone, of what might be its weight.

“We’ll soon see,” said David, and, in a moment, he had vaulted over the railing, and taken hold of a corner of the stone.

But, so closely is this national treasure watched, that instantaneously a couple of attendants appeared, and broke up peremptorily our proposed committee of enquiry.  An archaeological friend of mine suggests that, one day, when Ireland is making her own laws and able to enter on equal terms into a contract with England, a reasonable stipulation would be the restoration of that stone—­unless the Scottish Gaels can prove a stronger claim to it.