he friends of England, and England can be proud of them as
having flourished under her rule. They have been and are the English
garrison in Ireland, and England sorely needs a garrison here. Mr.
Gladstone cares nothing for their opinions. On the other hand, he
spends his life in pandering to disloyal Ireland, led by men who have
openly avowed and gloried in their hatred of England, and who have
hundreds of times publicly declared their determination to secure
complete independence; men who have broken the law of the land, and
have incited others to break it; men who turned a peaceful country
into a perfect hell, and have for ever upset the people's notions of
honesty. Parnellites and anti-Parnellites have only one end and aim,
and only one sentiment. They hate British rule and British loyalists,
and aim at the ultimate repeal of the Union, and the absolute
separation of the two countries. And they would always be unfriendly.
The party of lawlessness, outrage, and rebellion would never hold
amicable relations with a law-abiding and peaceful commercial country.
There would be no peace for Ireland either. The factions of the Irish
party are yearly becoming more and more numerous. In all except hatred
to England they are bitterly opposed. All very well to set up Ulster
as being the ugly duckling, as being the one dissentient particle of a
united Ireland. If every Protestant left the country Ireland would
still be divided, and hopelessly divided. Personal reviling, riot, and
blackguardism are already common between the factions, united though
they try to appear, so far as is necessary to deceive the stupid
Saxon. And if the Saxon cannot see the result of trusting the low
blackguards who form the working plant of the Nationalist party he is
stupid indeed, and deserves all that will happen to him.

"Have you noticed how the Irish people are gulled?"

Yes, I have noticed it. The _Freeman's Journal_, as the representative
paper of the party and the chosen organ of the Church, is run on a
pabulum of falsehood. Englishmen would hardly believe such lying
possible, but the _Freeman_, as a liar, has, by constant practice,
attained virtuosity. What Rubinstein is on the piano, what Blondin was
on the tight-rope, what the Bohee Brothers are on the banjo, what Sims
Reeves was in the ballad world, what Irving is in histrionic art, what
Spurgeon was as a preacher, what Patti is in opera, what Gladstone is
as a word-spinner, what Tim Healy