We leave Baron’s Court in an hour for Dublin, whence I go on alone to-night into Queen’s County.

CHAPTER IV.

ABBEYLEIX, Sunday, Feb. 12.—­Newtown-Stewart, through which I drove yesterday afternoon with Lord Ernest to the train, is a prettily situated town, with the ruins of a castle in which James II. slept for a night on his flight to France.  He was cordially received, and by way of showing his satisfaction left the little town in flames when he departed.  Here appears to be a case, not of rack-renting, but of absenteeism.  The town belongs to a landlord who lives in Paris, and rarely, if ever, comes here.  There are no improvements—­no sanitation—­but the inhabitants make no complaint.  “Absenteeism” has its compensations as well as its disadvantages.  They pay low rents, and are little troubled; the landlord drawing, perhaps, L400 a year from the whole place.  The houses are small, though neat enough in appearance, but the town has a sleepy, inert look.  On the railway between Dundalk and Newry, we passed a spot known by the ominous name of “The Hill of the Seven Murders,” seven agents having been murdered there since 1840!  I suppose this must be set down to the force of habit.  At Newry a cavalry officer whom Lord Ernest knew got into our carriage.  He was full of hunting, and mentioned a place to which he was going as a “very fine country.”

“From the point of view of the picturesque?” I asked.

“Oh no! from the point of view of falling off your horse!”

At Maple’s Hotel I found a most hospitable telegram, insisting that I should give up my intention of spending the night at Maryborough, and come on to this lovely place in my host’s carriage, which would be sent to meet me at that station.  I left Kingsbridge Station in Dublin about 7 P.M.  We had rather a long train, and I observed a number of people talking together about one of the carriages before we started; but there was no crowd at all, and nothing to attract special attention.  As we moved out of the station, some lads at the end of the platform set up a cheer.  We ran on quietly till we reached Kildare.  There quite a gathering awaited our arrival on the platform, and as we slowed up, a cry went up from among them of, “Hurrah for Mooney! hurrah for Mooney!” The train stopped just as this cry swelled most loudly, when to my surprise a tall man in the gathering caught one or two of the people by the shoulder, shaking them, and called out loudly, “Hurrah for Gilhooly—­you fools, hurrah for Gilhooly!”

This morning I learned that I had the honour, unwittingly, of travelling from Dublin to Maryborough with Mr. Gilhooly, M.P., who appears to have been arrested in London on Friday, brought over yesterday by the day train, and sent on at once from Dublin to his destined dungeon.