In the year 1842, I indulged in an excursion to the County of Mayo, and enjoyed a sojourn of a fortnight at the house of a most hospitable friend near Crossmolina. On leaving Dublin, I travelled by rail to Mullingar, and from thence proceeded by the mail-coach to my destination. I may mention here that a few months previous, a transaction had occurred in the vicinity of Strokestown which was of a most unusual, perhaps I might say an exceptional, character in Connaught--namely, the murder of a landlord. I was the sole occupant of the inside of the vehicle, and as the journey was nocturnal, I had several hours of sound and refreshing sleep. The stoppage of the coach in Strokestown to change horses awakened me, and I lowered the window in order to alight. The door was at once opened for me by a young fellow, who said, "Strokestown, sir." "Oh!" I replied, "this is where you shot Major M----." "Troth it is," said he, "we are all rale docthors here, and when we can't cure, of coorse we kill." Such a jest, although prompt and witty, was not calculated to produce a favorable impression on the mind of a stranger; but during my visit to the West, I did not hear an angry word spoken, nor did I observe any tendency on the part of the humbler classes to treat those in higher positions with hostility or disrespect. I was perfectly pleased with the country and the people, and my friend's hospitality afforded me social gratifications in which there was one novelty which I peculiarly relished. It was a liquor derived from no foreign vineyard, but was so peculiarly Irish as to induce one whom I am certainly not singular in believing to be the greatest lyric poet that ever existed, to make it the subject of song adapted to the joyous and spirit-stirring air of "Paddy O'Rafferty." I shall quote the lines of the immortal Moore as fully justifying the predilection which I have acknowledged for the potation he describes:- "Drink of this cup--you'll find there's spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in, Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. Send round the cup--for oh! there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.