as he looked down from the mountainside
upon its bounteous corn-fields and pastures:
"Soldiers, this is a land worth fighting for!"
Here might the stranger, who visited the land
for the first time say: "Here, surely, might
men live, prosperous, peaceful, contented,
happy." Yet will I venture to say that, on this
belt of land, more crimes of the species called
agrarian, more bloody and daring deeds, have
been done than in all Ireland besides. We
frequently hear of what are called "the Tipperary
murders"—a localisation of criminal repute
which is, doubtless, due to the character which
the Tipperary peasantry bear for reckless hardihood;
but I believe that, if a careful examination
of the criminal statistics were made, it would
be found that the majority of these agrarian
outrages during the last half century have been
committed in the great pastoral county of
Limerick. These outrages are purely "agrarian"
and in no way "religious;" in fact, in that
region, where the peasantry are nearly all of
the same creed, the great majority of the victims
of agrarian outrage have been Roman Catholics.

It is well known that the two persons recently
murdered in Tipperary were both of the religion
of the peasantry; and the mention of this fact
calls to my memory a dreadful murder committed
in the county of Limerick forty-one years ago, of
which a Roman Catholic priest was the victim.

It was in the year 1821. The name of the
priest was Mulqueen. At that time, secret
combinations of the peasantry, bound by oaths, and
bearing the most grotesque titles, were numerous
in the country. They committed deeds of the
most desperate daring, crimes of the most
horrible ferocity, and none were safe from their
vengeance. In one case, a wealthy yeoman, a tithe-
proctor, but yet a Catholic (for the Protestant
clergy were wont at that time to farm out their
tithes to the highest bidder), was murdered on
his own hearthstone; in another instance, an
entire family were burned to death within the
walls of their own home, while the yelling crowd
surrounded the place to prevent the escape of
any from the flames.

Father Mulqueen was riding homeward at
midnight from a sick call. His reverence was
an Irish priest of the old school—a race
of men now quite extinct, of whose benevolence,
piety, moderation, and tolerance, their
Protestant contemporaries recorded their
sincere admiration. The priest was riding home,
easily jogging along upon his sleek mare, when
at a turn of the road he encountered a gang of
men, armed with various weapons, and wearing
rude and grotesque disguises.

"God save you, boys!" was his salute.

"God save your reverence!" was the reply.
They knew him well.

"Where are you all going at this hour?"

"Musha, to have a bit of sport."

"Ah, boys!" said the priest, solemnly, "I
know where you are going."

"And might we be after asking your reverence
where is that?"

"To the gallows-tree. I know the wicked
mission you're upon, and I tell you that there is
not one of you following out this course of crime
who will not meet a violent death. Be warned
in time."

A surly answer followed, and a hint that his
wisest and safest course would be to mind his own
business and go home.

"No, boys," said the pastor, "this is my
business—to warn you against crime, for the sake
of your poor souls, and to denounce God's
vengeance against the criminal. In the name of God,
I implore of you to give up your wicked purposes
to-night, and return to your own homes.
Poor foolish creatures, you fancy you are
disguised! Why, there is not one of you before
me that isn't as well known to me as if the
noon–day sun were shining this moment."

"Then!" (with an oath) exclaimed one ruffian,
stepping forward, "your reverence knows too
much to make it safe that you should live."

As he spoke, he deliberately raised his gun
and shot the priest through the heart. The
corpse of the murdered clergyman was found
stretched upon the road next morning. It will
be observed how little sectarian animosity had to
do with this awful crime—how little that deep
reverence for the priestly character, which
signally characterises the Irish peasantry, availed to
save this unfortunate gentleman from the
consequences of his dangerous knowledge.

Let me recal one terrible example of the
cruel vengeance which those peasant-assassins
were sometimes known to execute. We know
that in the county Limerick, the other day, Mr.
Fitzgerald, a local landlord, a young man newly
married, was, in the open day, and on the public
highway, murdered in the arms of his young wife.

Well! In the year 1816 there lived in this same
county, a certain Major Hoskins, agent to more
than one absentee landlord. He was a stern
and severe man, proud, harsh, and overbearing.
With a peasantry like the Irish, kindliness of
speech goes almost as far as generosity of deed.
Now, Hoskins had none of the outer
characteristics which conciliate public favour. He was
cold and repellant; he was haughty, imperious,
and exacting; he never tried to conceal the
contempt he felt for the peasantry among
whom his lot was cast. There was many a
spendthrift landlord of that day whose
extravagance was bringing ruin on himself and his
tenantry, and yet who, by genial kindness of
manner, won, and retained to the last, the rough
admiration and affection of the very peasants
whom he was dragging along to a common ruin:
you read of such things in the history of the
period. Hoskins may, possibly, have been
rigorously just: you meet those dark and stern
men not seldom, who sacrifice everything to
what they call their sense of justice. Hoskins
made no friends and earned no love amongst
that impulsive peasantry.

This gentleman had an only son, who seemed
born to bring out the dark and stem shades of
his father's temper more strongly, by absolute
contrast of character. He was a bright joyous
loving and lovable boy, and everybody's