tournament by those celebrated Irish knights of
the cue, Messrs. Phelan, Cavanagh, Tieman, and
Foley;" while mere sight-seers might have the
gratification of visiting Colonel White's museum,
where "they will see two millions of curiosities,
including the invisible lady."

All this sounds very comical, but there is a
tragic side of it, not, indeed, for England, but
for the warm-hearted people among the untaught
masses of Ireland, who are thus misled. The
Fenian chiefs are themselves no better taught
than the majority of sharpers. They write about
"blessings and boquets," and "auxilliary
entertainments," and everywhere, in distorted ill-spelt
language, scatter their wicked perversions of
the truth. What Irishman of moderate intelligence
does not know how heartily England strove
to allay the distresses of the Irish famine of
1847-8, yet thus a "smart" Fenian ventures to
play on the credulity of his poor victims:

"England, with the cold, malignant ingenuity
of an incarnate fiend, has laid down the sword
for the famine, and the fire for the pestilence, and
with these agents, these purely English agents,
has now reduced our destruction to the certainty
of a mathematical problem. Four or five years
of such successful famine as 1847-8 would have
rid England of all her troubles. But the
destruction was too horrible. The world stood
appalled at a whole nation perishing of want in
the midst of plenty, and the plan was modified
to suit the advanced civilisation of the age, and
at the present rate it will take fourteen or fifteen
years to blot the Irish race from its native land.
Oh! countrymen, it was not thus in the days
when the men of Ireland, with their keen battle-
axes and trusty swords, defended the fields they
cultivated and manured them with the corpses
of the invaders."

Eighty years ago, Sir Jonah Barrington said of
his countrymen, that "nine-tenths of the whole
population would rather fight than let it alone."
And the love of fighting somebody or anybody,
still appears stronger in Irishmen in Ireland
than it does elsewhere; no matter when or where
or what about, they are always ready. One the
other day knocked down his comrade without
provocation, and on being asked by him, "Pat,
what did you strike me for?" replied, "Shure,
Mick, and ef I struck you myself, I wouldn't
let any other man do it." One may observe
them at either race, or fair, or pattern, sitting
as uncomfortable as possible when all is quiet,
turning suddenly at the slightest noise, as
if it might be the happy forerunner of a blow,
and apparently grudging every minute that slips
by, as if they thought it was all lost time when
not

Fighting like devils for conciliation,
And hating each other for the love of God.

In days gone past we had Ribbonmen and
Whiteboys, with their Captains "Starlight,"
"Moonlight," and other more ominous names,
and now we hear of the drilling that goes on
after dark in different parts of Ireland, sticks
representing muskets, with which Fenian volunteers
go through the "manual and platoon
exercise," march and counter-march, form line,
and from that close column, and then deploy
again. We all know that in the month of
February, Irishmen were dressed in American
uniforms, that they showed themselves so attired
in public, and were said to be members of the
Fenian Brotherhood, and there are thousands of
men, Fenians at heart, who did not appear in
uniform. We know, also, that hundreds have
been drilling in various parts of the south of
Ireland, and when more offensive weapons are
convenient, the former drilling with shillelaghs
will render them certainly the more dangerous.
The Dublin correspondent of the Times wrote
on the 23rd February: "I learn that a number
of the most intelligent and respectable among
the mechanics in this city are enrolled in the
'Brotherhood of St. Patrick,' and they are
avowedly training an army to co-operate with
the Americans when they come to invade this
country." True as it is that no Fenian army,
even if it sailed from the American shores,
would ever reach this side of the Atlantic, it is
not folly to see and lament that these poor men
have become tools of designing fanatics.

All that the Irish Fenians require to make
them able to do much murder is a stock of
ammunition, and two or three thousand muskets.
There might then be mischief enough done
within any twenty-four hours, for plenty of
powder and guns are within reach, and to be
had almost for the fetching.

Should the stranger, after seeing the principal
sights of Dublin, feel inclined to have a closer
look at the harbour defence, he can get on a car
at the Monument in Sackville-street, cross over
Carlisle Bridge, pass the theatres, and on to
Irishtown, through Ring's End, after which he
will be driven over a narrow road, on a long
spit of land which runs into the sea for about a
mile and a half, and where it widens, a little
near the extremity, he will find the Pigeon
House Fort. When he gets near to the fort he
will observe upon his left the remains of H.M.S.
Mermaid, brought here from Portsmouth, cut
down and converted into a store. Then comes
a row of wooden palisading, and next a
draw-bridge, crossing which, and passing under a
gateway, he will find himself in a small courtyard,
with cannon pointed, commanding the
road he has come; then through another gateway,
and he will be in an oblong square, where
he will find a flagstaff and a couple of thirty-two
pounders. The ball-alley, canteen, and barracks,
are on the right, further on is a long building.
Beyond that again is a large yard, girt by iron
railings, in the centre of which are piled shot of
all sizes, and cannon of nearly every calibre lie
round about. Then come the officers' quarters,
a large commodious building in which no officer
lives, and next to this are the magazines, the
powder depôt for the whole of Ireland, where
there are some tons of gunpowder deposited,
also Congreve rockets, shrapnel shells, canister
and grape, and ammunition of every sort, blank
and ball, for Enfield and Whitworth rifles, and
the same for Armstrong guns. The next house