an darkness that may be felt. They are poor in
this world's goods, although seemingly healthier and stronger than the
English average. Much of their poverty is their own fault. Much more
is due to the teachings of agitators. The Land League has mined whole
communities. Poverty and Ignorance made the Irish masses an easy prey.
Their ancient prejudices are kept alive, their ancient grievances
industriously disinterred, their imagination pleased with an
illimitable vista of prosperity artfully unrolled before their
untutored gaze. We have the result before us. The Gladstonian party in
England are responding to the dictates of a handful of hirelings and
sacerdotalists, and not to the aspirations of a people. Credulity is
the offspring of Ignorance, and accordingly we see that the Irish
people believe in Tim Healy and the priests, the Grand Old Man and the
fairies. They must be saved from themselves.

The harbour of Galway is very picturesque. A massive ivy-covered arch
marks the boundary line of the ancient walls, some of which are still
extant. The raggedness and filthiness of the fisher-wives and children
must be seen to be understood. A few sturdy fishermen sat gloomily
beside two great piles of fish, thrown out of the boats in heaps.
Large fish, like cod, and yet not cod; bigger than hake, but not
unlike the Cornish fish. To ask a question at a country station or in
the street is in Connaught rather embarrassing, as all the people
within earshot immediately crowd around to hear what is going on. Not
impudent, but sweetly unsophisticated are the Galway folks, openly
regarding the stranger with inquiring eye, not unfriendly, but merely
curious. Having no business of their own, they take the deepest
interest in that of other people. And they make a fuss. They are too
polite. They load you with attentions. No trouble is too great. Give
them the smallest chance and they put themselves about until you wish
you had not spoken. However, I wanted to know about the fish, so I
strolled up to two men who were lying at full length on the quay, and
said--

"What do you call those fish?"

Both men sprang hastily to their feet, and said--

"Black pollock, Sorr."

"Where do you catch them?"

At this juncture two or three dozen urchins galloped up, most of them,
save for a thick skin of dirt, clad in what artists call the nude.
They surrounded us, and listened with avidity.

"Outside the Aran Islands."

Here several women join