_A Nation spoke to a Nation, A Throne sent word to a Throne: ‘Daughter am I in my mother’s house, But mistress in my own. The gates are mine to open, As the gates are mine to close, And I abide by my mother’s house,’ Said our Lady of the Snows._ ‘ET DONA FERENTES’ [Page 107] In extended observation of the ways and works of man, From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the plains of Hindustan: I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise, And the men of half creation damning half creation’s eyes. I have watched them in their tantrums, all that pentecostal crew, French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew, Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white, But it never really mattered till the English grew polite; Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frock-coats, Till the men that do not duel, till the men who fight with votes, Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Laurence took his grid, Began to ‘beg your pardon’ and--the knowing croupier hid. Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the beer, Felt the psychologic moment, left the lit casino clear; But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul, Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl. * * * * * As it was in ancient Suez or ’neath wilder, milder skies, I ‘observe with apprehension’ when the racial ructions rise; And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright, Hear the old casino order: ‘Watch your man, but be polite. ‘Keep your temper. Never answer (_that_ was why they spat and swore). Don’t hit first, but move together (there’s no hurry) to the door. Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells ’em how-- "_Nous sommes allong à notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row._"’ So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far ... ‘Let ’em have it!’ and they had it, and the same was serious war. Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot-- Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot. Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, as a banner fluttered free; Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay; White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic, swift-- They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift. Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs-- The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons-- Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and unperturbed, Till we wake our Island-Devil--nowise cool for being curbed!