l not convict, no matter what the
crime. Before he commences his career of crime, the moonlight marauder
knows the chances of being caught are immensely in his favour, that
should luck in this matter be against him, his very victim will
decline to identify him, nay, will affirm that he is not the man, and
that when the worst comes to the worst, no jury in the counties of
Kerry, Clare, or Limerick will convict.

Here are some results of my researches. The particulars of these cases
now first appear in print.

A man named James Dore, who keeps a public-house in Bridge Street,
Newcastlewest--I can vouch for his beer--also held a small farm of
forty-nine acres from the Earl of Devon, for which he paid the modest
rent of L11 10s. per annum--the land maintaining sixteen cows and
calves, which, on the usual local computation of L10 profit on each
cow, would leave a gain of L148 10s.--not a bad investment, as Irish
farming goes. So it was considered, and when the tenant-right was
announced as for sale by auction, two cousins of Dore, who held farms
contiguous, agreed to jointly bid for the tenant-right, and having
secured the land, to arrange its partition between themselves. They
went to L400, but this was not regarded as enough, and the
tenant-right was for a specified time held over for purchase by
private agreement. A farmer named William Quirke offered L590, which
was accepted, and the money paid. After this, the two cousins came
forward and said they would purchase the tenant-right, offering L40
more than Quirke had paid. They were told that they were too late, and
the Earl's agent (Mr. Curling) said nothing could now be done. This
was on the 13th of the present month of April. On the 14th, Mr. James
Cooke, Lord Devon's bailiff, was seen showing the purchaser Quirke
over the newly-acquired holding. Poor Quirke little knew what was at
that moment hanging over him. He had not long to wait. The dastard
demon of moonlight ruffianism was on his track.

Quirke had a son aged fourteen years, but looking two years younger, a
simple peasant lad, who cannot have injured his country very much. He
was tending a cow, which required watching, his father and mother
taking their rest while the child sat out the lonely hours in the
cowhouse. He heard something, and listened with all his ears. Not
voices, but a subdued whispering. It was the dead hour of night, two
or half-past two, and the boy was frightened. The place is lonely,
seve