every Catholic should feel, and that
therefore such familiarity should be, if possible, avoided. Years ago
the priest would be friendly with his Protestant neighbours. We all
lived together pretty comfortably. Of late a great change has taken
place. The clergy as far as possible leave us, and cause us to be
left, out in the cold. The question of Home Rule is entirely a
religious question. Parnell was actuated by what might fairly be
called patriotism; that is, comparatively speaking. The clergy saw in
his fall a grand opportunity to use the movement he had created for
the furtherance of their own ends. Home Rule is a purely Roman
Catholic movement, and has had the most regrettable results on the
amity of neighbours everywhere. Formerly the question of religion
never arose. Now nothing else is considered. The Papists are almost
unbearable, while they as yet have only the hope of power. What they
would become if once they grasped the reality God only knows. I am not
prepared to stand it, whatever it be. My arrangements to leave the
country have long been made. At my age it will be a great grief, but I
have always lived in a free country, and I will die in a free country.
I was born in the town, and hoped to end my days at my birthplace. But
I shall go, if it almost broke my heart, rather than see myself and
the worthy men who have made the place domineered over and patronised
by Maynooth priests. _Ubi bene, ibi patria._ Where I'm most happy,
that will be my country."

The road to Kilmore is through a beautiful park-like country heavily
timbered with oak, ash, beech, chestnut, and fir. Tall hedgerows
twenty feet high line most of the way, which in many parts is
completely overhung with trees in green arches impervious to rain. The
country is undulating, with sharp descents and long clumps of beeches
and imposing pine woods, bosky entrances to country seats and grassy
hills, covered with thriving kine. From the church itself an extensive
landscape is seen on every side. A deep valley intervenes between the
church and a pretty farmhouse. I find a narrow lane with high hedges,
covered with honeysuckles, which seems to lead thitherward. A man is
toiling in a field hard by, digging for dear life, bare-armed and
swarthy. I mount the gate and make for him. He remains unconscious,
and goes on digging like mad. His brow is wet with honest sweat, and
he seems bent on earning whate'er he can. Perhaps he wishes to look
the whole worl