y
visitor had no light to throw.

The next visitor, who brings with him a son and a daughter, is himself
the product of an Irish bog in the wildest of the wilds. His Parish
Priest had sent him to me. A little awkwardness, which is soon
dispelled, and the point is reached. This fine specimen of the 'bone and
sinew' has had a hard struggle to bring up his 'long family'; but, with
a capable wife, who makes the most of the _res angusta domi_--of the
pig, the poultry, and even of the butter from the little black cows on
the mountain--he has risen to the extent of his opportunities. The
children are all doing something. Lace and crochet come out of the
cabin, the yarn from the wool of the 'mountainy' sheep, carded and spun
at home, is feeding the latest type of hosiery knitting machine and the
hereditary handloom. The story of this man's life which was written to
me by the priest cannot find space here. The immediate object of his
visit is to get his eldest daughter trained as a poultry instructress to
take part in some of the 'County Schemes' under the Department, and to
obtain for his eldest son, who has distinguished himself under the
tuition of the Christian Brothers, a travelling scholarship. For this he
has been recommended by his teachers. They had marked this bright boy
out as an ideal agricultural instructor, and if I could give the reader
all the particulars of the case it would be a rare illustration of the
latent human resources we mean to develop in the Ireland that is to be.
I explain that the young man must pass a qualifying examination, but am
glad to be able to admit that the circumstances of his life, which would
have to be taken into account in deciding between the qualified, are in
his case of a kind likely to secure favourable consideration.

And now enters a sporting friend of mine, a 'practical angler,' who
comes with a very familiar tale of woe. The state of the salmon
fisheries is deplorable: if the Department does not fulfil its obvious
duties there will not be a salmon in Ireland outside a museum in ten
years more. He has lived for forty-five years on the banks of a salmon
river, and he knows that I don't fish. But this much the conversation
reveals: his own knowledge of the subject is confined to the piece of
river he happens to own, the gossip he hears at his club, and the ideas
of the particular poacher he employs as his gillie. His suggested remedy
is the abolition of all netting. But I have to