ons seemed to be
stones and rocks. Carraig was a kind of shoulder of what I heard the
people calling "My lord's mountain." This was part of Lord Annesley's
domain, and separated from Carraig and several small farms by a wall,
which ran down to a sheet of water at the foot--Castlewellan Lough. I,
as a student of the "Nation," was not at all satisfied that an Irish
mountain should be called by such a name, which spoke volumes for the
state of serfdom into which the people had fallen. I was not long in
finding the real name--Sliab na Slat (mountain of Rods).

I often looked with admiration at the view from its highest point.
Underneath, the side of the mountain was clothed with trees down to the
edge of the lough, which mirrored the wooded eminences of exquisite
beauty surrounding it. Looking eastward you could see Dundrum Bay and
the white sails of the fishing boats.(They used to sing a mournful
lament around the turf fires of Ballymagenaghy of "The loss of the
Mourne Fishermen" in a great storm off this coast). Further off you
might see an occasional large sailing vessel or steamer, and, further
still, in the dim distance, you could just discern the Isle of Man.
Southward the eye took in the noble range of the Mourne mountains,
running from east to west, from where, at Newcastle, the Irish sea comes
to kiss the foot of the lofty Slieve Donard, towering in majesty over
all his fellows--rugged sentinels of the hills and vales of Down.

Lying, as if nestling under the Mourne range, was a small, well-wooded
hill, part of the domain of Lord Roden, who held high rank among the
Orange ascendancy faction, and, as will be seen later, may be said to
have held the lives and liberties of his Catholic fellow-countrymen in
this district in his hands.

In Ballymagenaghy I was oftener called by my mother's name than my
father's. In those days, as often as not, when a girl got married she
was still called by her friends by her maiden name. So, on the first
Sunday after my arrival, when I was taken over to Leitrim chapel, where
I served my uncle's Mass, I found myself referred to as "Peggy
Loughlin's wee boy." It did not seem at all strange to me, for I
scarcely ever heard her called by any other name. Indeed, some forty
years afterwards--when I was organising for the Irish National
League--I met a County Down man in Cumberland. He was, as I soon found,
from "our own place," as they affectionately call it. He was trying to
trace out wh