in Ireland it would cost some lives. Wouldn't there be a
shindy! And then there's strong judges and weak judges. Judges don't
like being shot more than other people. And Irish judges are made of
flesh and blood. Look at O'Halloran's case. I was in the Court when it
was tried. A moonlighting case. The police caught a man on the spot,
with a rifle having a double load. The thing was clear as the sun at
noonday. Acquitted. The jury said, 'Not guilty'; and the man went
quietly home. The administration of justice with a weak judge, or with
a strong judge who feels a weak Government behind him, is a farce in
Ireland.

"What will happen if we do not get the Bill? I think there will be
some disturbance--the ruffians are always with us--although the people
do not want Home Rule. I mean, they don't care about it. The bulk of
the people would not give sixpence for Home Rule. They have been told
it will pay them well, and they go in for that. Not one of them would
have Home Rule if it cost him a penny, unless he believed he'd get
twopence for his outlay. It's the land, and nothing else. The party
that puts the land question on a comfortable footing will rule Ireland
for ever. That's the opinion of every man in the force, in Loughrea or
elsewhere. We have a curiosity here--a priest who goes against Home
Rule. A very great man he was, head of a college or something, not one
of the common ruck, and he's dead against it, and says so openly. The
_Tuam News_ used to pitch into him, but he didn't care, so they got
tired of it. No good rowing people up when they laugh at you."

An old woman of the type too common in Ireland came up as the officer
left me, and said:--

"Musha, now, but 'tis the foin, handsome man ye are, an' ye've a
gintleman's face on ye, bedad ye have, an,'" here she showed a
halfpenny in her withered claw, "this is all I got since I kem out,
and me that's twistin' wid the rummatacks like the divil on a hot
griddle; the holy Mother o' God knows its thrue, an' me ould man,
that's seventy or eighty or more--the divil a one o' him knows his own
age--he's that sick an' bad, an' that wake intirely, that he couldn't
lift a herrin' wid a pair o' hot tongs; 'tis an ulster he has, that
does be ruinin' him, the docthor says; bad luck to it for an ulster
wid a powltice, an' he's growlin' that he has no tobacky, God help
him. (Here I gave her something.) Almighty God open ye the gates in
heaven, the Holy Mother o' God pour blessin