against the house
was the march from Falcarragh some time ago of a mob of young men, who
promptly withdrew on catching sight of half-a-dozen policemen within the
park gates. As to getting his work done, some of his people had steadily
refused to acknowledge the "boycott," and they were now strengthened by
the attitude of those who had surrendered to the pressure, and were now
sullen and angry with the League which had given them nothing to do, and
no supplies.

At Falcarragh we met a person who knew much about the late Lord Leitrim,
who was murdered in this neighbourhood on the highway some years ago. He
spoke freely of the murderer by name, as if it were matter of common
notoriety. Of the murdered man, he said that he had made himself
extremely unpopular and odious, not so much by certain immoralities
freely alleged at the time of his death, as by vexatious meddling with
the prejudices and whims of his tenants. "He used to go into the houses
and pull down cartoons and placards, if he saw them put up on the
walls." "No! he had no party feeling in the matter; he used to pull down
William III. and the Pope with an equal hand." It seems that in this
region, too, a local legend has grown up of the birth at a place called
Cashelmore of a "Queen of France." The case is worth noting as throwing
light on the genesis and accuracy of local traditions. The "Queen of
France" referred to proves, on inquiry, to have been Miss Patterson, who
married Jerome Bonaparte, brother of the first Emperor, afterwards
created by him King of Westphalia! This Avas the lady so well known in
America as Mrs. Patterson Bonaparte of Baltimore, who died at a great
age only a few years ago. I have no reason to suppose that she was born
at Cashelmore at all or in Ireland. But her father, reputed in the time
of Washington to be the richest man in the United States, who came from
the North of Ireland and settled in Baltimore as a merchant, may very
well have been born there.

To my great regret Father M'Fadden of Glena, or Falcarragh, was absent
from home. As we drove homeward we met on the way a young lady on a
smart jaunting-car, with a servant in livery. This was the daughter, our
driver told us, of Mr. Griffiths, the Protestant clergyman, past whose
residence our road lay. His church stands high upon a commanding cliff,
and is a feature in the landscape. We met the parson himself also,
walking with a friend. The road from Bedlam to Derrybeg goes by a r