That Tom Donovan-Roe was the grandfather of my correspondent Ellen Collins, and the brother-in-law of my grand-aunt and god-mother. The sound of the voice of Mr. Harrington’s mother must have sounded in my ears some of the days of my childhood. Mr. Harrington’s voice is to-day—after his fifty odd years in America—as Irish as my own.
The old Garrett Barry, Ellen Collins speaks of, was the grandfather of Edward Barry, the member of Parliament who took me into the House of Commons last year, and was the rent-receiver on the Lord Carberry estate when I was a boy.
I did not satisfy the desire of Ellen Collins-Sguabbera to see me in Ross, when I was in Ireland; nor did I satisfy my own desire either, of seeing the spots where I had the nests of the goldfinch, and the green-linnet, and the grey-linnet, and the wren, and the robin, and the tomtit, and the yellow-hammer, and the lady wagtail. I did not go into my native town. I specially avoided going into it, because I could not go into it, as I would wish to go. I knew I would meet many there who were broken down in the world, and I could not meet them in the manner I would like. I, too, like Terrie of Derry have had my dreams in the foreign lands:—
Still dreaming of home
And the bright days to come,
When the boys should all
Dub me “Sir Terrie;”
And flowing with cash
I could cut a big dash,
In the beautiful city of Derry.