alist leaders; but, strange to say he believes in Mr. Gladstone.
He admits that the Irish M.P.'s are not quite up to his ideal, but
believes that the Grand Old Man's genius for accommodation and
ingenious dovetailing of Imperial interests will pull the country
through. Meanwhile he lays out no penny of money.

"I am a Presbyterian, and what is more a United Presbyterian,
belonging to the Presbyter of Scotland. All Scotch Presbyterians are
advanced Radicals. We have four hundred members here. They came here
worshippers of Gladstone and Home Rulers to the tune of 97 per cent.
The congregation is now 99 per cent. Unionist or Conservative out and
out. Of the four hundred we have only three Home Rulers. What will the
English people say to that? Tell them that our minister, who came here
a Home Ruler, is now on a Unionist mission in Scotland--the Rev. Mr.
Procter, brother of Procter, the cartoonist of _Moonshine_ and the
_Sketch_, to wit. My workpeople, all steady, industrious people, ask
but one thing--it is to be let alone."

Here Mr. G.M. Roche, the great Irish wool-factor and famous amateur
photographer, said--

"Ah! we must have the bill. 'Tis all we want to finish us up. We're
never happy unless we're miserable; the bill will make us so and we'll
never be properly discontented till we get it!"

Passing through the Counties of Louth, Dublin, Londonderry, Monaghan,
Tyrone, Donegal, and Fermanagh, I met with many farmers whose
statements amply confirmed the words of the descendant of the great
Sir Boyle Roche. These unhappy men had been divested of their last
grievance, stripped of their burning wrongs, heartlessly robbed of
their long-cherished injuries. It was bad enough before, when Irishmen
had nothing except grievances, but at least they had these, handed
down from father to son, from generation to generation, along with the
family physiognomy, two precious, priceless heirlooms, remarkable as
being the only hereditary possessions upon which the brutal Saxon
failed to cast his blood-shot, covetous eye. And now the grievances
are taken away, the _Lares_ and _Penates_ of the farmer's cabin are
ruthlessly removed, and the melancholy peasant looks around for the
immaterial antiquities bequeathed by his long-lost forefathers. "Ah;
don't the days seem lank and long, When all goes right and nothing
goes wrong, And isn't our life extremely flat, When we've nothing
whatever to grumble at." The Irish farmer is with the poet,