ey did not do it, but fear that my remark was put
down to prejudice. It is not my function to indulge in sweeping
assertions, but if I were asked why the Western people do not prosper
I should be inclined to reply--Because they will not turn out early in
the morning.

But they are pleasant people in Ballinrobe nevertheless. Our widow
never complained of our unearthly hours any more than we did of the
turf smoke which communicated a high flavour to all our habiliments.
The widow, although not rich, is evidently "snug" in her
circumstances. She has a farm or two, part of which is underlet of
course. This is another peculiarity of Irish life very remarkable to
the stranger. Everybody seems to do work by deputy. A proprietor of a
landed estate, not worth a thousand pounds a year when interest is
paid on the various mortgages, would never think of being his own
agent--that is doing his own work on his own estate. Not at all. He
employs an agent who, thinking him rather small fry, neglects him or
hands him over to the bailiff, who again transfers him to his
"headmen," so that three people are paid for looking on before anybody
does anything. This practice also may be in part the cause of the
decay of the wild West.

I have been so far particular in my remarks concerning the Ballinrobe
widow, in order to compare the inland standard of comfort with that
prevailing on the sea-coast. Just before the Ulster invasion as it is
called here, I was induced to go to Omey Island. It is a place of evil
repute for poverty, but is as healthy as it ought to be, having the
blue Atlantic for one lung and the brown hills of Connemara for the
other. It is one of those interesting islands which become peninsulas
at low tide, a charming natural feature making it a matter of tidal
calculation whether one can drive on board of them or not. It is not
as bad as Innishark, which requires a trained gymnast to effect a
landing, for it only needs nimbleness of brain instead of that of
limbs.

While that zealous and hard-working young minister of the gospel,
Father Rhatigan, was saying mass, and visiting that part of his flock
congregated at Claddaghduff Chapel, I made my way over the
intermittent isthmus of dry, hard, fine sand. It was an agreeable
change from the road, which for some distance had lain over a "shaved
bog"--that is, a locality from which the peat had been cut away down
to its rocky bed. For some distance nothing was visible but stones,