"What are we to land here for?" said I to the coxswain.
"Only just to show your honour O'Sullivan's cascade," was the reply.
"Here, Doolan, show the gentleman the way." Ascending a rugged path
through the wood, we soon reached the foot of the fall.
"Isn't that as fine a sight as you'd meet with in a month of Sundays,"
said Doolan. "Only see how the white water comes _biling_ like a pot of
_praties_ over the big, black rocks, down it comes, one tumble over the
other, the green trees all the while stretching out their arms as if
they wanted to stop it. And then it makes such a _dickins_ of a _nise_
as it pounces into that black pool at the bottom, that it's enough to
bother the brains of a man entirely. Why, then, isn't it a wonder how
all that water sprung up out of the mountain? for sure, isn't there a
bit of a lake above there, in the hollow of the hill that the waterfall
comes out of,--they calls it O'Sullivan's Punch Bowl?"
"And, pray, who was this O'Sullivan that had such a capacious Punch
Bowl?"
"Och, then, 'tis he's the fine, portly looking _jantleman_, and has a
_vice_ (voice) as big as twenty; 'twould do your heart good to hear the
cry of him on a stag hunt day, making the mountain ring again."
"Well, Doolan, you haven't told me all this time who O'Sullivan is."
"Why, then, that's the _quare_ question for your honour to be after
_axing_ me. Sure all the country knows O'Sullivan of Toomies, for didn't
him, and his father before him, live at the butt end of the mountain,
near the neck of the Lawn; and wasn't they great chieftains in the
_ould_ times; and hadn't they a great sketch of country to themselves:
they haven't so much now, for their hearts were too big for their
_manes_ (means;) and that's the _rason_ O'Sullivan was obligated to sell
this part of the mountain to Mr. Herbert of Mucruss?"
"A sad story this, Doolan; but it seems to me these O'Sullivans must
have been very fond of a bowl of punch, or why is the lake you mentioned
called O'Sullivan's Punch Bowl?"
"Oh, then, your honour's as sharp as a needle entirely; but about that
same lake it's a _quare_ story sure enough. A long time before there was
a waterfall here at all, one of the _rale ould_ O'Sullivans was out all
day hunting the red deer among the mountains. Well, sir, just as he was
getting quite weary, and was wishing for a drop of the _cratur_ to put
him in spirits--"
"Or spirits into him," said I.
"Oh, sure, 'tis all the same thing," returned Doolan with a grin,
intended for a smile. "'Tis all one surely, if a man can only have the
drop when he wants it. Well, what should O'Sullivan see but the most
beautiful stag that ever was seen before or since in this world; for he
was as big as a colt, and had horns upon him like a weaver's beam, and a
collar of real gold round his neck. Away went the stag, and away went
the dogs after him full cry, and O'Sullivan after the dogs, for he was
determined to have that beautiful fine stag; and though, as I said, he
was tired and weary enough, you'd think the sight of that stag put fresh
life into him. A pretty bit of a dance he led him, for he was an
enchanted stag. Away he went entirely off by Macgillicuddy's Reeks,
round by the mountains of the Upper Lake, crossed the river by the
Eagle's Nest, and never stopped nor staid till he came to where the
Punch Bowl is now. When O'Sullivan came to the same place he was fairly
ready to drop, and for certain that was no wonder; but what vexed him
more than all was to find his dogs at fault, and the never a bit of a
stag to be seen high nor low. Well, my dear _sowl_, he didn't know what
to make of it, and seeing there was no use in staying there, and it so
late, he whistled his dogs to him, and was just going to go home. The
moon was just setting over to the top of the mountain shedding her
light, broad and bright, over the edge of the wood and down on the lake,
which was like a sheet of silver, except where the islands threw their
black shadows over the water. O'Sullivan looked about him, and began to
grow quite dismal in himself, for sure it was a lonesome sight, and
besides he had a sort of dread upon him, though he couldn't tell the
reason why. So not liking to stay there, as I said before, he was just
going to make the best of his way home, when, who should he see, but
Fuan Mac Cool (Fingal.) standing like a big _joint_ (giant) on the top
of a rock. 'Hallo, O'Sullivan,' says he, 'where are you going so fast?'
says he, 'come back with me,' says he, 'I want to have some talk with
you.' You may be sure it was O'Sullivan was amazed and a little bit
frightened too, though he wouldn't _pertind_ to it; and it would be no
wonder if he was; for if O'Sullivan had a big _vice_, (voice) Fuan Mac
Cool had a bigger ten times, and it made the mountains shake again like
thunder, and all the eagles fly up to the moon. 'What do you want with
me?' says O'Sullivan, at the same time putting on as _bould_ a face as
he could. 'I want to know what business you had hunting my stag?' says
Fuan, 'by the vestment,' says he, 'if 'twas any one else but yourself,
O'Sullivan, I'd play the red vengeance with him. But, as you're one of
the right sort, I'll pass it over this time; and, as my stag has led you
a pretty dance over the mountains, I'll give you a drop of good drink,
O'Sullivan; only take my advice, and never hunt my stag again.' Then
Fuan Mac Cool stamped with his foot, and all of a sudden, just in the
hollow which his foot made in the mountain, there came up a little lake,
which tumbled down the rocks, and made the waterfall. When O'Sullivan
went to take a drink of it, what should it be but _rale_ whiskey punch,
and it staid the same way, running with whiskey punch, morning, noon,
and night, until the _Sasenaghs_[4] came into the country, when all at
once it was turned to water, though it goes still by the name of
O'Sullivan's Punch Bowl.'"
[4] Saxons--The English.
* * * * *
In the island, the guide importunes Mr. Croker to visit the shelf of a
rock overshadowed by yew, and called the Bed of Honour, "because 'twas
there a lord-lieutenant of Ireland would go to sleep to cool himself
after drinking plenty of whiskey punch." He is cautioned against
venturing too near the ledge of a rock, "the very spot the poor author
gentleman fell from; they called him Hell--Hell--no, 'twasn't Hell,
either, but Hal; oh, then, what a head I have upon me--oh, I have it
now--Hallam's the name, your honour."
"What the author of the Middle Ages?"
"True for you, sir, he was a middle aged man;" "and then there was
another great writing gentleman, one Sir Walter Scott," &c.
Mr. Croker chances to be confined to his hotel by the rainy weather, and
this circumstance introduces the following legend, narrated by one of
his old friends:--
"Well, well," said Lynch, smiling, "I'll give you the legend of Saint
Swithin exactly as it was told to me about a month since--I have
occasionally employed an industrious, poor man, named Tom Doody, to work
in my garden. 'Well, Tom,' said I to him, 'this is Swithin's day, and
not a drop of rain--you see the old saying of "forty days' rain" goes
for nothing.'--'O, but the day isn't over yet,' said Tom, 'so you'd
better not halloo, sir, till you're out of the wood. I'll go bail we'll
have rain some time of the day, and then you may be sure of it for the
forty days.'--'If that's the way, Tom,' said I, 'this same Swithin must
have been the thirstiest saint in the calendar; and it's quite certain
he must be a real Irish saint, since he's so fond of the drop.'--'You
may laugh if you please,' said Tom, resting on his spade, 'you may laugh
if you please, but it's a bad thing any how to _spake_ that way of the
saints; and, sure, Saint Swithin was a blessed priest, and the rain was
a miracle sent on his account; but may be you never heard how it came to
pass.'--'No, Tom, I did not,' said I--'Well, then, I'll tell you,' said
he, 'how it was. Saint Swithin was a priest, and a very holy man, so
holy that he went by no other name but that of the blessed priest. He
wasn't like the priests now-a-days, who ride about on fine horses, with
spectacles stuck upon their noses, and horsewhips in their hands, and
polished boots on their legs, that fit them as _nate_ as a Limerick
glove (God forgive me for _spaking_ ill of the _clargy_, but some of
them have no more conscience than a pig in a _pratie_ garden;') I give
you Doody's own words," said Mr. Lynch.
"That's exactly what I wish."
"And he continued--'Saint Swithin was not that kind of priest, no such
thing; for he did nothing but pray from morning to night, so that he
brought a blessing on the whole country round; and could cure all sorts
of diseases, and was so charitable that he'd give away the shirt off his
back. Then, whenever he went out, it was quite plain and sober, on a
rough little _mountainy garran_; and he thought himself grand entirely
if his big _ould_ fashioned boots got a rub of the _grase_. It was no
wonder he should be called the blessed priest, and that the people far
and near should flock to him to mass and confession; or that they
thought it a blessed thing to have him lay his hands on their heads.
It's a pity the likes of him should ever die, but there's no help for
death; and sure if he wasn't so good entirely he'd have been left, and
not be taken away as he was; for 'tis them that are most wanting the
first to go. The news of his death flew about like lightning; and there
was nothing but _ullagoning_ through all the country, and they had no
less than right, for they lost a good friend the day he died. However,
from _ullagoning_, they soon came to fighting about where he was to be
buried. His own parish wouldn't part with him if they got half Ireland,
and sure they had the best right to him; but the next parish wanted to
get him by the _lauve laider_ (strong hand,) for they thought it would
bring a blessing on them to have his bones among them; so his own
parishioners at last took and buried him by night, without the others
knowing any thing about it. When the others heard it they were tearing
mad, and raised a large faction, thinking to take him up and carry him
away in spite of his parishioners; so they had a great battle upon it;
but those who had the best right to him were beat out and out, and the
others were just going to take him up, when there came all at once such
rain as was never seen before or since; it was so heavy that they were
obliged to run away half _drownded_, and give it up as a bad job. They
thought, however, that it wouldn't last long, and that they could come
again; but they were out in that, for it never stopped raining in that
manner for forty days, so they were obliged to give it up entirely; and
ever since that time there's always more or less rain on Saint Swithin's
day, and for forty days after.'
"Just as Tom Doody had finished his story there came a tremendous
shower. 'There now, why,' said Tom, with a look of triumph, as we ran
for shelter, 'there now, why, isn't it a true bill? well, I knew Saint
Swithin wouldn't fail us.' And I, as the very elements seemed to be in
his favour, was obliged to leave him the victory."
* * * * *
We pass over Mr. Croker's account of Mucruss Abbey and all its legendary
lore, to "Tim Marcks's adventures with a walking skull," at Aghadoe.
"A fine extensive prospect this," said I to General Picket, so was my
guide called.
"That's the good truth for your honour," he replied, "only it's a mighty
lonesome place, and they say it's haunted by spirits, though Tim Marcks
says there's no such thing. May be your honour wouldn't know _Thicus
Morckus_; he's a long _stocah_ of a fellow, with a big nose, wears knee
breeches, corderoy leggings, and takes a power of snuff. And, if your
honour would like to see him, he lives at Corrigmalvin, at the top of
High Street, in the town of Killarney. To be sure, some people say, all
that comes from Tim isn't gospel, but that's neither here nor there; so,
as I was saying, 'I don't believe in spirits,' says he to me, of a day
he was mending the road here, and I along with him--'The dickins you
don't,' says I, 'and what's your _rason_ for that same?'--'I'll tell you
that,' says he; 'it was a _could_ frosty night in the month of December,
the doors were shut, and we were all sitting by the side of a blazing
turf fire. My father was smoking his _doodeen_ in the chimney corner, my
mother was overseeing the girls that were tonging the flax, and I and
the other _gossoons_ were doing nothing at all, only roasting _praties_
in the ashes. "Was the colt brought in?" says my father. "Wisha, fakes
then! I believes not," says I. "Why, then, Tim," says he, "you must run
and drive him in directly, for it's a mortal could night." "And where is
he, father?" says I. "In the far field, at the other side of the _ould_
church," says he. "Murder!" says I, for I didn't like the thoughts of
going near the _ould_ church at all, at all. But there was no use in
saying _agen_ it, for my father (God be merciful to him!) had us under
as much command as a regiment of soldiers. So away I went, with a light
foot and a heavy heart. Well, I soon came to the bounds' ditch between
the farm and the _berrin_ ground of the _ould_ church. Then I slackened
my pace a little, and kept looking hither and over, for fear of being
taken by surprise. The moon was shining clear as day, so that I could
see the gray tombstones and the white skulls; when, all at once, I
thought one of them began to move. I could hardly believe my two eyes;
but, fakes, it was true enough; for presently it came walking down the
hill, quite leisurely at first, then a little faster, till at last it
came rolling at the rate of a fox hunt. "Twill be stopped at the bounds'
ditch," thinks I; but I was never more out in my reckoning, for it
bowled fair through the gap, and made directly up to me. "By the mortal
frost," says I, "I'm done for;" and away I scampered as fast as my legs
could carry me; but the skull came faster after me, for I could hear
every lump it gave against the stones. It's a long stretch of a hill
from the _berrin_ ground down to the road; but you'd think I wasn't
longer getting down than whilst you'd be saying "Jack Robinson." Sure
enough I did make great haste; but if I did, "the more haste the worse
speed," they say, and so by me any how, for I went souse up to my neck
in a dirty _Lochaune_ by the side of the road. Well, when I recovered a
little, what would I see but the skull at the edge of the _Lochaune_,
stuck fast in a furze bush, and grinning down at me. "Oh, you're there,"
says I; "I'll have one rap at you any how, for worse than die I can't;"
so I up with a lump of a blackthorn, I had in my fist, and gives it a
rap, when what should it be after all, but a huge rat, which had got
into the skull, and, trying to get out again, it made it to roll down
the hill in that frightful way. To be sure,' said Tim, 'to be sure it
was mighty frightful, but it wasn't a ghost after all; and, indeed,
(barring that) I never saw any thing worse than myself, though we lived
for a long time near the _ould_ church of Aghadoe.'"
This is all we can spare room for at present. The second volume is
untouched, and will afford us a few extractable pieces--but they must be
short. We have heard of all stages of laughter--as being
convulsed--ready to burst--splitting sides--and if our readers promise
not to _die_, in due order, with laughter--we may probably recur to Mr.
Croker's very tickling volumes.
* * * * *