t
the town has a sleepy, inert look. On the railway between Dundalk and
Newry, we passed a spot known by the ominous name of "The Hill of the
Seven Murders," seven agents having been murdered there since 1840! I
suppose this must be set down to the force of habit. At Newry a cavalry
officer whom Lord Ernest knew got into our carriage. He was full of
hunting, and mentioned a place to which he was going as a "very fine
country."

"From the point of view of the picturesque?" I asked.

"Oh no! from the point of view of falling off your horse!"

At Maple's Hotel I found a most hospitable telegram, insisting that I
should give up my intention of spending the night at Maryborough, and
come on to this lovely place in my host's carriage, which would be sent
to meet me at that station. I left Kingsbridge Station in Dublin about 7
P.M. We had rather a long train, and I observed a number of people
talking together about one of the carriages before we started; but there
was no crowd at all, and nothing to attract special attention. As we
moved out of the station, some lads at the end of the platform set up a
cheer. We ran on quietly till we reached Kildare. There quite a
gathering awaited our arrival on the platform, and as we slowed up, a
cry went up from among them of, "Hurrah for Mooney! hurrah for Mooney!"
The train stopped just as this cry swelled most loudly, when to my
surprise a tall man in the gathering caught one or two of the people by
the shoulder, shaking them, and called out loudly, "Hurrah for
Gilhooly--you fools, hurrah for Gilhooly!"

This morning I learned that I had the honour, unwittingly, of travelling
from Dublin to Maryborough with Mr. Gilhooly, M.P., who appears to have
been arrested in London on Friday, brought over yesterday by the day
train, and sent on at once from Dublin to his destined dungeon.

An hour's drive through a rolling country, showing white and weird under
its blanket of snow in the night, brought us to this large, rambling,
delightful house, the residence of Viscount de Vesci. Mr. Gladstone came
here from Lord Meath's on his one visit to Ireland some years ago. I
find the house full of agreeable and interesting people; and the chill
of the drive soon vanished under the genial influences of a light
supper, and of pleasant chat in the smoking-room. A good story was told
there, by the way, of Archbishop Walsh, who being rather indiscreetly
importuned to put his autograph on a fan of a cert