t every cost. We will not have it. Our faith is
plighted, and we are not the men to go back of our word." His manner
was very subdued, and the audience also kept very quiet. What these
men say they say in their sober senses, and not by reason of
excitement. Another room was livelier. An English gentleman was
holding forth. Then the band played "No surrender," after which a lady
sang "Killarney's hills and vales." In a third room a brother was
calling on the brethren to give three cheers for "our beloved Queen,"
under whose benignant reign blessings had been shed upon the British
Empire, "to which we belong, and to which we still belong, so long as
they will have us." In a fourth room the listening Orangemen sat under
a discourse on the efficacy of prayer, which they were urged to make a
living part of their everyday life. All this was very disappointing,
and when in Royal Avenue the helmeted watchman of the night assured me
that nothing had happened, and that nothing was likely to happen, I
abandoned all hope of Orange rowdyism.

Next day at ten, I went to Scarva, or, as the natives spell it,
Scarvagh. A neat little place full of Black Protestants. The houses
are clean and tidy, and the people have a well-to-do look. There was a
great crowd at the station, and a band of drummers were laying on with
such thundering effect that my very coat sleeves vibrated with the
concussion. A big arch of orange lilies bore the one word WELCOME, and
the roadside was lined with stalls selling provisions and ginger beer.
The church on the hill flew the Orange flag with the Union Jack. The
Presbyterian meeting-house and a Methodist Chapel complete the tale of
worship-houses. The place is without rags, dirt, beggars, or any other
symptoms of Home Rule patriotism. Neither is there a Roman Catholic
Chapel. The signboards bore Scots and English names. Mr. J. Hawthorne
stood at his door, big-boned and burly, with a handsome good-humoured
face. "Ye'll gang up the brae, till ye see an avenue with lots of folk
intil it," said this "Irishman," whose ancestors have lived at Scarva
from time immemorial.

"Yes, we pit up the airch o' lilies to welcome our friends. They come
every year, and a gude mony o' them too, so we pit up that bit thing
oot o' friendship like."

I told him this was to be the last occasion, as Mr. Dillon was
determined to manage Ulster. He laughed good-naturedly.

"Mon alive, d'ye tell me that any mon said sic a fuleish speec