rnal subject, "the state of the
country," discussed, the eye reposes complacently on the treasures
suspended from the hooks on the ceiling, plump hams and sides of
well-fed bacon giving assurance that the garrison is far from being
reduced to extremities. But there are in the kitchen other objects
less suggestive of festivity. On the round table by the central column
supporting the kitchen roof lie sundry revolvers, and nearer one of
the windows a couple of repeating rifles and the double-barrelled
carbines of the constabulary. Two members of that well-grown and well
set-up corps are seated at a corner of the dresser, deeply engrossed
in the intricacies of the mysterious game of forty-five, before which
the mind of the dull Saxon remains bewildered in hopeless incapacity.
Presently the well-thumbed pack is laid aside, and one of the
constables addresses himself to the task of closing and barring up the
shutters, thus shutting out all chance of any present being picked off
by a shot through the window, as was done when Miss Gardiner was
wounded under somewhat similar circumstances.

There is a great deal of gossip concerning the "Boycotting" of Mr.
Bence Jones, and that of the most recent victim, The Macgillicuddy of
the Reeks, whose family is well known to all present; but even the one
engrossing subject wears itself out at last. One cannot attain any
wild pitch of hilarity among bolts and bars and Winchester rifles.
Nobody appears to care for any stories but such as bear upon the
present troubles and the Fenian affair in 1867. At Kilmallock there is
no sign of song or dance; no talk of pantomimes, and what jokes are
made bear grim reference to troubles actually endured and possible
troubles to come.

By day it is by no means dreary. To begin with, the house is built on
a charming spot six miles distant from a railway station; in front and
beyond the lawn is a pretty little lake broken up by islands, making a
tender foreground for the Galtee and nearer mountains. From the
opposite side the view is equally delightful, the hills being crowned
with trees and brushwood, an unusual sight in Ireland. Down the slope
of the immense saddle-backed range lie fields of the brightest green,
divided by banks and hedges delightful to look at after the grim stone
walls of Mayo, Galway, and Clare. From behind these grassy slopes
peeps the purple crest of the distant mountains, giving grandeur to a
scene which might otherwise have been