laws are good, that Ireland is a splendid country, and that things
would be far better as they are. Raphoe is on the road to nowhere, and
yet it runs a rattling tweed mill--the proprietor is a Unionist, of
course. Queer it is to see this flourishing affair in the wilds of
Donegal. Blankets, travelling rugs, and tweed for both sexes, of
excellent quality and pretty patterns. Raphoe has a cathedral, but
without features of note. The bishop's palace is in ruins. In 1835 the
bishopric was annexed to Derry. The police of this district are sad at
heart. There are but few of them, very few indeed, and they have no
work to do. These Protestant districts afford no pleasurable
excitement. Work, work, work, without any intervals of moonlighting
and landlord shooting. These Saxon settlers have no imagination. Like
mill horses, they move in one everlasting round, unvaried even by a
modicum of brigandage. An occasional murder, a small suspicion of
arson, might relieve the wearisome monotony of their prosaic
existence, but they lack the poetic instinct. They have not the
sporting tastes of their Keltic countrymen. They are not ashamed of
this, but even glory in it. An Orangeman asked me to quote a case of
shooting from behind a wall by any of his order. He says no such thing
ever took place, and actually boasted of it! He declared that if the
body had in future any shooting to do they would do it in the open.
The Nationalist patriots are more advanced. They know a trick worth
two of that. The Protestant party have no experience in premeditated
murder, and must take a back seat as authorities in the matter. They
have not yet discovered that shooting from behind a wall is
comparatively safe, and safety is a paramount consideration. Landlords
and agents carry rifles, and should they be missed unpleasant results
might ensue. The case of Smith, quoted in a Mayo letter, shows the
danger of missing. It is not well to place the lives of experienced
and valuable murderers at the mercy of a worthless agent. The
Nationalist party cannot afford to expose to danger the priceless
ruffians whose efforts have converted Mr. Gladstone and his Tail. The
patriots need every man who can shoot, and the stone walls of Ireland
are a clear dispensation of Providence. To shoot in the open is a
flying in the face of natural laws. The patriots are wedded to the
walls, or, as they call them in Ireland, ditches. The "back iv a
ditch" is a proverbial expression for