keeners*. They had the best of it, as it happened to be raining, as usual. Near Waterford we passed a man on the road, shabbily enough dressed, who was riding a remarkably fine young horse which stepped out famously in his trot. On questioning him, he said that he bred it at his farm, and that he had three others of the same stock equally good. On further conversation I found that he could not say, as from his appearance I judged he well might— "These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak," for he told me he possessed not less than two hundred acres of land, and boasted of his breed of horses indeed, he seemed mighty proud of his horse, which he was not disposed to part with, and trotted alongside of the mail for some distance, chatting as we went along. 6 Whiskey does not appear to be so much in vogue in these parts as in others; at least I conclude so, from the number of punch and porter-houses,' as they are designated on signs; unless, indeed, the punch is what may be better understood as whiskey * Keener. According to Dr. O'Brien, the keen is "a cry for the dead, according to certain loud and mournful notes and verses, wherein the pedigree, land, property, generosity, and good actions of the deceased person and his ancestors are diligently and harmoniously recounted, in order to excite pity and compassion in the hearers, and to make them sensible of their great loss in the death of the person whom they lament." These women may be called professional, and are hired for the purpose. I did not, however, hear any of the "howl" or lamentation as they passed us. toddy. A respectable man, who was seated on the coach, said he supplied many of these houses with the ingredients, and that he was travelling to collect his debts. He had left Waterford by one of the morning coaches, and, having travelled about twenty miles, was now returning with about one hundred and sixty pounds in his pocket. He jumped off the coach at one little miserable-looking punch and porter-house, where I imagined they could not have scraped together twenty pence, but on returning to the coach he said he had added twenty pounds to his stock. There appeared to be a good deal of land which had evidently been suffered to run to waste, probably belonging to the church, or Trinity college, or some other public body, and granted in perpetuity or on long leases, at nominal rents, which is one of the crying evils of Ireland. In this part of the country a great number of the lower classes are said to be divided into two factions, whose violent proceedings sometimes alarm the whole neighbourhood. They are known by the names of the Gows and Polheens, the meaning of which, if they have any, I could no more learn than that of Whiteboys, Peep-ofday-boys, Jays, and Magpies, and many others that are a disgrace to the country. The two in question, as far as I could learn, are of different clans, long hostilely opposed to each other from some old and deadly feud, unconnected altogether either with politics or religion. The real fact is, that fighting is a pastime and may almost be considered as constitutional among the lower class of Hibernians, especially when the whiskey is in the head; they are then ready for an affray with their nearest relations, friends, or foes,-and yet they are the best-humoured, most kind-hearted, and easily-managed people in the world when sober, and not under some particular excitement. The brutal fights in which they engage occur on various occasions, when such factions, for instance, as the Gows and Polheens, meet designedly to break each other's heads,—when, at meetings of friends, they unfortunately get drunk with whiskey—or at fairs, instigated probably by an individual insulting another—and almost always on the day of some patron saint. On many of these occasions some few individuals are generally found who, rather than remain idle spectators, or return home with a head unbroken, will provoke a fray. "Thus," says Crofton Croker, "from a mere love of combat, and without any malice, a man will take off his coat and, holding it up by the collar, trail it through the assembly, challenging or beguiling any one to tread on it, which insult he no sooner succeeds in obtaining, than he feels justified in knocking down the offender, and the sport begins." This accords with the old story of an Irish jontleman who, going into a coffee-room in London, full of people, and hanging up his hat on a nail, exclaimed, " I should like just now to see the scoundrel who will take down that hat." The Irish, wherever they go, appear to carry with them the extraordinary propensity for a fête and a fight, in which the former always leads to the latter, and for which an Irishman is always prepared with his shillelagh, though he carries it merely "just to keep the cold out of his hand." A friend of mine tells me that two cargoes of emigrants left Ireland last year, from two different ports, for Upper Canada. The one that first arrived and got settled, hearing of the arrival of the other, located at a little distance, resolved on paying their countrymen a visit; the consequence was a tremendous affray, in which many a broken head and bruised limb were given and received, and it is said one or two died of their wounds. They parted, however, in great good humour over a flagon of whiskey and brandy, and have remained on friendly terms ever since. It might be supposed that the celebration of the day of a patron saint would be the least likely to promote these riotous proceedings, especially when the assemblage takes place, as it usually does, at some holy well, to which are brought, as to another Bethesda, "a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, and withered," under a conviction that, by the influence of the patron saint, after washing in the water or drinking it, their several diseases will be healed. But not only crowd to these wells the sick for cure, but also the sinful for expiation; "and their priests, deluded or deluding, enjoin those pilgrimages as penance, or applaud them, when volun |