here warmly recognised, the Dubliners know no fear. The
ridiculous abortion has been dragged into the sunlight, and ruthlessly
dissected. John's commonsense can be trusted, once he examines for
himself, and worthy Irishmen lie down in peace. The graver Dubliners
prefer to speak of something else. The young bloods still make fun of
the "patriots," and conjure up illimitable vistas of absurd
possibilities under an Irish Government. They invariably place the
hypothetic Cabinet under the direct orders of Archbishop Walsh, and
continue to make fun of that great hierarch's famous malediction on
Freemasonry. The good Archbishop, they say, takes a large size in
curses. They declare that his curse on the Masonic bazaar for orphans
was a marvel of comprehensive detail; that it cursed the
stall-holders, the purchasers, the tea-pot cosies and fender-stools,
the five-o'clock tea-tables and antimacassars, the china ornaments,
and embroidered slippers, with every individual bead; the dolls, both
large and small; the bran that stuffed the dolls, and the very squeaks
which resulted from a squeeze on the doll's ribs. Never was heard such
a terrible curse. But what gave rise to no little surprise, nobody
seemed one penny the worse. These scoffers propose to discontinue the
habit of swearing. When the Archbishop produces no effect, what's the
good of a plain layman's cursing? They declare that the dentists of
Dublin are all Home Rulers, and that the selfishness of their
political faith is disgustingly obvious. These mocking Unionists
discuss probable points of etiquette likely to arise in the
Legislature of College Green, and dispute as to whether members will
be allowed to attend with decidedly black eyes, or whether they will
be excluded until the skin around their orbs has arrived at the pale
yellow stage. Some are of opinion that no Cabinet Minister should be
allowed to sit while wearing raw beefsteak, and a story is going the
rounds to the effect that some of the Irish members recently wished to
cross the Channel for half-a-crown each, and to that end called on a
boat agent, a Tory, who knew them, when the following conversation
took place:--

"Can we go across for half-a-crown each?"

"No, ye can't, thin."

"An' why not?"

"Because 'tis a cattle boat."

"Never mind that, sure we're not particular."

"No, but the cattle are."

There was a great rush for Dynamitard Daly's letter, and some of his
sentences were made subjects o