flashed across spretæ Ciconum quo munere matres Inter sacra deum nocturnique orgia Discerptum latos juvenem sparsere per the moment to the hearts of all present. The question was, "What is going to happen to Arthur Griffith?" A handsomely-bound edition of the opera of P. Virgilius Maro was produced, the dust upon which was a sufficient proof that we were not to be the victims of a hoax by the nimble- What will become of Arwitted Flannery, and a key of thur Griffith? " "Spretæ quo the right dimensions was found. munerespurned by which And since it is decreed that gifts-repudiated by the inserting of the key into Treaty; matres Ciconum-the the book must be done by MænadsAt the word some "chaste person," a child, "Mænads" the archbishop litan unmarried girl, or a priest, erally "sat up." For that this task fell upon one of the is the name by which the two clerics present, the chap- Black Women are known among lain of a famous educational the more moderate brethren of establishment. With becoming Sinn Fein. "Matres Ciconum, gravity His Reverence pressed the Mænads," continued Hamthe key in between the leaves bur in the same monotonous of the book, and, holding it voice, "inter sacra deum-amid tightly, passed it to Hambur, the rights of the Gods-in the to whom, as the most dis- midst of the celebrations; noctinguished scholar present, the turnique orgia Bacchi-and task of reading the answer to amid the orgies of night-loving the question had been allotted. Bacchus-in a frenzy of black "What will happen to Arthur Republicanism; discerptum laGriffith? I saw Hambur tos juvenem sparsere per agopen the book carefully, and ros-will tear the young man with his thumb on the key to to pieces and scatter them keep it in place, hold the page over the wide fields." Hambur up to his eyes in the myopic closed the book and laid it way that he has. He seemed on the table. For a moment a long time beginning, and it nobody spoke. Then a long flashed across my mind that way off-perhaps half a mile though his face remained im- away-I heard some one tellpassive, his mind was strangely ing some one else that it was moved. And such is the pecu- really remarkable. And then liar quality of thought that we all began to demand at before he had begun to read once that a second question a word all knew that the should be asked. I think my Sortes had answered our ques- own motive was curiosity, and tion in no offhand or nebulous yet not curiosity, because I fashion. Even as this thought felt curiously certain that the next question would be answered not less clearly. But I believe that some at least of the company hoped and believed that the next answer would be a blank. They wanted an anti-climax. It was all a piece of foolishness, of course, saved from being merely vulgar, like table-rapping or planchette, by the injection of a leaven of scholarship. Had there not been a feeling of this kind I think the next question would have dealt with some matter remote from politics. As it was, the political situation seemed to draw them like a magnet. And the question decided upon was, "What will De Valera do ? bandying words over Mr Lloyd George's initial offer of peace. "If the fighting starts again," he is reported to have said, "the Southern Unionists will not be treated as neutrals. And many unpleasant things will happen." I And now, with De Valera's challenge to the Treaty already thrown down, and the possibility of his overthrowing the Free State, either in Dail Eireann or in spite of it, looming like a dark cloud on the horizon of Irish peace, not I alone but all present were thinking of the unpleasant things that might happenif the Sortes told sooth. am, as I have said, no scholar, but as a schoolboy I often laboured long and woundily at the Enead after my more prehensile fellows had gone forth to play. And now the story of that weak and egotistical young man, Turnus the Rutilian-another De Valera if ever there was one came back to me: how Juno, ever harassing the Trojans, even as some malign fate seems to sow perpetual discord among the Irish peoples, sent Alecto disguised as Madame Markiewicz, or rather as Calybe the priestess, to urge Turnus to attack the Trojans. What the others were thinking about I do not know, for Flannery, with the unerring instinct of a good host, was already urging us to replenish our glasses, and setting the frozen stream of conversation to flowing again. And so we continued to talk, mostly about Ireland and what the morrow's meeting would me wondering if the things bring forth, until it was time foretold by the Sortes Virgilito go home. But nobody ana will come to pass. And suggested that a third attempt if at the moment I incline to should be made to consult the believe that they will, it is for oracle. For my own part, I reasons totally unconnected have no faith in such trifles. with the subject matter of It is mere curiosity that keeps this story. CASTLE JANE. THERE'S a poem of a mansion built, without regard to scansion, Its walls are high and cracked and hung with ivy, There are chickens on the cobbles, where the pensioned pony hobbles, And the name by which it goes is Castle Jane. With a tug to set it swinging, there's a bell that makes a ringing Till it's summoned wide-eyed Molly to the mat; But her breathless invitation needn't cause you trepidation, It is simply that she's trodden on the cat, Which has a trick of sleeping near the hat-stand, And bitterly resents a heavy toe: Then the welcome and the dragging of the dog, who, with tail wagging, Is assuring you he's loath to let you go. You must know-it is your duty-that a famous county beauty It is ninety years ago, or maybe longer, Since O'Grady fought MacDermot for the right To escort her into dinner. And O'Grady was the winner There are ghosts-a poor house is it, and unworthy of a visit, The old lady by the fire, in Victorian attire, The rope that creaks inside the haunted room, And the imp, who's heard a-calling down the drive when dusk is falling, And who giggles as he gambols in the gloom. Castle Jane can hardly gather out of all the roar and blather Of her country's politicians what's to do. There've been strangers in the village who compelled the boys to pillage, There've been murders and a cattle-drive or two. The glories, as she knew them, have departed, The old régime has tottered to a close; And, with rows of windows blinking as the winter sun is sinking, She's preparing for a comfortable doze. THE PEREGRINATIONS OF AN OFFICER'S WIFE. IV. com A SHORT time ago I was again own experiences, I spoke of in Brussels. At a large official luncheon-party I met a certain distinguished Belgian Minister. We talked of Germany, and I told him I had spent ten of the happiest months of my married life with the British Army of Occupation at Bonn. He turned on me in horror. "Bonn," he cried-" vile place, vile people." I felt uncomfortable. I had obviously said the wrong thing, committed a gaffe. He too had spent ten months or so in Bonn, in solitary confinement, imprisoned by the Germans for some imaginary political offence. He had been sent to Bonn. He had not lived in a lovely villa on the banks of the Rhine. His dwelling was a dirty prison. I had often seen the outside of it. He did not motor or ride all over the lovely surrounding country. His exercise consisted in walking round a tiny yard for an hour a day, afterwards returning to his little cell, where four times a month he was allowed to receive or write a letter. We looked at Bonn and its inhabitants from such totally different points of view, and I found later that our views on the Irish question were equally far apart. friend of mine had had a terrible experience in Ireland, and as I did not care to talk of my A hers. She was the sole survivor |