a different fashion. They discovered that their bluff,
hard-bitten, rather likeable employers, scarcely one of whom could read
or write, had really invaded Anywhere as the trustees of civilisation.
Now it may be said in general--and the observation extends to our own
time--that the moment an invader discovers that he is the trustee of
civilisation he is irretrievably lost to the truth. He is forced by his
own pose to become not an unprincipled liar, but that much more
disgusting object, a liar on principle. He is bound, in order to
legitimise his own position, to prove that "the natives" are savages,
living in a morass of nastiness and ignorance. All facts must be adapted
to this conclusion. The clerks, having made this startling discovery,
went on to supplement it by the further discovery that their masters had
invaded Anywhere in order to please the Pope, and introduce true
religion. This second role completes the dedication of the invaders on
the altar of mendacity. It was Leo XIII. himself who, with that charming
humour of his, deprecated the attitude of certain _a priori_ historians
who, said he, if they were writing the Gospel story would, in their
anxiety to please the Pope, probably suppress the denial of Peter.

These things which might have happened anywhere did, in fact, happen in
Ireland. Out of the footprints of the invaders there sprang up a legion
of fictionists, professional cooks of history. Beginning with Giraldus
Cambrensis they ought to have ended, but, as we shall see, did not end
with Froude. The significance of these mercenaries of literature can
hardly be exaggerated; it is not too much to say that they found Ireland
a nation, and left her a question. It is not at all that they put on
record the thing that was not as regards the events of their own period.
That might be and has been amended by the labours of impartial
scholarship. The real crime of the fabulists lies in this, that their
tainted testimony constituted for honest Englishmen the only information
about Ireland easily obtainable. The average Englishman (that is to say,
the forty millions of him who do not read learned books of any kind)
comes to the consideration of contemporary Ireland with a vision
distorted almost beyond hope of cure. The treasured lies of seven
hundred years are in his heart to-day. For time runs against the cause
of truth as well as with it. Once create a Frankenstein of race hatred,
and he will gather strength in