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:—­