_At Hotel--after Speech._--Great success. Felt horribly inclined to start another Home Rule plan--my fifth--but fortunately refrained. Instead of dismemberment of Empire, I offered more Members to Ulster. Ulster people saw the justice of this arrangement at once. Told 'em there were "two Irelands." Isn't one Ireland enough, however? _Coleraine._--A triumphal arch, with "Welcome to English Peasant Emancipators" on it. Stupid to bracket COLLINGS with me in this way. Receive threatening letter. Reminds me of my revolver. JESSE examines it with the air of a professional gunsmith, critically. Appears quite hurt at its condition; says, "I've sat on it so often he doubts if it would go off now," and recommends my carrying a "bowie-knife" instead. Am surprised at JESSE'S acquaintance with deadly weapons. Ask him what historical event took place at Coleraine. Says he doesn't know and doesn't care. But what's he here for except to keep me posted up in local details? Hint to him that "I hope I may be able to offer him post of President of Local Government Board in my future Ministry." Replies (rudely, I think) that "he'll wait till I'm asked to form one." _Query_--doesn't air of Ulster exercise demoralising effect on English politicians? Is this the "Ulster Custom" one's heard so much about? RANDOLPH a case in point. _Back again._--Coleraine speech excellent, though I say it, as shouldn't. Cheered to the echo. So was JESSE, hang him! Shan't take _him_ to Canada with me. Now for a study of the habits of deep-sea fish in the pages of a Natural Science Primer. * * * * * AN AUTUMN LAY. (_By a Belated Oarsman._) Come, little Maid, to the cracked piano, The semi-grand in the coffee-room; We'll take your harmonies all _cum grano_, For the strings vibrate like the crack of doom. Over the lawn the flat clouds loom, And when they lighten the rain falls faster; Like gossips who relish a friend's disaster The ducks quack loud in the rain-ruled gloom. I've studied the cracks in the ceiling-plaster, And the statuettes with their stolid leer, And the landscape visions of some Young Master, Who viewed the world through a haze of beer. We've done as much with the hostel's cheer As sane men may _in corpore sano_; So come, little Maid, to the cracked piano. Play us "_The Battle of Prague_," my dear. The silence clouds, like a potion shaken, As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain; Their light and sweetness no touch can waken, And only the dregs of a tone remain. The silk-sewn music with fray and stain Swoons on the keys at the urgent stages, And the little Maid, as she props the pages, Just murmurs, "Bother!" and starts again.