When Ireland desires to sup the sweeter drops out of the cup of sorrow, she has a way of babbling about exiles from Erin, and that kind of thing. That her population has been greatly reduced by emigration cannot be denied; neither can one get away from the fact that the true-blooded Irishman has a peculiar affection for the soil on which he was born, and that the pains of expatriation have for him a special and almost intolerable poignancy. But excepting as it bears upon the peace of mind of individuals, on the breaking-up of homes, and the wrenching of family ties, I do not think that the emigration which it is the fashion so to deplore has been at all a bad thing for Ireland. It is clear that if the country is incapable of supporting adequately the mass of the people now resident in it, the persons who have left it for fresh woods and pastures new are on the whole to be congratulated. If it be contended that it is shameful that a man should be compelled to leave his native country because that country does not offer sufficient scope for his energies, and fails to provide for him the means of rational human subsistence, I should say that Ireland is by no means singular in such failure. The Scotch emigrate, and boast about it. “Scotland is a stony country,” they say, “there are plenty of mouths and little wherewith to fill them; lo, we will go forth into the undiscovered places of the world, and seek food and fortune where they are most likely to be found.” The Irish, on the other hand, weep and wail, and keen about it. “We are leaving the ould counthry, ochone, wirra, wirra, and wirras-thrue! I’ll sit at the top of Vinegar Hill, and there I’ll weep till I’ve wept my fill, and every tear would turn a mill; for, bedad, it’s acrost the say I’ll be afther goin’, and, glory knows, when I’ll be afther comin’ back again. Good-by, Terence, and Bryan, and Pathrick, and Judy, and Kathleen, and all the rest of yez. It’s me that’s got to leave yez, and may all the leading fiends assail the dhirthy Government!” And so on and so forth. Tears and howls are the Irish emigrant’s stock-in-trade. I do not deny that this is wrong, but it seems possible that a great deal too much capital has been made out of it, both by the poets and by the politicians. Excepting at the immediate hour of embarkation, the Irish emigrant makes a very good emigrant indeed. If his emigration takes him only so far as England, he becomes at once an industrious, and not infrequently a fairly prosperous, member of the community. If his emigration takes him to America the same thing happens to him, and he has been known to blossom out into millionairedom. Why weep for him, why recite touching poetry about him, and why call the Government names on his behoof? It is the people who are left at home who should be cried over, and recited over, and whose condition should provoke the obsecration of the Government. Of course, the real truth about the Irish emigrant is that when he gets into a new