y an egg or a pat of butter from his tenants
would be incredible anywhere else than in Ireland at this moment. But
people are growing accustomed to strange things in these parts.

The Clare Harriers Hunt Club met on Saturday, when Mr. Richard
Stacpoole formally made the offer of the hounds, got together by
himself at great expense, to the members of any Hunt Committee that
might be found. The offer was declined. Mr. Stacpoole then declared
his resolution to sell off the pack. He cannot keep them at Edenvale,
for his "dog-feeder" has been "warned" not to give bite or sup to the
animals for his life. So the hounds go to England to be sold, and the
eviction--of landlords--goes merrily on. Such things may appear
impossible. But it is precisely The Impossible which occurs every day
in Ireland.

IX.

ON THE FERGUS.

ENNIS, CO. CLARE, _Friday, Nov. 26th._

It is noteworthy that the only two persons who are doing much
reclamation work in the West of Ireland are Manchester men. Mr.
Mitchell Henry has awakened Connemara, and Mr. Drinkwater has
performed a similar operation upon county Clare Nothing in connection
with the Kylemore and Fergus Reclamation works, which have brought to
and distributed a large sum of money in their respective districts, is
more remarkable than the apathy of the surrounding proprietors in one
case and their hostility in the other. Mr. Mitchell Henry could afford
to wait, and his patience has been attended with success; but Mr.
Drinkwater was compelled to encounter, not mere passive indifference,
but active acquisitiveness. For a time stretching beyond the memory of
man the reclamation of what is called the Clare "slob" has been talked
about. This talking stage is not unfamiliar in the recent history of
Ireland.

Everything has been talked about, and some few things have been done
after a fashion. There remains in Galway a very comfortable and
well-managed hotel at the railway station, which was originally built
with a view to the American traffic scheme since become notorious; but
the Galway people still believe that their ships were wrecked by a
combination of Liverpool merchants interested in destroying them. The
Harbour of Foynes, on the Shannon, was once talked about, but never
grew into a seaport; while the fishing-piers, as they are called, lie
dotted around the coast in places to which nobody ever goes and from
which nobody ever comes. But it was seen long ago that something could