Chapter 3

"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."

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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.

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SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

_Analogous Growth of Trees and Animals._

Trees placed in an exposed situation have their resources;--the object being to protect the sap-vessels, which transmit nutriment, and which lie betwixt the wood and the bark, the tree never fails to throw out, and especially on the side most exposed to the blast, a thick coating of bark, designed to protect, and which effectually does protect, the sap-vessels and the process of circulation to which they are adapted, from the injury which necessarily must otherwise ensue. Now, if an animal is in danger of suffocation from want of vital air, instead of starving by being exposed to its unqualified rigour, instinct or reason directs the sufferer to approach those apertures through which any supply of that necessary of human life can be attained, and induces man, at the same time, to free himself from any coverings which may be rendered oppressive by the state in which he finds himself. Now it may be easily proved, that a similar instinct to that which induced the unfortunate sufferers in the black-hole of Calcutta to struggle with the last efforts to approach the solitary aperture which admitted air to their dungeon, and to throw from them their garments, in order to encourage the exertions which nature made to relieve herself by perspiration, is proper, also, to the noblest of the vegetable tribe. Look at a wood or plantation which has not been duly thinned:--the trees which exist will be seen drawn up to poles, with narrow and scanty tops, endeavouring to make their way towards such openings to the sky as might permit the access of light and air. If entirely precluded by the boughs which have closed over them, the weaker plants will be found strangely distorted by attempts to get out at a side of the plantation; and finally, if overpowered in these attempts by the obstacles opposed to them, they inevitably perish. As men throw aside their garments, influenced by a close situation, trees placed in similar circumstances, exhibit a bark thin and beautifully green and succulent, entirely divested of that thick, coarse, protecting substance which covers the sap-vessels in an exposed position.

There is a singular and beautiful process of action and re-action which takes place betwixt the progress of the roots and of the branches. The latter must, by their vigour and numbers, stretch out under ground before the branches can develope themselves in the air; and, on the other hand, it is necessary that the branches so develope themselves, to give employment to the roots in collecting food. There is a system of close commerce between them; if either fail in discharging their part, the other must suffer in proportion. The increase of the branches, therefore, in exposed trees is and must be in proportion with that of the roots, and _vice versâ_; and as the exposed tree spreads its branches on every side to balance itself against the wind, as it shortens its stem or trunk, to afford the mechanical force of the tempest a shorter lever to act upon, so numerous and strong roots spread themselves under ground, by way of anchorage, to an extent and in a manner unknown to sheltered trees.--_Quarterly Review_.

* * * * *

_Preservation of Eggs._

Relative to the preservation of eggs by immersion in lime-water, M. Peschier has given most satisfactory evidence of the efficacy of the process. Eggs which he had preserved for six years in this way, being boiled and tried, were found perfectly fresh and good; and a confectioner of Geneva has used a whole cask of eggs preserved by the same means. In the small way eggs may be thus preserved in bottles or other vessels. They are to be introduced when quite fresh, the bottle then filled with lime-water, a little powdered lime sprinkled in at last, and then the bottle closed. To prepare the lime-water, twenty or thirty pints of water are to be mixed up with five or six pounds of slaked quick-lime put into a covered vessel allowed to clear by standing, and the lime-water immediately used.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

ARRIVALS AT A WATERING PLACE.

SCENE--A conversazione at Lady Crumpton's--Whist and weariness, caricatures and Chinese Puzzle.--Young ladies making tea, and young gentlemen making the agreeable.--The stableboy handing rout-cakes.-- Music expressive of there being nothing to do.

I play a spade--such strange new faces Are flocking in from near and far: Such frights--Miss Dobbs holds all the aces.-- One can't imagine who they are! The lodgings at enormous prices, New donkeys, and another fly-- And Madame Bonbon out of ices, Although we're scarcely in July-- We're quite as sociable as any, But our old horse can hardly crawl-- And really where there are so many, We can't tell where we ought to call.

Pray who has seen the odd old fellow Who took the Doctor's house last week?-- A pretty chariot,--livery yellow, Almost as yellow as his cheek-- A widower, sixty-five, and surly, And stiffer than a poplar-tree-- Drinks rum and water, gets up early To dip his carcass in the sea-- He's always in a monstrous hurry, And always talking of Bengal; They say his cook makes noble curry-- I think, Louisa, we should call.

And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker, Has let her cottage on the hill?-- The drollest man, a sugar-baker, Last year imported from the till-- Prates of his _orses_ and his _oney_, Is quite in love with fields and farms-- A horrid Vandal,--but his money Will buy a glorious coat of arms; Old Clyster makes him take the waters; Some say he means to give a ball-- And after all, with thirteen daughters, I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.

That poor young man!--I'm sure and certain Despair is making up his shroud: He walks all night beneath the curtain Of the dim sky and murky cloud-- Draws landscapes,--throws such mournful glances!-- Writes verses,--has such splendid eyes-- An ugly name,--but Laura fancies He's some great person in disguise! And since his dress is all the fashion, And since he's very dark and tall, I think that, out of pure compassion, I'll get papa to go and call.

So Lord St. Ives is occupying The whole of Mr. Ford's Hotel-- Last Saturday his man was trying A little nag I want to sell. He brought a lady in the carriage-- Blue eyes,--eighteen, or thereabouts-- Of course, you know, we _hope_ it's marriage! But yet the _femme de chambre_ doubts. She look'd so pensive when we met her-- Poor thing! and such a charming shawl! Well! till we understand it better, It's quite impossible to call.

Old Mr. Fund, the London banker, Arrived to-day at Premium Court-- I would not, for the world, cast anchor In such a horrid dangerous port-- Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster, (Contractors play the meanest tricks) The roof's as crazy as its master, And he was born in fifty-six-- Stairs creaking--cracks in every landing, The colonnade is sure to fall-- We sha'n't find post or pillar standing, Unless we make great haste to call.

Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures, Last Sunday, in the Rector's seat? The finest shape,--the loveliest features, I never saw such tiny feet. My brother,--(this is quite between us) Poor Arthur,--'twas a sad affair! Love at first sight,--She's quite a Venus, But then she's poorer far than fair-- And so my father and my mother Agreed it would not do at all-- And so,--I'm sorry for my brother! It's settled that we're not to call.

And there's an author, full of knowledge-- And there's a captain on half-pay-- And there's a baronet from college, Who keeps a boy, and rides a bay-- And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon, Fine specimen of brogue and bone-- And Doctor Calipee, the canon, Who weighs, I fancy, twenty stone-- A maiden lady is adorning The faded front of Lily Hall-- Upon my word, the first fine morning, We'll make around, my dear, and call.

Alas! disturb not, maid and matron, The swallow in my humble thatch-- Your son may find a better patron, Your niece may meet a richer match-- I can't afford to give a dinner, I never was on Almack's list-- And since I seldom rise a winner, I never like to play at whist-- Unknown to me the stocks are falling-- Unwatch'd by me the glass may fall-- Let all the world pursue its calling, I'm not at home if people call.

_London Magazine._

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WINE DRINKING.

Use a little wine, for thy stomach's sake.

I Tim. v. 23.

So says St. Paul--and this seems to have been the opinion of the most ancient philosophers and physicians. A moderate use of it has been sanctioned by the wise and good in all ages. Those who have denied its virtues are those who have not been able to drink it. Asclepiades wrote upon wine, the use of which he introduced with almost every remedy, observing, that the gods had bestowed no more valuable gift on man: even the surly Diogenes drank it; for it is said of him, that he liked that wine best, which he drank at other people's cost--a notion adopted by the oinopholous Mosely, who, when asked, "What wine do you drink, doctor?" answered, "Port at home--claret abroad!"

Hippocrates, the father of physic, recommends a cheerful glass; and Rhases, an ancient Arabian physician, says, no liquor is equal to good wine. Reineck wrote a dissertation "De Potu Vinoso;" and the learned Dr. Shaw lauded the "juice of the grape." But the stoutest of its medical advocates was Tobias Whitaker, physician to Charles II., who undertook to prove the possibility of maintaining life, from infancy to old age, without sickness, by the use of wine!

It must, however, be remembered, that Whitaker was cordially attached to wine, and a greater friend to the vintner than to the apothecary, having as utter a dislike to unpalatable medicines, as the most squeamish of his patients; therefore, Dr. Toby's evidence must be taken with caution, independently of the courtly spirit that might have led him to adapt his theories to the times.