police are the picked men of the country, while the
average grade of intelligence among them is better than among the
peasantry from whose ranks they have come.

Ready as they are to go cheerfully on any service, however laborious or
perilous, there is one task which the constabulary of the west coast hold
in mortal detestation, and that is, an expedition into the mountains to
seize illicit stills and arrest distillers of poteen. Such an enterprise
means days and nights of toilsome climbing, watching, waiting, and spying;
often without result, and generally with a strong probability that when
the spot where the still has been is surrounded, the police thinking they
have the law breakers in a trap, the latter take the alarm, escape by some
unknown path, leaving nothing but "the pot and the smell" as reminiscences
of their presence and employment. The disappointing nature of the duty is
thus one good reason for the dislike felt for it by the constables, but
another is found in the unusual degree of peril attending it, for in the
mountains of Donegal, Mayo, Galway, Clare, and Kerry, the distillers
generally own firearms, know how to use them, and feel no more compunction
for shooting a policeman than for killing a dog. The extremely rugged
character of the Mayo mountains, in particular, offers many opportunities
for the outlaws to practise their craft in safety and secrecy, for, the
whole neighborhood being on the lookout for the enemy, there are always
friends to give the alarm. To hide the still in the ground or in a
convenient cave is the work of very few minutes, after which the
distillers are quite at leisure and turn their attention to shooting at
the police, a job attended with so little risk to themselves and so much
discomfort to the constables that the latter frequently give up the chase
on very slight provocation.

Near Lake Derryclare, in the Connemara district of Galway, and almost
under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, there stands by the wayside a small
rude monument of uncut stones, a mere heap, surmounted by a rough wooden
cross. Such stone heaps as this are common on the west coast, and
originate in the custom of making a family memorial, each member of the
family, or, in some cases, each friend attending the funeral, contributing
a stone to the rude monument. In some neighborhoods, every relative and
friend casts a stone on the common pile whenever he passes the spot, so
the heap is constantly growing. Thi