Scotsman's
ingrained discretion, but rather the result of an ever-present fear.
English working men of directly opposite politics chum together in
good fellowship, harbouring no animosity, agreeing to differ in a
friendly way. It is not so in Ireland. The Irish labourer is
differently situated. He dare not think for himself, and to boldly
speak his mind would mean unknown misfortunes, affecting the liberty
and perhaps the lives of himself and those nearest and dearest to him.
That is, of course, assuming that his opinions were not approved by
the village ruffians who watch his every movement, of whom he stands
in deadly terror, and whom he dreads as almost divining his most
secret thoughts. A direct query as to present politics would fail in
every case. As well try to catch Thames trout with a bent pin, or
shoot snipe with a bow and arrow. My plan has been to lounge about
brandishing a big red guide-book, a broad-brimmed hat, and an American
accent; speaking of antiquities, shortest roads to famous spots,
occasionally shmoking my clay dhudeen with the foinest pisantry in the
wurruld and listening to their comments on the "moighty foine weather
we're havin', Glory be to God." They generally veer round to the
universal subject, seeking up-to-date information. Discovering my
ignorance of the question, they explain the whole matter, incidentally
disclosing their own opinions. The field workers of this district are
fairly intelligent. Most have been in England, working as harvesters,
and some of the better-informed believe that in future they will be
compelled to live in England altogether.

A fine old man, living by the roadside near Oolagh, said:--"I wint to
England for thirty-four years runnin', and to the same place, in North
Staffordshire, first wid father, thin wid son. Whin I got too ould an'
stiff I sent me own son. First it was old Micky, thin it was young
Micky. He's away four months, and brings back enough to help us thro'
the winter, thanks be to God. The other time he mostly works at the
big farrum beyant there. Whin they cut up the big farrums into little
ones, nayther meself nor Micky will get anything, by raison we're
dacent, harmless people. 'Tis the murtherin' moonlighters will get the
land, an' me son wouldn't demane himself by stoppin' in the counthry
to work for them. First 'twas the landlords dhrove us away, next
'twill be the tenants. We're bound to be slaughtered some way,
although 'twas said that w