eing far too blue. In these adverse
circumstances, then, the artist soon drifted into journalism, and,
inducing his brothers to join him in his new venture, thenceforth took
up the pen and abandoned the brush. Each member of the family became a
well-known figure in Parliamentary life. Mr. T. D. Sullivan, the poet of
the Irish Party, is still a well-known figure in the world of politics;
but my friend Mr. A. M. Sullivan, who died some years ago, belonged
rather to the more moderate _regime_ which prevailed in the Irish Party
during the leadership of Mr. Butt.

At the time when I first made his acquaintance he was the editor and
moving spirit of the _Nation_. It was a curious office, and I can recall
many whom I first met there who have since come more or less prominently
to the front in public life. There was Mr. Sexton, whom my friend "Toby"
has since christened "Windbag Sexton" in his Parliamentary reports. Mr.
Sexton then presided over the scissors and paste department of the
journals owned by Mr. A. M. Sullivan, and, unlike the posing orator he
afterwards became, was at that early stage of his career of a very
modest and retiring disposition. Mr. Leamy also, I think, was connected
with the staff, while Mr. Dennis Sullivan superintended the sale of the
papers in the publishing department.

But the central figure in the office was unquestionably the editor and
proprietor, Mr. A. M. Sullivan. His personality was of itself
remarkable. Possessed of wonderful energy and nerve, he was a confirmed
teetotaller, and his prominent eyes, beaming with intelligence, seemed
almost to be starting from his head as, intent upon some project, he
darted about the office, ever and anon checking his erratic movements to
give further directions to his subordinates, when he had a funny habit
of placing his hand on his mouth and blowing his moustache through his
fingers, much to the amusement of his listeners, and to my astonishment,
as I stood modestly in a corner of the editorial sanctum observing with
awe the great Mr. Sexton, who, amid the distractions of scissors and
paste, would drawl out a sentence or two in a voice strongly resembling
the sarcastic tones of Mr. Labouchere.

In another part of the office sat Mr. T. D. Sullivan, the poet
aforesaid, who, like his brother, is a genial and kindly man at heart,
although possessing the volcanic temperament characteristic of his
family. There he sat--a poet with a large family--his hair di