[To THE EDITOR OP THE " SPECTATOR."] Sra,—While reading Mr.
Fox's letter, " America and Ireland," in your issue for March 26th, I recalled a memory of an April day in 1865. I, a very small American girl,- was sitting in the doorway of my father's house, nursing my- doll. My mother sat sewing within the door. I saw my father hurrying from the street. iHe passed me, exclaimed to my mother, "The President is dead—murdered! ". and, covering his face with his hands, he sobbed like- a child. I was too young to appreciate the full significance of his words, but his grief awed and frightened me. I had not known that men could er,y. The day seemed darkened, and I stole away to the kitchen, where Bridget, was making bread and told her what my father had said. I remember each word of her reply. , She threw up her floury hands. "Glory bet It's glad Ham he's dead! He'm freeing the niggers that wad take the bread-from the mouths of US Irish! "
The same feeling is shown to-day in America among the Sinn Fein Irish. " Us Irish," first -and foremost, whoever else suffers, whatever trouble is brought upon the country of their : adoption by their treason and disloyalty—Ahe land that they . have ,sworn to defend.—I am, Sir, &c., X; X.
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