tration, they had no star to guide them in
an onward course; and the progress of dawn into day was no more to them
than to the flocks and to the forests.

Before the Danish wars, and the decay, which is described by St. Bernard
in terms which must not be taken quite literally, had led to the English
invasion, there was probably as much material, certainly as much
spiritual, culture in Ireland as in any country in the West; but there
was not that by whose sustaining force alone these things endure, by
which alone the place of nations in history is determined--there was no
political civilisation. The State did not keep pace with the progress of
society. This is the essential and decisive inferiority of the Celtic
race, as conspicuous among the Irish in the twelfth century as among the
French in our own. They gave way before the higher political aptitude of
the English.

The issue of an invasion is generally decided by this political
aptitude, and the consequences of conquest always depend on it.
Subjection to a people of a higher capacity for government is of itself
no misfortune; and it is to most countries the condition of their
political advancement. The Greeks were more highly cultivated than the
Romans, the Gauls than the Franks; yet in both cases the higher
political intelligence prevailed. For a long time the English had,
perhaps, no other superiority over the Irish; yet this alone would have
made the conquest a great blessing to Ireland, but for the separation of
the races. Conquering races necessarily bring with them their own system
of government, and there is no other way of introducing it. A nation can
obtain political education only by dependence on another. Art,
literature, and science may be communicated by the conquered to the
conqueror; but government can be taught only by governing, therefore
only by the governors; politics can only be learnt in this school. The
most uncivilised of the barbarians, whilst they slowly and imperfectly
learned the arts of Rome, at once remodelled its laws. The two kinds of
civilisation, social and political, are wholly unconnected with each
other. Either may subsist, in high perfection, alone. Polity grows like
language, and is part of a people's nature, not dependent on its will.
One or the other can be developed, modified, corrected; but they cannot
be subverted or changed by the people itself without an act of suicide.
Organic change, if it comes at all, must come from a