mounted the auctioneer's chair, and delivered himself:
"Fellow-countrymen! I needn't tell you, nor I needn't tell any assembly of Irishmen, that I'm no land-grabber."
"You are not," shouted the rate-collector. "We know that."
"I've stood by the Nationalist cause," said Mr. Sweeny, "the cause of old Ireland, the land of saints and scholars, since ever I learnt to stand by my mother's knee. And I mean to stand by it till every landlord and land-grabber is burning in hell, and the people of Ireland is enjoying the place, the just and lawful place, the noble and exalted place that our fathers occupied before us. Fellow-countrymen, let us gaze on the majestic figure of St. Patrick, let us do honour to the name of Wolfe Tone and the Manchester Martyrs, and—and—all the rest of the band of patriots; let us cling to the old sod. Esto perpetua!"
The crowd cheered frenziedly. None of them knew what esto perpetua meant, nor, for that matter, did Mr. Sweeny himself. But they had heard the words before, for Mr. Sweeny always used them in his speeches, and they felt that they must be great and good words; words worthy of the loud- est cheers.
"I have bought this farm, but I have bought it to hold in trust for the Irish people—a sacred trust, as dear to me as my heart's blood. When the day
