ir minds, but--they dare not own
it. So the process of education is comparatively slow. A small farmer
said to me, "Not an hour's walk from here, a small tinant like meself
was suspicted to be a thraitor to the cause. He was a sthrivin' man,
an' he had really no politics, an' only wanted to get lave to work his
land, an' earn his bit an' sup.

"He had two sthrappin' daughters, as nice, dacent young girls as ye'd
see in a summer's day. They were seen spakin' to a pliceman--that was
all they done--an' four men came that night, four ruffians wid white
masks, an' havin' secured the father, they dhragged the young girls
out of bed at the dead hour, an' stripped them to the skin. Thin they
cut off their hair close wid a knife, the way ye'd cut corn, an'
scarified their bodies wid knives. Would ye wondher we're careful?"

I asked him whether a Protestant could in his district hope to be
elected to any public position, the Board of Guardians for instance
(he was a good Catholic). His answer was an unqualified No. Then he
took time, and shortly proposed the following statement of the
position, which I present on account of its gem-like finish:--

"I wouldn't say but they'd put on a Protestant av he paid for it by
settlin' wid the priest that for certain considerations he would be
contint wid a seat on the boord. An' thin he must renounce his
political ideas, or promise never to mintion thim in public. But,
begorra, he'd have to sell his birthright for a mess of pottage by
makin' a decoy duck of himself!"

In adding this great specimen to the immortal list of memorable mixed
metaphors, I feel that my visit to Ireland has not been quite in vain.

Oolagh, (Co. Tipperary), April 15th.

No. 10.--DEFYING THE LAND LEAGUE.

"Burn everything English except English coals." That was the first
sentiment I heard in "rebel Cork," and it certainly expresses the
dominant feeling of the local Nationalist party, who do not seem to
have heard of the proposed Union of Hearts, or, if they have heard,
they certainly have not heeded. Nor will anyone who knows for one
moment assert that the Corkers entertain the idea. My hotel is a
hotbed of sedition. It is the southern head-quarters of the Parnellite
party. The spacious entrance hall is a favourite resort of the leading
Cork Nationalists, who air their views in public with much excited
gesture, having its basis in whiskey-nourished hatred of English rule.
They walk to the bar, suck in