on, to go apart to a window, where she stood for a while
apparently writing something on a wooden panel of the shutter. After the
eviction was over the officer remembered this, and going up to the
window found these lines pencilled upon the panel:--

"We are evicted from this house,
Me and my loving man;
We're homeless now upon the world!
May the divil take 'the Plan'!"

CORK, _Monday, Feb. 27._--A most interesting day. I left alone and early
by the train for Youghal, having sent before me a letter of introduction
to Canon Keller, the parish priest, who has recently become a
conspicuous person through his refusal to give evidence about matters,
his knowledge of which he conceives to be "privileged," as acquired in
his capacity as a priest.

I had many fine views of the shore and the sea as we ran along, and the
site of Youghal itself is very fine. It is an old seaport town, and once
was a place of considerable trade, especially in wool.

Oliver dwelt here for a while, and from Youghal he embarked on his
victorious return to England. He seems to have done his work while he
was here "not negligently," like Harrison at Naseby Field, for when he
departed he left Youghal a citadel of Protestant intolerance. Even under
Charles II they maintained an ordinance forbidding "any Papist to buy or
barter anything in the public markets," which may be taken as a piece of
cold-blooded and statutory "boycotting." Then there was no parish priest
in Youghal; now it may almost be said there is nobody in Youghal but the
parish priest! So does "the whirligig of time bring in his revenges"!

At Youghal station a very civil young man came up, calling me by name,
and said Father Keller had sent him with a car to meet me. We drove up
past some beautiful grounds into the main street. A picturesque
waterside town, little lanes and narrow streets leading out of the main
artery down to the bay, and a savour of the sea in the place, grateful
doubtless to the souls of Raleigh and the west country folk he brought
over here when he became lord of the land, just three hundred years ago.
Edmund Spenser came here in those days to see him, and talk over the
events of that senseless rising of the Desmonds, which gave the poet of
the "Faerie Queen" his awful pictures of the desolation of Ireland, and
made the planter of Virginia master of more than forty thousand acres of
Irish land.

We turned suddenly into a little narrow wyn