this was a more respectable, if not a more reasonable, explanation of Mr. Alexander Sullivan’s devotion to Mr. Blaine and the Republicans, and of the Irish defection from the Democratic party than had ever been given to me in America, but I firmly refused to spend the night between London and Dublin in debating the question whether Meath could be made as prosperous as Massachusetts by levying forty per cent. duties on Manchester goods imported into Ireland.

He had seen the reception of Mr. Sullivan, M.P., in London.  “I believe, on my soul,” he said, “the people were angry with him because he didn’t come in a Lord Mayor’s coach!”

When I told him I meant to visit Luggacurren, he said, a little to my surprise, “That is a bad job for us, and all because of William O’Brien’s foolishness!  He always thinks everybody takes note of whatever he says, and that ruins any man!  He made a silly threat at Luggacurren, that he would go and take Lansdowne by the throat in Canada, and then he was weak enough to suppose that he was bound to carry it out.  He couldn’t be prevented!  And what was the upshot of it?  But for the Orangemen in Canada, that were bigger fools than he is, he would have been just ruined completely!  It was the Orangemen saved him!”

I left Dublin this morning at 7.40 A.M.  The day was fine, and the railway journey most interesting.  Before reaching Limerick we passed through so much really beautiful country that I could not help expressing my admiration of it to my only fellow-traveller, a most courteous and lively gentleman, who, but for a very positive brogue, might have been taken for an English guardsman.

“Yes, it is a beautiful country,” he said, “or would be if they would let it alone!”

I asked him what he specially objected to in the recent action of Parliament as respects Ireland?

“Object?” he responded; “I object to everything.  The only thing that will do Ireland any good will be to shut up that talking-mill at Westminster for a good long while!”

This, I told him, was the remedy proposed by Earl Grey in his recent volume on Ireland.

“Is it indeed?  I shall read the book.  But what’s the use?  ’For judgment it is fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason.’”

This he said most cheerily, as if it really didn’t matter much; and, bidding me good-bye, disappeared at Limerick, where several friends met him.  In his place came a good-natured optimistic squire, who thinks “things are settling down.”  There is a rise in the price of cattle.  “Beasts I gave L8 for three mouths ago,” he said, “I have just sold for L12.  I call that a healthy state of things.”  And with this he also left me at Ardsollus, the station nearest the famous old monastery of Quin.