The incompetence of the Czar has been displayed on a larger stage than seemed likely to be open to it till this day week. No single circumstance that can make his weakness more visible has been wanting. The revolutionary movement in St. Petersburg-if that can be called revolutionary which, in the first instance, was only a strike of workmen against conditions of labor which they regard as intolerably hard -was of a kind which it rested with him, and with no one else, to control and keep harmless. The language of the petition contains, indeed, much that goes beyond the ordinary complaints of workmen against their employers. There is enough of political unrest in Russia-arising, to શ great extent, from the want of any regular means of making political wants known-to ensure the introduction of such questions into any document that expresses the feelings of a large number of men. But any one who reads the long introduction which ushers in the specific remedies demanded will see that the petition is far more an utterance of discontent with their own material condition than a demand for Constitutional changes. Some of the commonplaces familiar in all such manifestoes are to be found in this one, but others are curiously wanting. The responsibility of Ministers, the separation of Church and State, a progressive income-tax are all here; but there is no mention of universal suffrage, of vote by ballot, or of the convocation of a National Assembly. The gist of their complaint is the exploitation of the workmen by capitalists and Government officials, and the little that is known of Russia supplies no assurance that this is not a well-founded grievance. But whether it be well founded

or not, it did not lie with the Czar to refuse to take account of it. Autocracy, like every other form of govern. ment, has its special obligations. Under all other forms some channel exists in which those who think themselves oppressed can make their voice heard. There is some Chamber in which the working class have a share of representation, however small, and can, on occasion, make that share audible. In Russia alone there is nothing of the sort; in Russia alone is the Sovereign the sole source, whether of justice or of mercy. And, therefore, in Russia alone has the Sovereign no right to refuse to consider in his own person the prayers of his subjects. The Czar cannot pass on these prayers to a Ministry or a Parliament. Parliament there is none, and the Ministry is only a term of courtesy for a group of clerks who have neither position nor authority, except as the creatures of the Sovereign's will. Even a Czar cannot have things both ways. If he is an autocrat, he must behave as an autocrat, or have his incapacity for his place and function demonstrated to the world.

This is the choice which Nicholas II. has this week had to make. He may, indeed, have persuaded himself that he has evaded responsibility by running away, and that a Czar whom his people do not know where to find is a Czar who cannot be blamed for anything that follows upon his flight. He may even hope that the massacre of Sunday will be laid at the door of the Grand Dukes, and that his other shortcomings will be excused on the score of his being an obedient nephew. Unfortunately for him and for his dynasty, these flimsy pleas will be forgotten as soon as they are set up, and

fused them such hospitality would have been held not only derogatory to the dignity of the house, but also as certain to bring ill-luck upon it. The cook, whom, as dispenser of the kitchen bounties, they were all eager to propitiate, generally turned their services to account to pluck fowl for her, or turn the spit, which in my earliest years was still done by hand. It was considered a marvel of mechanical ingenuity when at a later date a clockwork contrivance was introduced, which was fastened to one corner of the kitchen ceiling, and from there, by means of a weight and a long chain, imparted the necessary rotary motion to the joint roasting before the fire.

Another duty which was left to such stray hangers-on was the collection of dandelions, their juice being a remedy decreed to my Indian aunt, who, like most Anglo-Indians of that date, had brought back from her long residence abroad what we called "a liver." There were, therefore, generally three or four old crones seated round a flat stone outside the kitchen-door, gabbling Irish and pounding vigorously at the green heap before them, till a wineglassful of a most nauseous fluid had been extracted. As the nearest medical practitioner resided in the town of Galway, we relied almost entirely upon home doctoring, and the prescriptions in Vogue were mostly of the same primitive nature. If any one was considered to stand in need of a tonic or strengthening medicine, it was concocted by the simple expedient of heating the poker whitehot, and stirring a mug of porter therewith. Our poorer neighbors also came to us for medical advice, and I well remember any of them who were suffering from chills, or such ailments, being enjoined to take a hot bath, on their return home, in their churn, that being the only vessel in an Irish cabin capable of containing the human form. My grandfather, indeed, who was prin

cipal medical adviser to the district, had but one sovereign remedy, which he prescribed with the utmost impartiality for all ailments of whatsoever nature they might be. He used to powder a huge lump of rhubarb on a pewter-plate-its being pulverized upon pewter being considered to play a very important part in the efficacy of the recipe-and blend it with a bottle of port. This he administered by spoonfuls to all who came to consult him. "The Masther's medicine" was held in high repute, and was more sought after than the prescriptions of a specialist would have been, if such had existed in those days.

The ordinary wages of a laborer at that time were five-pence a day, and we kept forty in constant employment. They dined every day in the haggard, called in from all parts of the farm by the clanging of the yard-bell. Amongst those who never failed to respond to the summons was one strangely assorted couple. The steward, having been sent to a neighboring fair to purchase a pig, intended in due time to replenish the household stores of ham and bacon, reported on his return that he had bought "a nate, cliver, grave, gay little pig." The animal possessed of so many and somewhat conflicting qualities was of the true old Galway breed, lean and long-legged as a greyhound, and possessed, moreover, of a turn of speed and staying powers not common to the porcine tribe. By what means Sal-for so with total disregard of sex we named him—arrived at an understanding with Chance our pointer, no one ever knew. Every morning, however, as soon as they were set free from kennel and sty, they set out together for the woods, where they hunted in company-Chance working his way into the rabbit-holes to bolt the rabbits, and Sal standing in readiness to pounce on the prey as it came out, after which they shared the spoils

of the chase in strict amity. A few moments, however, after the mid-day bell had clanged out its summons they always came into sight, Chance leading, but Sal a good second, coming at a brisk trot, and grunting louder and yet more loudly the nearer he drew to the promised land, where a meal of potato skins and other leavings of the workmen's dinner awaited them both.

This partnership was deemed so remarkable that Sal's life was spared on account of it, and he was suffered to attain to an age far beyond the span usually allotted to pigs. He lived in a house of his own apart from the other pigs, and grew to an enormous size, developing a huge pair of curved tusks. He became so savage at last that it was found necessary to slaughter him. Age and hard exercise, however, had made his flesh so tough that it was quite unfit for consumption.

The people were wondrously superstitious. In the fairies-whom they generally alluded to mysteriously as "them"-more especially they had the profoundest belief; and every untoward circumstance or incident not easily to be accounted for was set down to their intervention. "This avenue is no road to be thravellin' by night," said an indignant maid to my grandmother, who would have sent her on an errand in the dusk. "As soon as it's dark it's as thick as blades of grass wid little men on horses, an' caps on the heads of ivery one of them." The caps somehow seemed to be the most appalling part of the fairy vision.

My father from one of his visits to Dublin had brought back a small musical-box, then a very recent invention. In the evening, after dinner, he wound it up and hid it under a pile of cloaks in the hall. In a few moments all the servants rushed up from below stairs with blanched and terror-stricken faces.

"The Lord Almighty look on us an' kape us from harm this night! We're ruinated and desthroyed-it's the fairy music!"

One firmly rooted belief in the west of Ireland was that before the downfall or extinction of any ancient family the elfin minstrels were heard to play outside the doomed mansion. It is still believed that before the fatal illness of our kinsman Thomas Martin, the last owner of Connemara, the fairy music circled round and round the old family home of Ballynahinch.

Another time a sudden commotion below stair heralded the arrival of an affrighted messenger at the drawingroom door to announce in a hushed whisper that there were fairies downstairs. Naturally we all, grown-ups and children, lost no time in descending to the lower regions, where we found the servants clustered in one of the dark stone-flagged passages, gazing awestricken and from a respectful distance at a faint greenish radiance, which could be discerned in the gloom playing on one of the walls. My grandmother, who knew nothing of science, but deemed it highly inexpedient that the house should acquire a reputation for supernatural visitants of any sort, commanded a bucket of water to be brought and thrown against the wall, as the readiest means of putting an end to the fairies and their doings. So far, however, from this quenching the fairy lights, they only shone out more brightly than before, and the exclamations and other manifestations of terror redoubled in volume and intensity. It was left to one of the gentlemen of the party to hit upon the true explanation of the phenomenon, which was nothing more than that some fish had recently been hung up at that spot, and that the unearthly gleam was caused by the phosphorescence of their scales still adhering to the wall. This solution of

the mystery was received with scant favor and many headshakings by the household.

Our education-at least the more ornamental portion thereof-was carried on by a system of peripatetic teachers. Our French, our drawing, and our music masters each possessed a pony and gig, with which they went the round of the County Galway, driving themselves from one house to the next in which a young family was growing up, and remaining a week at each halting-place, during which there was nothing but music played, or French talked, or pencil-drawings executed, as the case might be. Three or four times a year they came to us thus upon their educational round. I do not know what honorarium they received for the week's instruction, but I know that it was not always convenient to pay it in coin of the realm. On such occasions my grandfather would present them with a calf instead, and give it grazing till it had developed into a salable beast. I fancy there were not many estates on the visiting lists of these professors of the gentler arts on which they had not generally a head or two of cattle at grass, and that they did not suffer by such transactions.

Another individual whose home, so to say, was upon the road, was a certain Tom Blakeney, a wit and raconteur. He, too, owned a horse and trap, and used to drive boldly into the stableyard of whatever mansion he intended to honor with his presence, where he would have his horse put up, and order his portmanteau to be carried indoors, after which he made his way to the drawing-room, trusting to his conversational powers to procure him a favorable reception. Once established, he used to remain till he had wearied of his surroundings, or till the patience of his hosts showed signs of being exhausted, when he would move on to

fresh quarters. He was the only being towards whom I ever knew my grandfather display any inhospitality, but it was sometimes necessary to give Tom Blakeney a hint that he had worn out his welcome.

“Are you driving to Galway to-day?” my grandfather asked him pointedly on one such occasion.

Tom Blakeney looked from the window and shrugged his shoulders. "Too bad a day, sir," he said. "Not half so bad as the day you came," was the significant answer.

When he did at length take his departure, my father, standing on the steps to speed our parting guest, asked, "Where's your next billet, Tom?"

"Haven't a notion," he responded carelessly. "Depends what way the wind's blowing when I get to the gate."

One of my earliest recollections is of the wedding of the only son of one of our nearest neighbors. The bride lived on the other side of Lough Corrib, the long narrow lake which separates the wild mountain regions of Connemara and Iar-Connaught from the rest of the County Galway, and according to general custom the newly married couple were to take up their abode with the bridegroom's parents in the old family home. The bridegroom himself crossed the lake by the ferry to Headfort for the wedding ceremony; but his father and mother drove the lengthy round in a cabriolet, then the most fashionable form of conveyance. It was a hooded gig, with a board hung on at the back, intended for a powdered lackey to stand upon. How such a modish equipage had found its way into our western wilds I do not know, but it had been arranged that after the wedding breakfast the bridegroom should drive his newly wedded wife home in the cabriolet, whilst his parents remained for a few days' visit to those of the brideno further honeymoon being considered

necessary. When, however, the hour of departure arrived, the youthful bride was seized with a sudden fit of shyness, and declared that nothing would induce her to set out alone with "a strange man." Entreaties and persuasions were all in vain.

"It was quite pretty of her, poor dear," the old lady said, retailing the story to us afterwards; "but she vowed nothing would induce her to go with George, unless his father and I came too."

Nothing remained, therefore, but for the old couple to mount again into the cabriolet, and take the bride to sit bodkin between them, whilst the happy bridegroom, faute de mieux, had to seat himself behind on the board intended for the lackey's feet. The town of Galway stands on the narrow neck between the southern end of Lough Corrib and the sea, and in this fashion did the bridal party drive through the streets, with the bridegroom's long legs trailing in the mud behind him.

Lough Corrib cut us dwellers in IarConnaught off from much of the social life of the country; but there was nothing perhaps which we as a family regretted so much as that it precluded our becoming followers of the hounds, or taking any share in the hunting for which Galway was famous then as now, save when we might chance to be invited to some hospitable mansion upon the other side of the water for a meet or hunt-breakfast. I remember one of my aunts returning in deep disgust from one such visit. "The men," she declared, "were hunting the fox, but the women were hunting James Daly,"-the heir to an old Galway estate, who had made his first appearance in the hunting-field after his return from the Grand Tour, then considered an indispensable part of the education of every young man of position.

Women did, however, hunt in more

legitimate fashion and with more zeal than this judgment would imply-as one member of the Galway hunt found to his cost. A lady's crutch broke as she was jumping a wall,-there was no third pommel in those days, and she came somewhat heavily to the ground. A man who rode up dismounted gallantly to assist her. What, however, was his dismay when the distressed fair one, having regained her feet, gathered about her the trailing skirt which ladies in the early 'Forties rode in, and scrambled nimbly on to his horse. Sitting sideways on his saddle, she rode the run out, taking every fence like a bird, whilst her rescuer was left standing disconsolate, staring blankly after her.

The coup d'œil of a Galway meet sixty years ago would make a modern up-to-date sportsman stare. The business side of hunting, the art of riding to show off or sell a mount, was unthought of then: it was for sport, and for sport alone, that the followers of the hunt came together. Girls were there in skirts, innocent of the tailor's art, which had been originally fashioned for other wear than in the hunting-field; men in country-built suits,but all prepared to ride to the utmost. Shaggy and ill-groomed many of the horses might be, but it was wonderful how they could negotiate the notable stone walls of Galway; and to prevent the scuffing of knees and fetlocks against those obstructions, many riders, regardless of appearance, had those parts bound about with swathings of cloth and felt, more or less artistically tied round them. When a covert proved blank, word was passed round where the next draw was to be; and a scurry and scamper across country ensued, and many an impromptu pointto-point race was thus ridden.

Every one has heard of the Galway Blazers, but few know how that farfamed pack came by its name. In