became of a sudden mysteriously furnished with
"bludgeons," and things being now happily
placed on a proper footing, an animated
argument set in. The familiar music of stricken
skulls re-echoed once more in the strangers'
land, and the joyous hurly-burly raged. But
the neighbourhood—with the foolish trepidation
of all neighbourhoods—were thrown into
extremities of terror, and "must needs" call in
the "civil power." This interference was
attended with the usual results: prisoners were
captured, and the rest dispersed, adjourning
over for the present the settlement of the grand
question, as to the comparative merits of the
gentlemen of Munster and of Connaught.

It happened shortly afterwards that a well-
known Irish corps—the North Cork Militia,
whose adventures are recorded in Mr. Harry
Lorrequer's Life—chanced to be quartered at
Gosport. Some of the privates were walking on
the beach at Portsmouth, when the watermen
there became a little personal in their remarks
on the national peculiarities of the Irish soldiers.
It needs but a poor knowledge of the Celtic
temperament to know that such an invitation would
be warmly, and even gratefully, accepted. In a
few moments the watermen and the gallant Irish
were engaged in serious conflict, in which the
latter were prevailing, when more watermen
came up and restored the balance of success.
But the glad news had drifted towards the
barracks at Gosport, and eager North Corkians,
sniffing the battle from afar, were already on
their way to the scene of action: so that, very
shortly, the beach presented a happy reproduction
of the Little Troy at Donnybrook—now,
alas! far away behind. A battle where such
elements were engaged as watermen and Irish,
presented a combination of extraordinary
attraction. The timorous and inexperienced
inhabitants—according to the prevailing law—
were, as usual, thrown into a state of trepidation,
and actually proceeded to close their shops
—an unworthy precaution! The battle on the
beach, meantime, continued with fury, the watermen
being strengthened with large reinforcements,
and constant drafts arriving to the
assistance of the North Corkians.

As before, the interference of third parties is
invoked. With that unfair inversion of the
good old manly English rule which countenances
a fair stand-up fight, an open ring and
no favour, the licensed disturbers of riot and
disorder now appear on the scene in the shape
of soldiers in large force; and, as a matter of
course, the pleasant entertainment is abruptly
brought to a close. How can this good old
sport be expected to hold its ground when there
is so little encouragement held out, or rather
when such obstacles are purposely thrown in
the way? No wonder that the promoters of the
exercises, justly disgusted, should have entirely
withdrawn from the thankless task of catering
for an ungrateful public.

These are scanty records of the battles of
the Celts and the Autocthynes. Many more
remain unsung: possibly because "they lack a
sacred bard," and perhaps because there is a
little monotony and sameness in the incidents.
It is the old iteration of skulls and sticks,
and sticks and skulls, and that invariable
interference of those to whom the prerogative of
law and order gives such an unfair advantage.

So far for the comic side of these collisions.
Perhaps it would be vain to hope that they will
ever die away while there are such differences
as race, temper, and, above all, religious
opinions. It were to be wished that all classes
of those who come under the composite
character of British subject might live peacefully
together in a sort of grand Happy Family; but
it is plain that the old angles and corners of
national prejudices are not yet rubbed down.

METHOD.

NATURE, that will not be commanded, never
   To arbitrary method hath submitted:
And time, that tends on nature, men not ever
   Have into limitary system fitted.

We call a year a year; and bid it cover
   Three hundred five and sixty days: who'll trust it?
Mere fiction! since a fraction still stays over,
   And we, to keep our plan, must readjust it.

Even if within the hundredth of a minute
   We could approach precision, that small fraction
Would still bear our discomfiture within it,
   And doom our nicest system to destruction.

Then let us follow Nature, glad and fleeting,
   Since her fast footstep not her best trap catches;
Content to time her progress by the beating
   Of her own bosom, not of our wise watches.

AN ACT OF MERCY.

IN TWO PARTS.

PART II. THE ACT ITSELF.

IN a former article we occupied ourselves
with some of the details of the trouble which
has lately come upon the workpeople of
Lancashire. Our present business is not with the
disease, but with the remedy which has been
applied to it—with what has been done to supply
the wants of these suffering people. From the
examination we shall rise with a sense of
satisfaction, and of heartfelt pride. Men have
followed out this object of feeding the hungry
as if it were some lucrative occupation in
which they were engaging for their own especial
benefit. They have passed their days in
inquiring into the condition of these suffering
people, and their evenings in taking counsel
how to meet their wants. Little things done
continually, small acts performed habitually,
are really the severest of trials, and exceed
in importance those rare heroic achievements
which are done once for all under the pressure
of excitement, and then are over. To get
up night after night with your dinner in
your throat, and leave your comfortable
fireside and your friends, in order that you may
devote a portion of the evening to the
organisation of a soup-kitchen, involves, especially