ow. I wouldn't say anythin' agin'
the English. I have two brothers there an' they come over here
sometimes, an' from what they tell me I believe the English manes
well. An' the English law isn't bad at all. 'Tis the administhration
of the law that's bad. We have the law, but 'tis no use to us because
the landlords administhers it. Divil a bit o' compinsation can we get.
An' if we want a pump, or a fence, or a bit o' repairs, we may wait
for seven years, till our hearts break wid worryin' afther it. Thin
we've our business to mind, an' we've not the time nor the money to go
to law, even whin the law is with us an we have a clear case. The
landlord has his agint, that has nothin' else to do but to circumvint
us, so that the land laws don't do us the good that ye think over in
England. Ye have grand laws, says you, an' 'tis thrue for you; but who
works the laws? says I. That's where the trouble comes in. Who works
the laws? says I.

"Thin ye say, ye can buy your farms all out, says you. But the
landlords won't sell, says I. Look at the Monivea disthrict. French is
a good landlord enough, but he won't sell. The tinants want to buy,
but if ye go to Monivea Castle ye'll have your labour for your pains.
The agint is the landlord's brother, an' a dacent, good man he is. I
have a relative over there, an' sorra a word agin aither o' thim will
he spake. But when he wint to buy his farm, not an inch would he get."

This statement was so diametrically opposed to that of Mr. John Cook,
of Londonderry, who said that the farmers had ceased to buy, owing to
their belief that the land would shortly become their own on much
better terms than they could at present obtain, that I tramped to
Monivea, a distance of six miles from Athenry, for the purpose of
ascertaining, if possible, how far my Loughrea friend's assertion was
borne out by facts. Monivea is a charming village, built round a great
green patch of turf, whereon the children play in regiments. Imagine
an oblong field three hundred yards long by one hundred wide, bounded
at one end by high trees, at the other by a great manor house in
ruins, the sides closed in by neat white cottages and a pretty
Protestant Church, and you have Monivea, the sweetest village I have
seen in Ireland. Here I interviewed four men, one of whom had just
returned by the Campania from America, to visit his friends after an
absence of many years. This gentleman was a strong Unionist, and
ridiculed the idea