for both consisted of twenty
thousand Orangemen. But on Wednesday the Orangemen, instead of being
preceded by a hundred thousand citizens of Ulster, had it all to
themselves. The authorities know the character of Orangemen. They know
that scorching weather and long dusty marches are apt to lead to
copious libations, especially in holiday time. They know that
political feeling runs high, and that the present moment is one of
undue excitement. They know that the Papist party have taunted
Orangemen with the supposed progress of the bill, and that the same
people say daily that Orangeism will be at once abolished, and that
this year sees the last Orange procession in Belfast. "This is yer
last kick before we kick ye to hell," said a broken-nosed gentleman at
the corner of Carrick Hill. The authorities knew all these things, and
taking into account the known character of Orangeism, with the special
exasperation of the moment, and remembering their own responsibility
in the matter of order, how many extra policemen were drafted into the
city?

Not one. The men who really know Orangemen knew that no precautions
were needed.

There were brass bands, drum and fife bands, and bands of bagpipes.
The drums were something tremendous. The Belfast drumming is a thing
apart, like a Plymouth Brother. We have nothing like it in England.
The big drums run in couples, borne by stout fellows of infinite
muscle, and tireless energy. The kettle-drums hunt in packs, like
beagles. The big drums are the biggest the climate will grow, and the
drummers lash them into fury with thin canes, having no knob, no
wrapper of felt, no softening or mitigating influence whatever. The
bands played "God save the Queen," "Rule Britannia," "The Boyne
Water," and "The Death of Nelson." The fifes screamed shrilly, the
brass tubes blared, and every drummer drummed as if he had the Pope
himself under his especial care. The vigour and verve of these
marching musicians is very surprising. You cannot tire them out. The
tenth mile ended as fresh as the first, though every performer had
worked like a horse. There is a reason for this. Their hearts are in
the work. To them it means something. The scarves and busbies and
uniforms and desperate paroxysms of drumming are somewhat comical to
strangers, but the people looked earnest, and as if engaged in serious
business. Thousands of well-dressed people walked with the procession,
or looked gravely on. There was no horse-