It is now many years since I lived in Ireland, and I am told that “old times are changed, old manners gone," in the green island, where I spent a happy youth among relations and friends, most of whom have passed to the unseen world. Many of the experiences and impressions of Irish country - house life more than thirty years ago come back to me very vividly. The experiences were not sensational, the impressions may not have been always correct; but, to me at least, there is pleasure in recalling the dim shadows of the past, and thinking of the old home and its immediate surroundings as I once knew them.

Even in my youth Ireland was the happy hunting-ground of unscrupulous agitators. There was even then in many places much bitter feeling between landlords and their people; conspiracy and sedition existed on a formidable scale, and there were many reasonably justifiable railings against the Government. But the confidence and friendship between different social classes had not then been systematically and irreparably destroyed, and were often shown in kindly deeds and expressed in kindly words. Now I fear that much that was good in the past has ceased to be, much that was evil remains and has flourished.

Our home was a long, low, rambling house on a little knoll rising from the bank of a river. It had its home farm attached to it, and the farmyard and haggard were within two hundred yards, concealed from view by a clump of noble trees. There was the most

prolific garden I have ever seen, and indeed it needed to be so to supply the wants of a large family. The farmyard was full of animal life. My father was justifiably proud of his shorthorn herd, and there was every variety of poultry, my particular care. We had all the simple pleasures of the country. Cycling of course was not, and lawn-tennis even was in its early infancy; but we rather fancied ourselves at croquet and archery: my brothers hunted, shot, and played cricket, and the river was a constant friend. This river used in the early decades of the century to be rather a riotous stream, broken with sharps and rapids; but in the days of the great famine, when, with the laudable object of making work for the people, many unadvisable and useless things were done, it was ruthlessly taken in hand by the Board of Works, confined into a canal-like channel, and shorn of its wild beauty. But what it lost in one way it gained in another, for it became more available for boating; it was the scene of much amusement, where we all learned to handle canoes of every description, from an African dug-out (brought home by a sailor brother) to an English outrigger, and it was our favourite highway to the village, a mile distant. Large quantities of salmon used to run up with the tide, whose influence was felt at the end of our nearest paddock, and my father, brothers, and the old fisherman used to draw the nets twice a-day during the season. A noble sight it was to see twenty or thirty lordly fish in all their silvery beauty laid out on the turf beneath the drawing

room windows. But though we had the fishing rights within the boundaries of the little property, we were never allowed to have undisturbed enjoyment of them. Such rights have always been contested by the Irish lower classes, and can never be guarded except by such a force as we were not prepared to employ. Many poachers infested our river, and at all times it was nearly impossible to bring them to justice or to procure a conviction against them. They were very wary, and could hardly ever be surprised en flagrant délit. Their nets were heavily leaded in every part, and on the slightest alarm were allowed to sink to the bottom of the river, which in most places was nearly twelve feet deep, the poachers then scattering and concealing themselves in the thickly wooded banks. Even if the culprits were seized, it was but seldom therefore that their nets could be brought in evidence, and it gave them little trouble, when the coast was clear, to find their gear, as they of course knew to an inch where it had been sunk. These river marauders are very deeply impressed on my memory, for one of my latest recollections is that of a sad night in our household when its dearest member was sick unto death and I was watching in the dim light of early morning. I looked out of the window and saw the poaching gang stealthily drawing a net just below the house. They well knew that no one would then have the heart to say them nay, and that all the salmon that ever swam would not have induced one of the family to leave the sorrowful house at such a time.

Such as our old home was, we were very happy in it, and never cared to leave it. So stay-at-home were we that I remember an Eng

lish public schoolboy, who paid a visit to a neighbour's house where I met him, wrote to his sister saying, "There's a girl here who says she has not been in a railwaycarriage for two years. You can imagine what sort of girl she must be." Such contentedness seemed to him quite incomprehensible, though when he came to know more of our family life, I daresay he understood it better.

My father had served in the army, but when he married he took orders, and, with an interlude of a few years in an English rectory, spent the rest of his life in Ireland without the direct charge of a parish, but acting as a curate to an invalid friend, and doing regular Sunday duty in a neighbouring church. When the Irish Church was so iniquitously disestablished, my father found that under the Disestablishment Act he was legally entitled, by thus having acted for many years, to a sum of several hundred pounds as compensation for disturbance, and he made a point of pressing for the money, which he at once paid into the Sustentation Fund of the new Irish Church.

Although, as I have said, my father was an English clergyman, and had only married and settled in Ireland, he had by his perfectly honest and straightforward character acquired the complete confidence of everybody in our neighbourhood, and this was shown by the manner in which his advice was constantly asked and the trust that was reposed in his judgment, integrity, and kindness of heart. If any one thought of getting married, he was always consulted; if any one was in difficulties, it was to him that application was made for intervention or assistance. And the curious part of the matter was

that the people who tried to make him a confidential adviser were all Roman Catholics, and went to him rather than to their own priest. So far was this feeling towards my father carried that he was often asked to make the wills of his humble friends, or even to take charge of their savings with only verbal instructions how to dispose of the money when they were dead. I distinctly remember two particular cases in which he thus acted. One was in the last illness of Andy M'Gwire, the village tailor. Andy was what was called a "warm" man, and besides his business and personal property, he had saved upwards of £500. This he handed over to my father in trust for his widow and family, quite satisfied that, though no legal documents whatever were employed, the trust would be strictly observed and the testator's wishes carefully carried out. The other case was that of Patsy Farnan, a small coal-merchant with whom we dealt. One night Patsy thought his last hour had come, and he sent to ask my father to visit him immediately and make his will. My father started at once, and as there was nobody else available, he took me with him to act as a witness. had a wild walk, for Patsy's house was on the little estuary at the mouth of the river where the colliers used to unload, and was nearly surrounded by water at high tide. The will was made, and though Patsy lived a few days longer, he made no alteration in it.

We

The country-people never, if they could help it, informed their priests about their affairs or the money which they possessed. The priests used to press them most unmercifully for the good of their Church. Nobody could be christened, married, or receive the last consola

tions without paying an inordinate price, and it was from funds so raised that the many handsome Roman Catholic churches have been built in Ireland, at any rate in that part of the country which I used to know. The people feared the priests, but certainly did not love them or show their trust in them in any practical form.

Talking of priests reminds me of the Protestant clergyman of the next parish to ours. He was one of the most simple-minded of men, and though we could not help admiring his character, his sayings and doings were a source of constant amusement. A friend of ours, belonging to an old Roman Catholic family, had on her marriage with a Protestant changed her form of faith to that of her husband. When Mr Bateson heard of this he exclaimed, "Here have I been labouring for years unsuccessfully to make one convert by the sword of the Spirit, and Captain Jones has gained one without difficulty by the arm of the flesh." Again, Mr Bateson wished to sell his cow, and asked his herd how much he thought the cow was worth. The herd told him she was worth about £15, and received orders to take her to the fair. The animal was sold, and the herd came back to his master with £20, in great glee at having made such a good bargain and expecting to be much praised for his cleverness. was much astonished when his master said, "How could you be so dishonest as to sell the cow for £20, when you yourself told me she was only worth £15?" and at once ordered him to send £5 back to the purchaser.

He

There was another Protestant clergyman of a much less lovable type, though I have no doubt he was a very good and estimable

man in his way, who lived about ten miles from us. He was a particularly strict and bigoted LowChurchman and looked upon most kinds of innocent amusement with the sour eyes of an old-fashioned Calvinist, using the most unmeasured language to express his disapprobation. On one occasion, the particulars of which I do not remember, he thought it right to pour out his bitterness on one of my brothers, calling him, among other names, "a son of Belial." My brother, as a boy, did not like to retaliate in words, but complained afterwards to my father about what had been said to him and the names which he had been called. My father was smoking at the time, and taking his cigar out of his mouth, merely remarked, "No great compliment to me!"

There was a very strong, and perhaps unnecessarily ultra, vein of religious thought and expression among some of our county people, and I remember one gentleman who exposed himself to a somewhat flippant reply from a young lady who had told him that she was going to an afternoon party at the Earl of's. He asked her, with a reproving tone, "Do you think the Lord will be there?" "Yes," she promptly responded; we expect to see him between five and six "-meaning, of course, her noble host. other occasion his method of religious expression gave him the advantage in repartee. Some man, who had been pushing his acquaintance upon him, said to him on parting, "I hope, Mr we may meet again." His feelings, as expressed in his reply, were not altogether reciprocal "Yes, surely, in heaven!"

On an

The servants at the old house were very different from the ser

vants of the present day. I will not insist that they were better, but they were certainly more intimately a part of our daily life than their successors, and they said and did things which would now be regarded with astonishment. I wish I could remember many circumstances which caused amusement at the time but are now forgotten. Of the outdoor retainers, Danny Murphy, the oddman about the place, lives most clearly in my memory. Such a handsome, fine-looking man he was and, full of intelligence, he could turn his hand to anything. Danny never was to be taken aback, and always had a ready answer. One day, in talking to my father, he said somebody had made a faux pas. My father, a little astonished at hearing him make use of such an expression, said, "Why, Danny, what do you mean by that?" "Hmm; troth, your honour, if ye don't know that, ye don't know much," was the evasive reply. My aunt used good-naturedly to buy honey in the hive from some of the cottars on commission for a friend in Dublin, and Danny Murphy generally made the bargain for her. On one occasion the honey turned out unsatisfactory when it arrived in Dublin, and was sent back, much to my aunt's annoyance. She went off to Danny and reproached him with his share in the transaction, saying, among other words, "How could you be such a fool, Danny, as to buy honey like that?" Danny, nowise disconcerted, retaliated, "Hmm; no fear, ma'am, 'tis yourself that's the fool to go taking the trouble to buy honey for other people."

All our house-servants and all the people about the place were, I think, perfectly honest in all im

portant matters. None of them would have thought of taking anything of value; and though the house was always open, and nothing would have been easier than to enter it, we knew that there was no chance of any pilfering. Even at night, in my early days, the hall-door was never locked, and often when we had tea on the lawn silver spoons and other articles were left out all night. But in one matter we did not, as they say in the country, "put it past anybody" to fall away from propriety. No Irishman could resist the temptations of whisky, and some one of the family was always present when the spirits were not under lock and key. It was one of my duties to go down to the cellar whenever it was necessary to replenish the decanters for dining-room use, and I remember once seeing the victory of the ruling passion over honesty in rather a droll manner. Under my superintendence the butler had filled a jug from the cask of whisky, and had put it down on a table near a screen in the passage while he went to fetch a decanter, or on some other errand. The only light was a candle, which, while I stood quietly in the darkness, threw the shadow of screen, table, and jug on a blank wall before me. Suddenly I saw the shadow of a head rise from behind the shadow of the screen, and, by the slouched caubeen and the straggling beard, recognised that it was Micky the herd. Then a shadow of an arm came, which seized the shadow of the jug, lifted it behind the screen for a minute, and then replaced it on the table. All was done in silence, and was like a scene in a magic-lantern. I was so astonished and taken aback by the audacity of the proceeding that I

ran up-stairs without unmasking the culprit.

Some of our female servants were great characters. Old Sarah the cook—and she was one of the best cooks I ever knew-was devoted to reading in her leisure moments, but her reading was confined to one book - the peerage of all others. Often when the peerage had been sought in the drawing-room for reference, it was found in the kitchen, Sarah studiously perusing it. My aunt used to keep house, and once when she was away from home she wrote some directions to Sarah. These directions were never carried out, and Sarah was found fault with accordingly. She admitted receiving the letter, and when she was asked whether she could not read it she said, "Yes, sure, I can read writing well enough, but I can't read the thing Mrs Jones does." It was very true that my aunt's caligraphy was not always very legible. While I am in the kitchen let me tell of our scullerymaid, who was always known as Bunty, "dark and dirty like a winter's day." She had a deep-seated conviction that everything not Irish was little worth consideration. By chance we were honoured by the present of a hamper of game from a very exalted personage, and Bunty signalised herself at the unpacking of the royal pheasants by saying, "Sure, we've often thrown away plenty as good." Then Mary, our nurse when I was quite young, used to do the most amusing and simple-minded deeds. Her greatest feat was performed when we were moving from a living which my father had held in England for some years before settling in Ireland. We were all very loath to leave the old rectory, and there was