There was a ghost in my native county of Donegal called the “Fanad Ghost.” It was said to have been raised by a free mason skilled in the “Black Art” while in an hilarious mood, but after it was up the mason couldn’t put it down and the ghost began throwing things around—the delft on the dresser, the noggins, the pots, the stones on the chimney—pulling out the scobes in the thatch on the roof, and raising Cain generally. The Presbyterian minister came in and prayed until he had corns on his knees, and the ghost took a day off. The Catholic priest was called in and did the best he could, and the ghost acted “dacintly” for two days, at the end of which time he was more vigorous than ever. Well, finally they sent to the city of Derry and got a delegation of free masons, and they labored one week, night and day—with refreshments—and at last one morning, when the refreshments were running low, the head mason came to the door with perspiration streaming off his face and his legs wobbly, and said, “Get a black cock without a white feather and another keg of Charley Oge’s poteen, and with the help of Heaven we’ll lay him before morning.” And as the last crow went of the cock and the last drop out of the keg the Fanad Ghost was laid forever with a whiff of sulphur up the chimney and a trembling of the kitchen floor. (Laughter and applause.) And so this Society is looking for the white cock of Truth to crow soon over the Scotch-Irish ghost, for if ever there was a veritable ghost it is the Scotch-Irishman in America. (Applause.) The “Scotch-Irishman” in America, Mr. Dooley has told us, had his historic origin about the time of the great famine period in Ireland, when almost one-half of the inhabitants of that unfortunate land, starved, diseased and in rags, were huddled in cargo ships and treated worse than any negro slaves that ever came to this country. They died by thousands and strewed the bottom of the Atlantic with their bodies. A friend of mine in a thriving Western city the other night met a man who is today one of the leading citizens in that place, and he said to my friend, “I am the sole survivor of five of my family who came over in those diseased and hellish ships in which England sent our people in the black days of the famine. My sister and my brother lie in the unfathomed caves of the Atlantic Ocean; my father and mother followed them. Twelve thousand of our race lie beneath the monument which the Ancient Order of Hibernians have erected on Groose Isle in the St. Lawrence below Quebec.”