A GARDEN DIARY 69 
indignation could be retained at the proper 
boiling point. To turn from the past to the 
present was to spoil the whole effect. In place 
of War, Famine, Massacre, one only got dull 
political controversies, or equally dull agrarian 
disturbances. For the Raleighs, the Sydneys, 
the Straffords, the Cromwells,— vast impres- 
sive figures, large and lurid—only a group 
of rather harassed gentlemen, ‘well-meaning 
English officials,” painfully endeavouring to steer 
their way so as to offend everyone as little 
as possible. Yes, I had quite a respectable 
capacity for hatred in those days, and England 
—that historic England of which I knew abso- 
lutely nothing—enjoyed the greater part of it. 
Especially, I remember, that I used to gloat over 
the notion of some day or other a great national 
HUMILIATION befalling her—a Sedan, a 
Moscow—I hardly knew what; retribution at 
all events in some very visible and dramatic 
form. With what glee I used to picture her 
standing helplessly before the nations; without 
a friend or an ally to turn to; naked and 
ashamed ; crushed bleeding to the earth, as she 
had so often crushed Ireland; a mark for every 
wagging head 
Well, well, thus we play the fool, and the 
spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock 
us! Here am I walking home along an English 
lane, and almost wringing my hands in despair 
