When I was at Washington, Mr. Evarts, the Secretary of State, gave me a book, published by local authorities at Washington, with maps of every department of the city, marking the portion where special diseases prevailed. London has no such book yet. Similar information concerning every State and territory in America existed in official reports. But I found that neither the Government of Washington nor Ottawa would take the responsibility of giving emigrants this information in a public and portable form, as land agents would be in revolt at the preferential choice emigrants would then have before them. It was continually denied that such information existed. Senators in their turn said so. Possibly they did not know, but Mr. Henry Villard, a son-in-law of Lloyd Garrison, told me that when he was secretary of the Social Science Association he began the kind of book I sought, and that its' issue was discouraged. On my second visit to America in 1882, I had introductions to the President of the United States and to Lord Lome, the Governor of Canada, from his father, the Duke of Argyll, with a view of obtaining the publication of a protecting guide book such as I have described, under its authority. When I first mentioned this in New York (1879) the editor of the _Star_ (an Irishman) wrote friendly and applauding leaders upon my project. On my second visit, in 1882, this friendly editor (having seen in the papers that Mr. Gladstone approved of my quest) wrote furious leaders against it. On asking him the reason of the change of view, he said, "Mr. Holyoake, were Mr. Gladstone and his Cabinet in this room, and I could open a trap-door under their feet and let them all fall into hell, I would do it," using words still more venomous. Then I realised the fatuity of the anti-Irish policy which drives the ablest Irishmen into exile and maintains a body of unappeasable enemies of England wherever they go. Then I saw what crazy statesmanship it was in the English to deny self-government to the Irish people, and spend ten millions a year to prevent them taking care of themselves. The Irish learned to think better of Mr. Gladstone some years later. One night when he was sitting alone in the House of Commons writing his usual letter to the Queen, after debates were over, he was startled by a ringing cheer that filled the chamber, when looking up he found the Irish members, who had returned to express their gratitude to him. Surely no nation ever proclaimed its obligation in so romantic a way. The tenderest prayer put up in my time was that of W. D. Sullivan:-- "_God be good to Gladdy_, Says Sandy, John and Paddy, For he is a noble laddy, A grand old chiel is he."