nother Athloner, speaking of an Irish
Nationalist M.P., who luckily still lives, said:--"Mr. Parnell took
him up because he was a wonderful fellow to talk, and so was popular
with the mob of these parts. I think he was a blacksmith by trade.
Parnell got him made M.P., and set him up with a blue pilot coat, but
forgot to give him a handkerchief. So he used the tail of his coat
alternately with his coat sleeve. He never had a pocket-handkerchief
in his life, but he was a born legislator, and the people believed he
could do much to restore the vaunted ancient prestige and prosperity
of Ireland. He came to Athlone, and went to the Royal, but the waiter,
who did not know he was speaking to a member of Parliament, and
moreover one of his own kidney, declined to take him in, and
recommended a place where he could get a bed for Thruppence! And the
M.P. actually had to take it. This was only inconsistent with his new
dignity, and not with his previous experiences. This is the kind of
person who is to direct Irish legislation more efficiently than the
educated class, who unanimously object to Home Rule as detrimental to
the interests of both countries, and as likely to further impoverish
poor Ireland. The men who now represent the 'patriotic' party will
feather their own nests. They care for nothing more."

The Westport folks may not deserve the strictures of their friend of
twenty years, but two things are plainly visible. They are dirty, and
they have no enterprise. The island-dotted Clew Bay and the sublime
panorama of mountain scenery, the sylvan demesne of the Earl of Sligo,
and the forest-bordered inlets of Westport Bay, form a scene of
surpassing loveliness and magnificence such as England and Wales
together cannot show. The town is well laid out, the streets are broad
and straight, and Lord Sligo's splendid range of lake and woodland,
free to all, adjoins the very centre. And yet the shops are small and
mean, the houses are dirty and uninviting, and dunghills front the
cottages first seen by the visitor. A breezy street leads upward to
the heights, and all along it are dustheaps, with cocks and hens
galore, scratching for buried treasure. At the top a stone railway
bridge, the interstices facing the sea full of parsley fern, wild
maidenhair, hart's-tongue, and a beautiful species unknown to me. The
bracing air of the Atlantic sweeps the town, which is sheltered withal
by miles of well-grown woods. The houses are dazzling