that no poems should be written to any woman except _his_ mistress. It
is as if he were to put the Coercion Act in force against anyone found
shedding tears over the sufferings of any mother except _his_ mother. In
fact it is the sort of domineering thick-headedness that never fails to
produce disloyalty.

The national idea, then, is the foundation of the "case for Home Rule."
It might indeed be styled the whole case, but this anthem of nationality
may be transposed into many keys. Translated into terms of ethics it
becomes that noble epigram of Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman's for which I
would exchange a whole library of Gladstonian eloquence: "Good
government is no substitute for self-government." In Ireland we have
enjoyed neither. Political subjection has mildewed our destiny, leaf and
stem. But were it not so, had we increased in wealth like Egypt, in
population like Poland, the vital argument for autonomy would be neither
weaker nor stronger. Rich or poor, a man must be master of his own fate.
Poor or rich, a nation must be captain of her own soul. In the suburban
road in which you live there are probably at least a hundred other
house-holds. Now if you were all, each suppressing his individuality,
to club together you could build in place of the brick-boxes in which
you live a magnificent phalanstery. There you could have more air for
your lungs and more art for your soul, a spacious and a gracious life,
cheaper washing, cheaper food, and a royal kitchen. But you will not do
it. Why? Because it profiteth a man nothing to gain the services of a
Paris _maître d'hôtel_ and to lose his own soul. In an attic fourteen
feet by seven, which he can call his own, a man has room to breathe; in
a Renaissance palace, controlled by a committee on which he is in a
permanent minority of one, he has no room to breathe. Home Rulers are
fond of phrasing their programme as a demand on the part of Ireland that
she shall control the management of her domestic affairs. The language