"
Sometimes he thought he would like to write "A Western Thibet,"
but he was more a man of action than of letters. His writings had
been so long confined to newspaper articles that he could not see
his way from chapter to chapter. He might have overcome the
difficulty, but doubt began to poison his mind. "Every race," he
said, "has its own special genius. The Germans have or have had
music. The French and Italians have or have had painting and
sculpture. The English have or have had poetry. The Irish had, and
alas! they still have their special genius, religious vocation."
He used to go for long walks on the hills, and one day, lying in
the furze amid the rough grass, his eyes following the course of
the ships in the bay, he said: "Was it accident or my own
fantastic temperament that brought me back from Cuba?" It seemed
as if a net had been thrown over him and he had been drawn along
like a fish in a net. "For some purpose," he said. "But for what
purpose? I can perceive none, and yet I cannot believe that an
accident brought me to Ireland and involved me in the destiny of
Ireland for no purpose."
And he did not need to take the book from his pocket, he knew the
passage well, and he repeated it word for word while he watched
the ships in the bay.
"We were friends and we have become strangers, one to the other.
Ah, yes; but it is so, and we do not wish to hide our
strangerhood, or to dissemble as if we were ashamed of it. We are
two ships each with a goal and a way; and our ways may draw
together again and we may make holiday as before.
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