Chapter VII (2)

“But, dear sir,” I replied, “believe me, I am too glad of your kind invitation not to be very grateful for it, even if you could only give me a potato and a glass of water. But let me speak freely to you. I quite admit that the butcher, for instance, makes different excuses in order to avoid supplying your cook with meat, but if you went yourself, and, with the money in your hand, you asked him to sell you a leg or a loin of mutton, it appears to me very difficult to believe that he would dare to refuse to give it to you.”

“Will you make the experiment with me?”

“I dare not ask you to do so, but really nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

We had just reached the market-place, which was surrounded with shops. At the door of one amongst them, hung neck downwards two magnificent half oxen; evidently this was the butcher’s. On the pavement stood a group of beggars and vagabonds of all ages, looking with famished eyes at all the good things displayed in front of the shop on a marble table. Mr. Thompson drove across to that side.

“Boys,” said he, stopping his horse five or six steps away from the group, “which of you will earn sixpence by holding my horse?”

An unlucky urchin of eight or ten years old at once jumped at the reins. But he had not time to seize them before a vigorous kick reached him in that part of his body which was not facing the horse. At the same time a threatening voice addressed five or six words to him in Irish; he seemed quite able to comprehend the second warning, for he at once returned to the pavement, energetically rubbing the place where he had received the first. No one else stirred.

“You see, it begins well,” said Mr. Thompson in a low voice.

I was becoming deeply interested. A cart stood there unharnessed. We descended from the carriage, fastened our horse to its wheel, and entered the shop.

Quite at the back of it, to the right behind the counter, we saw a very pretty girl of seventeen or eighteen, very elegant, with small curls on her forehead, her well-fitting black bodice showing off her already fully-formed figure to great advantage, a red ribbon tied like a dog’s collar round her neck; on the whole showing a very pretty specimen of Irish brunettes.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Thompson politely. “I did not know that Shaunganeen had the happiness of possessing such a pretty butcher; I have never had the pleasure of seeing you before. Have you been here long?”

The young lady was evidently delighted. She smiled upon us both in the most engaging way.

“Oh, sir,” she replied, “my father, Mr. McCarthy, only took me from the convent three days ago; my mother is unwell, and I am therefore taking charge of the shop.”

“It was a very good idea of Mr. McCarthy’s! Any one would come here only to see you! Tell me, you have some fine legs of mutton there. Will you sell me one?”

“Why, of course, sir, they are there to be sold! Here, take this one, I am sure it is very tender.”

“Oh! the moment you recommend it I will take it at once.” I was triumphant. Mr. Thompson looked much astonished.

“Well, Miss McCarthy,” he continued, to hide his surprise, “you will send it home to me before this evening, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir! Will you give me your name, please, sir?”

“What! don’t you know me?”

“No, sir; I have only just left the convent.”

“Ah, very well. I am Mr. Thompson.”

“Oh, you are Mr. Thompson of ---- Lodge?”

“Yes, I am Mr. Thompson of ---- Lodge.”

The poor girl, red as a peony, looked with a terrified air at the fine leg of mutton she kept turning in her hands, as though it were already on the spit, to give herself courage.

“The truth is, sir,” she began, almost in tears, “I cannot send it to you, I made a mistake, I forgot that it is already sold!”

“Very well,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand,” and he immediately left the shop.

I relate the scene word for word as it happened. I could only declare myself vanquished. Decidedly the accounts I have heard are not exaggerated. However, Mr. Thompson declares that, at all events, so far as he is concerned, things are improving a little. At first he could not get his horses shod unless the Government sent him a portable forge from the artillery. Afterwards he discovered a farrier living at L----, several miles away. I asked myself what the shoes of horses, which had to go many miles before they reached a forge, ought to be made of? Under the circumstances, I would rather have had them without shoes. But a few weeks ago another farrier, who lives only nine or ten miles away, sent him word that he would shoe them provided the horses came to him at night.

“And therefore,” he continued, “Tim’s story rather surprises me, for several times lately they have consented to supply beer for the house. Tim says that it was refused to him to-day. Something new must have happened.”

At this moment we passed an individual adorned with long whiskers and a moustache, who, on seeing us, immediately looked the other way, with much affectation.

“Oh,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand it all now. I have the honour of introducing you to our member of Parliament, the Honourable Mr. X----, beer and spirit merchant, and naturally an outrageous Land Leaguer. Since he attained this honour, one of his nephews keeps his shop. The nephew is rather indifferent, we can manage him. But it appears as though the uncle has come to see his constituents, he wishes to get a little popularity at my expense, and poor Tim must go without his whisky.”

---- Lodge, which we reached in a few minutes, is a pretty house situated in the middle of a fair-sized park, crossed by a river. Under the windows of the house it forms a large piece of water covered with water lilies, and shaded by superb trees, on which a great number of herons were nesting, making an incredible noise. Two young girls of sixteen and seventeen stopped their game of lawn-tennis when they saw us, and ran to greet their brother, with whom they, were passing their holidays. Naturally, we at once told them about the incident at the butcher’s. The young ladies severely criticised pretty Miss McCarthy’s conduct. But, in reality, in spite of their genuine hatred for Mr. Parnell, it appeared to me that boycottage was not one of the least attractions of their sojourn here. It entails a Swiss Family Robinson kind of life which is full of amusing incidents.

My kind host hastened to do the honours of ---- Lodge. He first showed me his farm. Since he can now only employ the men provided for him by the Cork Union he has naturally been forced to alter his method of culture in order to reduce the number of hands as much as possible. This gave him the idea of trying the ensilage, which has been so much used amongst us for many years, but which is still quite unknown in this part of Ireland. Only he had to struggle against a difficulty peculiar to the country. The sub-soil is so damp that at a depth of five or six feet water is found everywhere. He was therefore obliged to undertake considerable works before he could render his pits water-tight. He had some idea of trying ensilage above the soil. I should like to say a few words about this arrangement, which appeared to me extremely curious.

On the ground, side by side, were laid fifteen or twenty oak joists, furnished at each end with a screw ring, to which an iron pulley is attached. The hay is packed on this floor whilst it is still damp, just as it comes from the meadow. When the pile is twenty foot high they fix the end of a long steel cord to one of the extremities of the first beam, the cord passes across the stack into the pulley at the other extremity, returns to that of the second beam, and so on across the stack. In our navy we call this a _passeresse_ (a brail). When the whole stack is thus supported they apply a wheel purchase or a tourniquet to the end of the chain. The cord sliding through the pulleys produces so much compression that the height of the stack diminishes by one-half. This pressure, which is about 200 lbs. to the square foot, so completely prevents the entrance of any air to the interior, that fermentation is produced in exactly the same way as when the hay is in a pit. The external surface is sacrificed, but by plunging the hand in the interior, we find that below the crust, which is only from six to eight inches in thickness, the quality of the ensilage is quite as good as that of the pits. It seems that the whole apparatus only costs 18_l._ I am quite determined to offer one to the first of my farmers who asks me to rebuild his barn.

After lunch Mr. Thompson again harnessed his dog-cart in order to show me the neighbourhood. It appears that we are in the most fertile part of Ireland. And in fact the land is very superior to any other that I have seen at present. However, even here, agriculture has been unremunerative for a long time. And therefore all the landowners are endeavouring to restrict it as much as possible in order to increase the cattle breeding, which is the only thing now likely to produce good results. But to do this it is necessary to reduce the number of farms, and this exasperates the population; here, in fact, as elsewhere, fathers are quite determined to divide their farms amongst their children, and this be it understood without the landlord’s authority. They can, therefore, scarcely produce enough food for themselves from the land.

All great undertakings succeed. Horse-breeding produces extremely good results. The best horses in Ireland come from here. Every moment as we drive along the highway we see fine brood mares, which, on hearing the carriage, rush at full speed from the other end of the pastures to see us pass. We went into two or three farms to look at the colts; they were playing with the children in the yards. Mr. Thompson described a little scene to me that he had lately witnessed. He had been to see a filly that had been recommended to him, and that he wished to buy for his sister.

“Ah! it is a pretty creature, your honour,” said the farmer, leading his visitor up to the animal which was lying at the foot of a tree; “and besides, it is just the horse for a lady to hunt.”

“We shall see,” replied Mr. Thompson, continuing to advance; “is she good tempered?”

“Ah, your honour, is she good tempered! She is as quiet as a lamb! My daughter Kathleen will tell you so, they play together all day!”

Kathleen, a fine handsome girl of sixteen or seventeen, who listened to the conversation with great interest, made an affirmative gesture when thus appealed to as a witness.

“Really,” said Mr. Thompson, laughingly turning towards her; “do you ride her?”

“You shall see.”

And the young girl sprang upon the mare’s back as she rose to her feet. The frightened filly started off at a gallop. The girl standing, her hair flying in the wind, her arms stretched out to aid her balance, her body leaning forward, her little bare feet clinging to the filly’s back, allowed herself to be carried round like a circus rider. She remained there during three or four rounds, and then feeling herself about to fall, she sprang lightly to the ground and returned laughing to her father quite proud of her freak. What a pretty subject for a picture!

Amongst us, every where, except in Normandy and in a few country houses in other parts of France, the stable arrangements are deplorable. Here, on the contrary, even in the most miserable farms that we visited, they are wonderfully complete for securing the well-being of the horses. Loose boxes are very general. The use of straw as litter would be very difficult and very dear, since we may say that scarcely any wheat is grown; it is always replaced by a mossy turf, which is first thoroughly dried and is then reduced to powder by the stamping of the horses. This litter appears excellent in every respect. It forms very soft standing for the feet, and a good bed; there is no dust, and cleanliness is secured by a simple stroke of the rake. Besides, the turf once reduced to a pulverised state is so absorbent that one cannot detect the faintest smell. I noticed that the other night at Sir Croker Barrington’s, and I have been struck with it again to-day when visiting a stallion’s stable. One thing appears very singular to me; I am told that all the turf used is imported from Germany, being found superior to anything in this country for the purpose. The loss is so little that in spite of the money spent in carriage the expenses are very small. There are many places in France where turf is most abundant, but I have never yet seen any used in this way in our own country.

In the villages and on the roads we continually pass long lines of horses fastened one behind the other and led by a man who rides the leader. They are returning from the fair at Cahirmee which ended to-day; it is the most important in the south of Ireland. The farmers tell us that they saw seven or eight French dealers there. They ought to have done a good business, for the sales were bad, only weight-carrying hunters fetched a good price. A stout priest passed in his cassock, his legs encased in black leggings, mounted on a good cob, and complacently eyeing a superb filly which a ragged urchin was leading in front of him. He was pointed out to us as the victor of the day. His filly won the first prize at the show. He refused 250_l._ for her.

These prices are quite exceptional. However, I think that this crisis is less felt here than with us. Horses were shown to me that had been sold for 90_l._ or 100_l._ which would certainly not have fetched the same money at the last fair at Guibray; but on an average the carriage horses are not at all better than those we see in the Normandy markets. On the other hand, saddle horses are certainly superior and are yet sold very cheaply. Mr. Thompson took me to see a lady, who showed us a very handsome little mare, five years old, a wonderful jumper, beautifully groomed, which had been just brought back from the fair unsold, although only 45_l._ were asked for her. How small the world is! We entered the lady’s house quite accidentally, and after five minutes’ conversation we discovered that we had already met twenty years before, when she was quite a little girl and I was a middy. Our meeting had taken place at Siam.

Every one confirms what I already suspected, that horse-breeding is in its decadence here as well as in England. Formerly the English were greatly in advance of us in rearing carriage horses. Now they have nothing equal to our Anglo-Norman horse, and of this I have just received a most convincing proof. The Americans are now endeavouring to create a race of carriage horses in their country, that are to be elegant and yet a little taller and stouter than their present breeds. They come to Caen to purchase their studs. A train of thirty-five was sent over from there quite recently. If they had formed the same wish thirty or forty years ago, they would not for one instant have dreamed of seeking the horses they required from us. Why have we remained behind England for so long? In order to have good horses we must have good pastures, a good climate, and above all the assurance of a remunerative sale. Now, our pasturage is quite equal to theirs, and our climate is infinitely better; if then our breeders could not compete with theirs it is only because they did not obtain a sufficiently high price for their productions. I have a very clever friend with whom I have often talked over this subject, and who clearly explains why English horse raising is so much more flourishing than our own. He asserts that we have no reason to blush for this retrospective inferiority, and that, on the contrary, we may feel proud of it, for it proceeded from a purely moral cause. The superiority of English horse-breeding was, according to him, entirely due to the extraordinary way in which the English manage their love affairs. Every one knows that, during the whole of the last and even during the early part of the present century, English ladies were extremely frivolous. In France, when a marquise selected a lover, it never occurred to them that it was necessary to scour the high roads together in order to assure each other of their affection. On the contrary, when an Englishwoman felt that she could not offer a prolonged resistance to some gallant colonel, she did not throw herself into his arms, but into a post-chaise drawn by the four best horses money would procure in the neighbourhood. Custom exacted that, as soon as the husband had discovered to which point of the compass his guilty wife and her lover had fled, he should also procure four horses, equally good, for their pursuit; and thus as the mischievous little god, who is so sedentary with us, only appeared in English homes with the attributes of a postilion, one sees at a glance the connection between these strange customs and the production of light carriage horses. Lovers are always liberal, and if those who followed them wished for any chance of stopping their flight, they were obliged to equal them in that respect. Post-masters who had the reputation of owning excellent horses made their fortunes at once. Lovers came even from a distance to elope from their neighbourhood. Competition intervened, and they became willing to pay any price for a pair of horses which could secure a large custom. Moralists should deplore these things; horse-breeders can only regret them. If the Norfolk trotters acquired such high reputations, was it because the ladies of that county lamentably compromised their own?

All this ceased with the accession of Queen Victoria. England became virtuous. No woman dared to elope, for she knew she would not be received at Court afterwards; the postilions became stout, the old trotters became broken-winded and were not replaced; the breeders, reduced like their colleagues in France to the custom of the public coaches, soon discovered that they could not afford to make the same sacrifices as before, and their productions degenerated. Have they any chance of seeing their ancient prosperity restored? It is very improbable. With advancing years her majesty has ceased to watch over the English ladies so carefully, and it is said that their moral standard is considerably lower. If we may believe some recent law reports, they can enter into elopements with as much spirit as their grandmothers. But they no longer have recourse to a post-chaise, and this return to ancient custom can now benefit only railways and steamers. This is my learned friend’s theory. I have tried my best to explain it in the interest of science. But I leave him all the responsibility of it and all the honour.

Mr. Thompson exaggerated greatly when he spoke to me of the privations I should be obliged to submit to when sharing the life of a boycotted landlord. In default of the leg of mutton which he had been forced to leave in Miss McCarthy’s rather red hands, rabbits from the park, poultry from the yard, and vegetables from the garden, furnished materials for a dinner that an old _cordon bleu_, who had remained faithful to his master even in boycottage, rendered excellent. I said the other day when speaking of the manner in which Irishwomen prepare their husbands’ meals, that I believed they have little taste for cooking; I perhaps spoke rather too hastily. Their taste is not sufficiently developed, but it exists. This is another good side to the national character; I even think that if the nations were to be arranged in the order of their culinary aptitudes, the Irish would take a very honourable rank. Professors affirm that it is to them we owe that excellent combination our fathers appreciated under the name of haricot mutton, and that ignorant practitioners of our epoch call _navarin_. It seems that from the earliest ages this dish has been known in Ireland as Irish stew. According to the same authorities, the recipe was brought to St. Germain by King James’s cooks, who took refuge in France with their master after the disaster of the Boyne; and that by diffusing it amongst us they acknowledged our country’s hospitality. If this be true, here is a new instance of the consoling truth, that a kind action is never lost.

Perhaps, however, to be absolutely impartial we should temper this praise by some criticism. Irishmen are volatile and little observant. These faults, which injure their politics, have also a regrettable influence over their cooking. Thus the affinities, secret, yet so close, between a duck and turnips seems to have escaped their notice. During my sojourn in Ireland I was able to prove that the country produces numbers of excellent ducks, and an abundance of most succulent turnips. But the palmipede always appeared separated from the vegetable, and I never was lucky enough to find united on the same dish these two elements, although, when combined, nature has rendered them so rich in gastronomic delights.

An organisation so powerful and complicated as the Land League necessarily appears under very different aspects when one studies it in the different centres where it works. At Dublin I saw some of the men who composed the managing body, and they spoke to me about the general direction of the movement. At Kenmare I found it weakened by a combination of circumstances which contributed, if not to paralyse it, at least to prevent it from pushing things to extremities. With Lord Cloncurry and in the neighbourhood of Ballinacourty the situation was more strained already. There the League found favourable soil, its evolution was able to pass through each of its successive phases; I am now, at this moment, in a fully boycotted county. I wished to ascertain the state of feeling amongst a population subject to such a rule, and particularly that of the secondary personages who are charged with carrying out the instructions of the directing committee. Mr. Thompson gave me every facility for this work, by this evening confiding to me as I was leaving him, a thick bundle of documents relative to his boycottage--a bundle which he wished to carry to my room himself, for he was unwilling I should ascend the staircase alone. And, indeed, this staircase is an interesting monument. Four years ago it was being repaired, the workmen had taken off the balustrade on the very day the boycotting was declared. From that time it has been impossible to get it replaced!

It would be very difficult to deny that the movement is Socialistic, if not in its end, at least by the means it employs for its success. Evidently the principal leaders have deliberately made up their minds. But the others, do they know what they are doing? I do not believe so, for here is an extract from a speech pronounced at the great meeting which I alluded to above, the one that assembled when Mr. Thompson sent to the Cork Union to get his grass mown.

“What the Land League requires,” said the orator, “is to succeed in making the State dispossess the landlords in consideration of a fair indemnity, in order that afterwards the State may give the land to the tenants, making them repay the advances and the interest by means of successive annuities. Some people say that acting in this way is Socialism, but the Irish protest against such accusations. If we were Socialists, we should agree with Gambetta, that faithless man who spoke against us, when, throughout Europe, we had only friends. We should agree with the Parisian communists! those wretches who know neither justice nor virtue, who dyed their hands with the blood of an archbishop! (prolonged groans!) who were not ashamed to destroy the monument erected to celebrate their fathers’ victories! We have no more sympathy for them than they have for us! (Immense acclamations.) No! we are not Socialists because we demand the dispossession of the landlords! If this idea were Socialistic, it would not be approved of by the newspaper published under the shadow of the Vatican.”

The speaker was Father McCarthy, the parish priest of a neighbouring village; but now here are the expressions of one of his colleagues, Father Sheehy:--

“Have not all these people, the Thompsons, the X----s, retained all the best land of the country for already too long a time, my friends? And what is left for all of you?--the right to go and die of hunger in the workhouse.

“The office in which Mr. Thompson receives his slaves resembles a prison.

“He speaks to his tenants through his office-wicket, for he is a coward who has not courage to look them in the face.”

Now it is Mr. W. H. O’Sullivan’s turn. Mr. O’Sullivan is the spirit-dealer, the member of Parliament whom we met to-day.

“I am going to read you some clauses from the lease they are trying to impose upon some of the tenants in the neighbourhood. This is a very interesting document, judge for yourselves:

“First, it is stipulated that the tenant cannot plough either of his fields without the landlord’s written permission. (Groans.) It then says that each year the farmer must lay down in grass a certain portion of the land which is given him in plough. (Violent groans.) The next clause forbids the tenant to sell his straw or hay. Everything should be consumed on the farm. (Explosion of murmurs.) Then come the following items [bonds]:--The tenant must preserve all the buildings given to him in their present condition, he is forbidden to let any of the outbuildings as dwelling-houses; he must keep and give them up in good repair; lastly, the taxes are all to be paid by him.” (Prolonged murmurs, cries, and howls.)

Oh! French landowners, unlucky brethren! Who amongst you, on consulting his lease, will not find, one after the other, all these clauses? When you discuss them with your tenants, does conscience warn you that you are committing an infamous act? I am a little reassured on the point, because for the last three or four years, the Government, which is the very essence of morality, since it is Republican, sends us every summer agricultural professors, who recommend us to transform all our lands into meadows.

After the meeting, Fathers McCarthy and McSheehy probably went home with Mr. O’Sullivan, and, whilst taking a glass of something on this honourable merchant’s counter, the three orators mutually congratulated themselves on their success. They had reason to do so in some respects. As rhetorical amplifications their speeches were pretty good. Only when they assert that they have nothing in common with the Socialists, is it wise to tell two or three thousand peasants, all more or less doing badly in money matters, that their poverty is the result of Mr. Thompson and others detaining for such a long time the land that ought to be given to them?

I have only to continue reading the bundle to ascertain the effect produced. The newspaper cuttings are arranged in chronological order; unfortunately, they are not all dated. I cannot, therefore, give the dates quite precisely, but evidently very little time had elapsed between this meeting and the facts stated here.

This is what first happened at New Pallas. There is a farm about half a mile from the railway station, from which a man named Bourke had been sent away. The landlord could not find a new tenant; but since, every night, men ravaged his land, he demanded protection from the police. The authorities decided that they would erect a block-house, plated with sheet-iron, in which they could place a permanent garrison of five constables. The farm buildings were not sufficiently strong for their security.

The sheet-iron arrived at the station, but it was impossible to get it carried to the farm; no one in the country would undertake to do it. It was decided to obtain an artillery waggon from Dublin, and the accounts which reached the authorities denoted so much popular excitement that it appeared necessary to send an escort also. Half a battery of artillery started for the estate; a squadron of the 7th Hussars, one hundred and fifty men of the 9th Foot, and a detachment of constables, brought the effective total to five hundred men. They all met at the station after a convergent movement, which did great credit to the military skill of the chief of the expedition, and succeeded in transporting an iron hut, that filled one cart, five-eighths of a mile! The Government newspapers loudly congratulated themselves on the success of the operation.

During this time a permanent garrison was established at Mr. Thompson’s. It at first consisted of seventy-five men, but after some time the numbers were reduced. They were not too much bored, for they had plenty to do. Every morning, four men and one corporal, all well armed, were ordered on duty to escort the milkmaid when she went to milk the cows. The detachment which proceeded to the station for letters and parcels, was commanded by a sergeant, and flanked the whole way. It was exactly like a besieged town. Still, the Land League sentinels never left the gate, and on their side watched with the greatest vigilance. Nevertheless, once or twice the blockade was run. A reporter of the _Daily News_, who came expressly from England to keep the readers of his paper well informed about the operations of the siege, thus describes it:--

“_December 25th, Christmas Day._--Yesterday evening, great excitement. Darkness had fallen upon us, when the dogs commenced to bark, and suddenly we saw a woman mysteriously issue from a clump of trees and approach the door, marching so softly that one might have fancied her a ghost! She carried hidden beneath her shawl an enormous Christmas cake, still hot, which a kind neighbour had sent us, but, naturally, I must not mention his name. We had obtained this windfall through his noticing, as he passed the gate, that the sentinels’ watch was not nearly so keen as usual thanks, probably, to the numerous libations they had indulged in whilst celebrating the festival. He at once took advantage of the fact to entrust this brave little woman with the commission she so skilfully executed. I hope she was not seen during her retreat, for neither she nor her husband would then be able to remain in the country.”

It was on Christmas Day, 1880, that the _Daily News_ reporter wrote this letter. From the 13th July, 1886 the Land League has ceased placing sentinels at Mr. Thompson’s gate, but the boycotting is still strong enough to prevent Miss McCarthy from selling him a leg of mutton. There is an improvement, but the improvement progresses very slowly.

I do not only find newspaper cuttings in the bundle. It also contains a file of letters; they are all signed “Captain Moonlight.” But this is a generic name, for the letters evidently come from different people. The Irish revolutionists are not revolutionists like ours. With us every generation insists on working in its own way. In Ireland, on the contrary, they are careful to conform exactly to the old customs. The stock-in-trade of accessories of every conspiracy that respects itself still includes the mask, the dagger, and the blunderbuss which are completely out of fashion amongst us since the time of the _Carbonari_ of the Restoration. Anonymous letters are one of their dearest traditions. Landowners are continually receiving them. They invariably enumerate the different measures which will be adopted to hasten the unfortunate recipient’s departure from this life. It is imperative that a little explanatory drawing should accompany the text, because they must guard against the possibility of the victim being illiterate. This necessity, imposed by custom, is evidently embarrassing even to the conspirators. It is a stumbling-block to those Captains “Moonlight” who have no talent for drawing. One of Mr. Thompson’s correspondents had, however, found an ingenious method of evading the difficulty. Here is a description of one of these documents. I am looking at it while I write:

At the head of the sheet of paper there is a drawing belonging to that _naïve_ school which amongst us is especially reserved for illustrating Latin dictionaries with _pierrot pendu_ (hanging clowns). However, we can easily distinguish that the first drawing represents a gun, with its bayonet. But below there is a combination of strokes and blots which it is absolutely impossible to make anything of. Happily the artist, obeying a sentiment of praiseworthy modesty, and understanding the deficiency of his talent, has put an explanatory note at the side of each vignette. By the side of the first there is in parentheses “gun;” at the right of the second, “bombshell.” The text at least, in default of other merit, had that of conciseness. It only consisted of two lines--

“Beware of the above, lads!
Ireland for the Irish!”

The author was probably proud of his work. However, we must own that the general effect would be better if the drawings were more intelligible. If I had the honour of being admitted into the councils of the Land League I should suggest that instead of relying upon the artistic sense of inferior agents, they should distribute amongst them papers already engraved with pictures of coffins, cross-bones, guns, gibbets, and bombshells, since they appear to be the necessary accessories of a style of literature from which the League evidently expects great results, since it encourages it so much.