and well matched.  There was himself, a giant; and there was an unrecognised bard of his country, no other than himself too; and there was a profound politician, profoundly hidden at present, like powder in a mine—­the same person.  And opposite to him was Mr. John Mattock, a worthy antagonist, delightful to rouse, for he carried big guns and took the noise of them for the shattering of the enemy, and this champion could be pricked on to a point of assertion sure to fire the phlegm in Philip; and then young Patrick might be trusted to warm to the work.  Three heroes out skirmishing on our side.  Then it begins to grow hot, and seeing them at it in earnest, Forbery glows and couches his gun, the heaviest weight of the Irish light brigade.  Gallant deeds! and now Mr. Marbury Dyke opens on Forbery’s flank to support Mattock hardpressed, and this artillery of English Rockney resounds, with a similar object:  the ladies to look on and award the crown of victory, Saxon though they be, excepting Rockney’s wife, a sure deserter to the camp of the brave, should fortune frown on them, for a punishment to Rockney for his carrying off to himself a flower of the Green Island and holding inveterate against her native land in his black ingratitude.  Oh! but eloquence upon a good cause will win you the hearts of all women, Saxon or other, never doubt of it.  And Jane Mattock there, imbibing forced doses of Arthur Adister, will find her patriotism dissolving in the natural human current; and she and Philip have a pretty wrangle, and like one another none the worse for not agreeing:  patriotically speaking, she’s really unrooted by that half-thawed colonel, a creature snow-bound up to his chin; and already she’s leaping to be transplanted.  Jane is one of the first to give her vote for the Irish party, in spite of her love for her brother John:  in common justice, she says, and because she hopes for complete union between the two islands.  And thereupon we debate upon union.  On the whole, yes:  union, on the understanding that we have justice, before you think of setting to work to sow the land with affection:—­and that ’s a crop in a clear soil will spring up harvest-thick in a single summer night across St. George’s Channel, ladies! . . .

Indeed a goodly vision of strife and peace:  but, politics forbidden, it was entirely a dream, seeing that politics alone, and a vast amount of blowing even on the topic of politics, will stir these English to enter the arena and try a fall.  You cannot, until you say ten times more than you began by meaning, and have heated yourself to fancy you mean more still, get them into any state of fluency at all.  Forbery’s anecdote now and then serves its turn, but these English won’t take it up as a start for fresh pastures; they lend their ears and laugh a finale to it; you see them dwelling on the relish, chewing the cud, by way of mental note for their friends to-morrow, as if they were kettles come here merely for boiling purposes, to make tea elsewhere, and putting a damper on the fire that does the business for them.  They laugh, but they laugh extinguishingly, and not a bit to spread a general conflagration and illumination.