ent, blocking
the legislation of the empire? What had got under their skins, into
their blood? Surely not for a gray half-deserted city? Surely not for
little bays and purple mountains? Surely not for an illiterate
peasantry, half crazed by the fear of hell?

He tried to see Ireland as a personality, as one sees England, like the
great Britannia on a copper penny, helmeted, full-breasted,
great-hipped, with sword and shield, a bourgeois concept of majesty, a
ponderous, self-conscious personality:

When Britain first, at Heaven's command
Arose from out the azure main,--

Just like that!

And Scotland he could see as a young woman, in kilt and plaid and
Glengarry cap, a shrewd young woman though, with a very decisive
personality, clinching a bargain as the best of dealers might, a little
forward. He could think of her as the young girl whose hand Charles the
Young Pretender kissed, and who had said to him directly: "I'd liefer
hae a buss for my mou'." "I'd rather have a kiss on my mouth." Scotland
knew what she wanted and got it, a pert, a solid, a likable girl.

But Ireland, Ireland of the gray mists, the gray towns. How to see her?
The country ballad came to him. The "Shan Van Vocht," the poor old
woman, gray, shawled, pitiable, whom her children were seeking to
reinstate in her home with many fields:

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
In the Curragh of Klidare,
The boys will all be there.
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
To the Curragh of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

No! Not enough. One might work, sacrifice money, for the Shan Van
Vocht--but life, no! He thought again. Poor Mangan's poem flashed into
his mind and heart....

O my Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green
They march along the deep.
There's wine from the royal pope
Upon the ocean green.
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My dark Rosaleen!

Ah, that was it! Not pity, but gallant, fiery love. Modern ideals and
ancient chivalry.... A young dark woman with a quivering mouth, with
eyes bright in tears...