AN INCORRIGIBLE UNIONIST 



The Bog of Allen slid past the window of the 

 railway carriage, in long floors of grey and brown, 

 rifted with mauve ; the horizon was level as a bow- 

 string, and the grey sky arched to it. The unrest 

 of Dublin fell back into its place among lesser things ; 

 the pageant of the Horse Show, the almost audible 

 rustle of cheque-book and bank-note, the strikers 

 standing ominously in Sackville Street with the 

 Mounted Police watching them — all these were left 

 behind like the heat of the day, and the mood of 

 the sovereign countryside enforced itself. Like a 

 sovereign it sent forth its representative, and he, the 

 Horse, has with inimitable grace and distinction 

 played his part before the nations, and added yet 

 another touch of the paramount and the inexplicable 

 to the reputation of Ireland. It is his prerogative 

 to preserve and present, without incongruity or effort, 

 the age of chivalry, to move, year after year, through 

 the changeful crowd in the Dublin street as though 

 he carried a Knight of the Round Table, to pass in 

 til rough the soulless monotony of motors to his palace 

 at Ball's Bridge, wild-eyed and splendid, or soft -eyed 

 and wise, as he passed into the lists of Ashby-de-la- 

 Zouch. Even as he stands, sheeted and dignified, 

 in his place in the long streets of stalls, the turn of his 

 polished quarters tells of his high lineage, of his power 

 and his elegance ; down to the clean straw his legs 

 are unquestionably a gentleman's, longer, perhaps, 

 than the English eye is accustomed to, but that is 

 Ireland, and we like it so. There are more specimens 

 of liim this year than ever before, and more people to 

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