The green island smiled winsomely in the Atlantic, only to belie itself
as an abode of happiness. Its plaintive atmosphere wisped round Sir
George Grey, as a mist enwraps two walkers on a Scottish hill-side,
sending them silent. He was young, sensitive, sympathetic, and
environment moulded him, as already it had done in the larger island,
also with its suffering masses. Sir George had extracts of memory which
afforded a vivid idea of Ireland in the early Thirties.

'I was'--he picked out this incident--'a guest at a dinner where I heard
the toast "The Protestant King and confusion to Roman Catholicism." Just
reflect on what that meant! Think of the injustice, the intolerance, the
lack of ordinary human feeling thus put into a sentiment! A Roman
Catholic gentleman was present, and, knowing what was coming, he good-
naturedly rose and left the room, observing that he would join the
ladies. Yes, that was an Irish gentleman!

'Again, my heart was wrung at what I witnessed, while in command of a
party of soldiers, under orders to protect a tithe-collecting expedition.
To me it appeared wrong, shameful, un-Christian, that money for a Church
which preached the love of God and His Son towards mankind, should be
wrung from the people by armed soldiers. More, it seemed to me nothing
less than blasphemy, a mockery of all true religion, and I thought it
terrible to have to bear a part in the business.'

Yet, as ever among Celts, these shadows had edges of the lightsome. The
tithe-gatherers would be out to distrain in a particular parish, and find
loads of the humble chattels, which they meant to seize, already carted
over the boundary into the next parish. That, Sir George explained, was a
familiar trick to play upon the tithe-gatherer, who could not budge
beyond the phrasing of his warrant. It was a beating of the parish