believe that if the country were stumped by men of
known position and integrity much good would be done. Leaflets bearing
good names would have considerable effect. The result might not be
seen at once, but the thing would work, and the people have less and
less confidence in their leaders. The most unlettered peasant is a
keen judge of character, and, given time, would modify his views. The
truth about the mines, given in clear and simple language, would have
a great effect. Education is fighting for the Union. Time is all the
Loyalists require. The National Schools must, in the long run, be
fatal to political priestcraft and traitorous agitation.

To return to Loughrea. I walked a short distance out of the town to
see the place where Mr. Blake, Lord Clanricarde's agent, was so foully
murdered. A little way past the great Carmelite Convent I encountered
an old man, who showed me the fatal spot. A pleasant country road with
fair green meadows on each side, a house or two not far away, the
fields all fenced with the stone walls characteristic of the County
Galway. "'Twas here, Sorr, that the guns came over the wall. Misther
Blake was dhrivin' to church, at about eleven o'clock o' a foin
summer's mornin'. His wife was wid him, an' Timothy Ruane was runnin'
the horse--a dacent boy was Tim, would do a hand's turn for anybody.
The childer all swore by Tim, be raison he was the boy to give them
half-pince for sweets and the like o' that. So they dhrove along, and
whin they came tin yards from this, says Tim, sittin' in front wid the
reins, says he, 'Misther Blake, I see some men at the back iv the
ditch,' says he. 'Drive on, Tim,' says Misther Blake, 'sure that's
nothin' to do with aither you or me.' An' the next instant both of
thim wor in Eternity! Blake and poor Tim wor kilt outright on the
spot, an' nayther of them spoke a word nor made a move, but jist
dhropped stone dead, God rest their sowls. An' the wife, that's
Misthress Blake, a good, kind-hearted lady she was, was shot in the
hip, an' crippled, but she wasn't kilt, d'ye see. Blake was a hard
man, they said, an' must have the rint. An' poor Tim was kilt the way
he wouldn't tell o' the boys that did it. 'Twas slugs they used, an'
not bullets, but they fired at two or three yards, an' so close that
the shot hasn't time to spread, an' 'tis as good as a cannon ball. Who
were they? All boys belongin' to the place. Mrs. Blake dhropped, an'
they thought she was dead, I bel