were that "God" was about to add a No. 7 to her
flock. What a dreadful creature their God must be to keep sending
hungry mouths while he withholds the bread to fill them!...

I went back to Killarney heart-sick; wrote letters Sunday, and
Monday took train for Limerick, where I rushed round for an hour or
two.... Then went on to Galway. Tuesday morning took the mail-car
to Connemara, and had company all the way--a judge, an Irish M.P.,
and two Dublin drummers--with whom I talked over the Irish problem.
I had meant to make the tour of the western coast up to
Londonderry, but my courage failed. It was to be the same
soul-sickening sight all the way--only, I was assured, worse than
anything yet seen. I took the stage back to Galway, every one
saying it was sure to be a fine day, but it proved to be terrific
wind and rain, and before I had gone ten miles my seat was a pool
of water and it took all my skill to keep my umbrella right side
out.... Once while the driver changed horses I stood in front of a
big fire on the hearth of the best farmer's house I have seen here.
Everything was clean and cheerful--two rooms--a bed made up with a
spotless white spread--the old father smoking and the wife cooking
dinner. She lifted a wooden cover from a jar and proudly showed me
her butter--patted down with her hands, I could see--and near by
was another jar with milk. Think of butter being made in a room
full of tobacco-smoke! Then I went my last ten out of the fifty
miles, having been soaking wet for eight hours. At my hotel I had
room and fire on a "double-quick," bath-tub and hot water, and put
myself through a regular grooming. In the morning I rode around
Galway, saw Queen's College and the bay, and then took train for
Belfast.

From the diary:

Sept. 11.--In Dublin. The Professor of Arabic took me through
Trinity College, with its library of 200,000 volumes. Thence to the
old Parliament House, now the Bank of Ireland. In the afternoon
Alfred Webb went with me to the National League rooms and from
there to Thomas Webb's for tea, where I saw the names of Garrison
and N. P. Rogers written in 1840. We called on Michael Davitt, the
leader of the Irish Land League, who impressed me as an earnest,
honest man, deeply-rooted in the principles of freedom and
e