try dare touch a spade for Mr. Boycott. Personally
he is protected, but no woman in Ballinrobe would dream of washing him
a cravat or making him a loaf. All the people have to say is that
they are sorry, but that they "dare not." Hence either Mr. Boycott,
with an escort armed to the teeth, or his wife without an escort--for
the people would not harm her--must go to Ballinrobe after putting a
horse in the shafts themselves, buy what they can, and bring it home.
Everybody advises them to leave the country; but the answer of the
besieged agent is simply this: "I can hardly desert Lord Erne, and,
moreover, my own property is sunk in this place." It is very much like
asking a man to give up work and go abroad for the benefit of his
health. He cannot sacrifice his occupation and his property.

There is very little doubt that this unfortunate gentleman has been
selected as a victim whose fate may strike terror into others. Judging
from what I hear, there is a sort of general determination to frighten
the landlords. Only a few nights ago a man went into a store at
Longford and said openly, "My landlord has processed me for the last
four or five years; but he hasn't processed me this year, and the
divil thank him for that same."

II.

AN AGRARIAN DIFFICULTY.

WESTPORT, CO. MAYO, _Oct. 25th._

"Tiernaur, Sorr, is on the way to Claggan Mountain, where they shot at
Smith last year, and--if I don't disremember--is just where they shot
Hunter last August eleven years. Ye'll mind the cross-roads before ye
come to the chapel. It was there they shot him from behind a
sod-bank." This was the reply I received in answer to my question as
to the whereabouts of a public meeting to be held yesterday morning,
with the patriotic object of striking terror into the hearts of
landlords and agents. It was delivered without appearance of
excitement or emotion of any kind, the demeanour of the speaker being
quite as simple as that of Wessex Hodge when he recommends one to go
straight on past the Craven Arms, and then bear round by the Dog and
Duck till the great house comes in sight. Tiernaur, I gathered, was
about fifteen miles to the north-west along Clew Bay towards
Ballycroy. It is called Newfield Chapel on the Ordnance map, but is
always spoken of here by its native name. It is invested with more
than the mere transient interest attaching to the place of an open-air
meeting, for it is the centre of a district subject to chronic
di