tary." Mr. Hastings is as good a Catholic Home Ruler as Father
McPhilpin, who said substantially the same thing. Ballina is on the
Moy--every self-respecting town in Ireland has a salmon river--and the
Midland and Great Western Railway gives fishing tickets to tourists,
who anywhere on this line should find themselves in Paradise. From the
three lakes of Mullingar to the Shannon at Athlone, from the Moy at
Ballina to the Corrib at Galway, the waters swarm with fish. The
salmon weir at Galway is worth a long journey to see. The fish
literally jostle each other in the water. They positively elbow each
other about. Sometimes you may stand against the salmon ladder in the
middle of the town, and although the water is clear as crystal you
cannot see the bottom for fish--great, silvery salmon, upon whose
backs you think you might walk across the river. The Moy at Ballina is
perhaps fifty yards wide, and the town boasts two fine bridges, one of
which is flanked by a big Catholic church. The streets are not
handsome, nor yet mean. Whiskey shops abound, though they are not
quite so numerous as in some parts of Ennis, where, in Mill Street,
about three-fourths of the shops sell liquor. Castleisland in Kerry
would also beat Ballina. Mr. Reid, of Aldershot, said:--"The
population of Castleisland is only one thousand two hundred, but I
counted forty-eight whiskey-shops on one side of the street." Of a row
of eleven houses near the main bridge of Ballina I counted seven
whiskey-shops, and one of the remaining four was void. There were
several drink-shops opposite, so that the people are adequately
supplied with the means of festivity. The place has no striking
features, and seems to vegetate in the way common to Irish country
towns. It probably lives on the markets, waking up once a week, and
immediately going to sleep again. The Post Office counter had two
bottles of ink and no pen, and the young man in charge was whistling
"The Minstrel Boy." The shop-keepers were mostly standing at their
doors, congratulating each other on the fine weather. A long, long
street leading uphill promised a view of the surrounding country, but
the result was not worth the trouble. It led in the direction of
Ardnaree, which my Irish scholarship translates "King's Hill," but I
stopped short at the ruins of the old workhouse, and after a glance
over the domain of Captain Jones went back through the double row of
fairly good cottages, and the numerous clans