As soon as I could distinguish words among the war of sounds I understood that the young farmer accused the soberest sergeant of being one of the party that shot young Hickey at Dr. Pomeroy's, and that he was burning for revenge. The constable was a Northman, I knew by his tongue, and he was at a northern white heat of anger. The young farmer was almost mad with rage and drink. The drunken sergeant seemed to sober in the congenial element of a probable row, and he and two sober civilians exerted themselves to keep the peace, and to pacify the farmer and get him to sit down. In one of the pauses in the storm the peace-making sergeant wanted a match; an old man behind me who had matches was appealed to for one and he declined, averring with much simplicity that he was afraid of being shot. His wife in a vigorous whisper advised him to keep his matches in his pocket. Everyone in that car, drunk or sober, peace-making or not, sympathised with that young farmer and were against the police. We reached Fermoy quite late. The next morning early I took a car and drove out to Mitchelstown, at the foot of the Galtees. Passed at a distance, half hidden among embowering woods, the castle residence of Lord Mount Cashel, who seems to be as much liked here as he was on the Galgorm estate, but there were whispered reminiscences of by-gone wicked agents. The country on the way to Mitchelstown is partly very rich-looking now waving with the harvest. There is a long valley in sight stretching away for many miles, yellow with ripened corn and dotted with farm houses, each with a few sheltering trees. Upon what is called mountain land I saw a fine little farm that had been reclaimed from the heather quite recently. The farmer and his sons were binding after the cradle. He holds this land at two shillings and sixpence an acre, and hopes under the new Land Law that it shall not be raised on him. Mitchelstown is quite a large place, and was as quiet as Indian summer. Had my worst experience of hotel life in Fermoy, and gladly left it behind for Cappoquin. The road lies alongside a lovely valley of the Blackwater, and one has glimpses of the most enchanting scenery as they steam along. Cappoquin is quite a nice town, and seems to have some trade by river as well as by rail. Walked out through the fair country to Mount Mellary Monastery, a property reclaimed out of the stony heathery mountain by the monks of La Trappe. They have succeeded in creating smiling fields among the waste of the mountain wilderness. They hold the land on a lease of 999 years. No woman is allowed into the precincts of the monastery proper, but there is a hospice attached where travellers are received and entertained without charge, but any gratuity is accepted. There is also a school among the buildings.