Insurrection was the only thing that could have happened. I speak as an
Irishman, and am momentarily leaving out of account every other
consideration. If, after all her striving, freedom had come to her as a
gift, as a peaceful present such as is sometimes given away with a pound
of tea, Ireland would have accepted the gift with shamefacedness, and
have felt that her centuries of revolt had ended in something very like
ridicule. The blood of brave men had to sanctify such a consummation if
the national imagination was to be stirred to the dreadful business
which is the organizing of freedom, and both imagination and brains have
been stagnant in Ireland this many a year. Following on such tameness,
failure might have been predicted, or, at least feared, and war (let us
call it war for the sake of our pride) was due to Ireland before she
could enter gallantly on her inheritance. We might have crept into
liberty like some kind of domesticated man, whereas now we may be
allowed to march into freedom with the honours of war. I am still
appealing to the political imagination, for if England allows Ireland to
formally make peace with her that peace will be lasting, everlasting;
but if the liberty you give us is all half-measures, and distrusts and
stinginesses, then what is scarcely worth accepting will hardly be worth
thanking you for.

There is a reference in the earlier pages of this record to a letter
which I addressed to Mr. George Bernard Shaw and published in the _New
Age_. This was a thoughtless letter, and subsequent events have proved
that it was unmeaning and ridiculous. I have since, through the same
hospitable journal, apologised to Mr. Shaw, but have let my reference to
the matter stand as an indication that electricity was already in the
air. Every statement I made about him in that letter and in this book
was erroneous; for, afterwards, when it would have been politic to run
for cover, he ran for the open, and he spoke there like the valiant