with only one man to help him to look after them.
Thirty odd herds, labourers, and other dependents have left Maryfort.
Only three maid-servants, the old man at the gate, and another man now
remain, and even the housemaid, who is Irish and a Roman Catholic,
must be guarded to and from mass, amid the yells of the natives. It
must be remembered that Maryfort is a lonely place, three miles from a
post-office, and three times that distance from a railway station;
that it is no light matter to send in and out for letters and parcels;
and the emissary would, if unarmed, assuredly be stopped, if not
maltreated. This difficulty of getting letters and fresh joints has
been met in the latter case by falling back upon patriarchal customs.
As Colonel O'Callaghan can neither sell his sheep nor buy mutton, he
has taken to consuming his flock, albeit a sheep is a large animal to
kill in a small family, and but for the winter weather the loss would
be very great.

There is another annoyance--the risk of valuable cattle being houghed
or otherwise mutilated; a risk calling for incessant watchfulness.
That it is not of an imaginary nature is demonstrated by the fact that
the tails were cut off of two of Mrs. Westropp's cows a few nights
since, and a threatening letter, savagely coarse and brutal in its
wording, was sent to that lady. There is no doubt about this, for I
have seen the letter, in which reference is made to the cows and
brutal treatment promised to Mrs. Westropp, a widow of small property.

The difficulty concerning letters, which it seems the postmaster at
Callaghan's Mills is not compelled to deliver at Maryfort, is got over
in another way. As we are discussing the question of supply, there
enters to us a lady dressed in walking costume of studied simplicity.
This is the terrible Mrs. O'Callaghan, of whom I had heard wonderful
stories in Clare and Limerick; "And begorra," said one informant,
"it's herself that's a divil of a lady entoirely, and she shoots
rabbuts wid a rifle at three hundred yards and niver misses, and she
tould 'um at the village that she'd as soon shoot one of 'um as a
rabbut, and she is the sisther of Misthress Dick Stacpoole, of
Edenvale. They was the Miss Westropps, your honour, out of county
Limerick, and it is thim as makes their husbands the tyrants that they
are." This account made me wonder at two things--firstly, at the
astounding power of lying and exaggeration displayed by my
interlocutor; a