IRISH INSECT-HUNTER. 149 



sweeping with broad brimful course, and calm majestic flow, 

 over the long level Bog of Allen, far as the eye could reach. 

 The town of Athlone is seen occupying a considerable site on 

 both banks. This is an old military-looking place, imposing 

 enough at a distance, but narrow, dirty, and disagreeable. It 

 is approached by the customary long, low suburb of miserable 

 mud cabins, which sometimes extends a mile or more in con- 

 tinuation of the principal streets of the larger towns. The 

 Shannon is crossed by a wretched and narrow bridge, — made 

 still narrower by two mills being built upon it, — consisting of 

 some eighteen or twenty irregularly built arches. Here, like- 

 wise, it was market day, — and the bridge was crammed with 

 women, or their upper representatives as before noted, so thick 

 and immovable that there seemed to be a regular block, and 

 no other alternative than that of the sheep-dogs, viz. running 

 over their heads. How they got out of the way, or where they 

 squeezed into, I cannot imagine. It was not without difficulty 

 and danger that the coach made its way amongst them over the 

 bridge, and up the steep crooked street opposite into the 

 market-place, each equally crowded. With all this bustle, 

 and the number and size of the shops, it had every appearance 

 of being a place of considerable traffic. There are extensive 

 barracks and fortihcations on the Connaught side, which 

 province you enter on leaving Athlone. 



The country between Athlone and Bailinasloe offers nothing 

 remarkable. It is a continuation of the same dreary flat ; — bog 

 on both sides of the road, a boundless waste, — relieved only by 

 the slight cultivation on its edges. Bailinasloe is a good town 

 for its size, and is the centre of communication for this part of 

 the island. Coaches branch off to different places, and the 

 mails here exchange their bags. The main street is of hand- 

 some width, and contains many good houses, besides a comfort- 

 able hotel where the coach stops. We were booked for the 

 Tuam branch. The road continues over the same uninteresting 

 level, through the villages of Ahascragh, Castle-Blakeney, and 

 Mount-Bellew, where Mr. Bellew resides. This is one of 

 those estates that so strikingly exhibit the difference between 

 the kind and resident landlord and the reckless absentee. 

 Here every thing looks smiling and happy, — the cottages 

 comfortable and well glazed, — and their occupiers visibly under 

 the hand of improvement. A large tract of bog has been 



