have only to reply to this logical and gentlemanly
production, that, if we frequently use
polysyllables, we mostly know the meaning of
them."

Leaving the seat of this ill-fated journal, I go
a little further, down a lane beside the
Exchange, where there is a narrow court, in which
is the police-office. Here, the two black vans
are waiting; and here, a great crowd is
gathered, and a very curious crowd: not so
much the usual unclean miscellany who wait
every day, after the "night charges" are
disposed of, to "see off" their friends who are in
trouble, but a far more respectable class, with
visible suspense and anxiety written on their
faces a kind of bewilderment that is very
characteristic. It is easy to see that these are some
of the "brotherhood," who are stunned by the
suddenness of the blow that has fallen, and who
are in a little doubt where the next blow may fall,
and are drawn by a sort of fascination to this spot.
A sight more deserving of compassion is a
gathering of women — sisters, wives, and mothers
—with faithful wistful faces, with most agonising
expressions — women, whose foolish "Pat"
or "Andy" is inside, and who has been wakened
from his childish dream of "uniforms,
independence, circles," and what not, to the cold
reality of a dirty cell and prison diet. As a
string of these "state prisoners" is led out, it
is almost amusing to see in some the faint
attempt at carrying themselves with a political
martyr air; but the one who is pointed out as
the editor of the sacked newspaper, and the
promoter of all the mischief, seems to have a
very hang-dog air indeed. The poor faithful
women press forward with extraordinary energy
and passion, with wailings and lamentations,
and clasping of hands and prayers, as the black
door closes upon each.

Walking through retired streets, before the
descent upon the degenerate Fenians of these
days, I had met large crowds gathered about
ballad-singers of the usual type, but whose
minstrelsy was of an unusual sort. The burden
of one was something to this effect:

Thin Eyer-ishmin once more sthrike home,
   And fight with heart and hand;
March to the battle's front agin,
   And sthrike for fatherland.
                  CHORUS — Thin Eyer-ishmin, &c.

Some songs of a more stirring kind enjoyed a
yet greater popularity, and "drew" a larger
audience:

THE GREEN FLAG FLYING OVER US.

Prepare, prepare with silint care,
   And trust to words no longer,
We had enough of such false stuff,
   And find we are not the stronger.
Those mountebanks who fill the ranks,
   By lying all in thorns,
Of thim beware, and still prepare.
   With the Green Flag flying ower us.

In days of yore, whin talkers bore
   A sword, like min of valour,
From every fight they led the flight,
   With base and coward trailer.
Such wreckless min, by voice and pin,
   With —— cursed and tore us;
Well strick thim dumb with fife and drum,
   With the Green Flag flying ower us.

But the picture of the enrolled host marching
to their task was better still:

THE FENIAN MEN.

See they come over the red blossomed heather,
Their green banners waving in the pure mountain air;
Heads erect, eyes to front, stepping proudly together,
Sure freedom sits throned in each proud spirit there.
                    Their columns twining,
                    Their blades still shining,
Like sparkles of beauty, they flash from each man.

There is a grim spirit of ironical prophesy in
these verses, and they must come back very
disagreeably on the patriots now incarcerated,
in small cells at the local Bridewell especially
the ringing line,

Sure freedom sits throned in each proud spirit there!

As usual, the old fondness for the theatricals
of rebellion led to detection. Every one must
have his "uniform," his arms, his rank, and his
commission. There was too much of "drilling"
and "head centres." In the year 'forty-eight,
when a similar plot was discovered, the chief of
the police, an old soldier, received information
of the enrolment of numbers of the "assistants"
in a large drapery house, and proceeded to the
establishment to arrest them. They were called
in, one by one. In the mean time their trunks
had been searched, and a large number of officers'
commissions in the new "rebel army"
discovered. The old officer, a man of dry humour,
received each with profound courtesy, addressing
them by their proper titles. "Very sorry,
Colonel Maloney, but must send you away."
"Regret so much, General, to put you to this
inconvenience, but—" Then to his policeman:
"You may remove the General." The
poor drapers were more overwhelmed by this
ironical reception, and the absurdity of the
situation, than by even the discomfiture of their
stupid little plot. It is needless to say that this
fooling — which, however, was dangerous enough
—was passed over, and that the drapers were
sent back to their cloth-yards.

It is constantly asked what is the aim, or what
has been the aim, of this "movement" — the
latest and most unlucky of all the many
movements that have disturbed Ireland. There are
two nations to which Irish eyes and Irish hearts
turn with feelings of strong and affectionate interest.
For the peasant, the idea of "the French"
seems to emoody all that is romantic and
splendid; and during the present century the
dream of French ships, and even the words
"Bantry Bay" and French uniforms, had all
the charm of a spell or a poem. No one who
has not lived among the peasantry can
conceive with what a reverence and sympathy the
name of Napoleon has been followed by them;
and it is not too much to say that, if the
present bearer of that name visited the country for
pleasure and curiosity, the enthusiasm with