OR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

LEGENDS OF THE LAKES; OR, SAYINGS AND DOINGS AT KILLARNEY.

_By T. Crofton Croker, Esq._

Two volumes of "tickling" legendary tales are almost too much for our
laughter-holding sides, but more especially at this merry
season--fraught with humour--and when reminiscences of the past make up
for lack of realities of the present. To "notice" such a work is ten
times more (we had almost said) trouble than to despatch half a dozen
dull books, or a dozen harmless, well-meaning satires on human nature.
But we will do our best to detach some of the good things from Mr.
Croker's volumes, although the humour of the _sketches_ which adorn
them, is of too subtle a quality for our pen or sheet to hold.

Mr. Croker takes for granted that when people go to see the Lakes of
Killarney, they do not intend making a very serious business of the
excursion; but rather desire, while their eyes are pleased with romantic
scenery, that their ears should be tickled by legendary tales; and
accordingly he thinks it extraordinary that no guide-book should exist
for the local traditions of Killarney. This accounts for our finding Mr.
Croker on the box of the Killarney mail coach, beside Mat. Crowley, the
driver, at page 2, of his first volume. Here is no preamble about
"friends pressing the author to print--not intended for the public
eye--a mere note-book," &c.--but he begins his journey with the first
crack of the whip, and a "righte merrie" journey it is.

Our facetious friend soon reaches Killarney, and is introduced to the
lord high-admiral of the lakes, and then, as the newspapers say of a
pantomime, the "fun begins." Our first extract is

O'SULLIVAN'S PUNCH BOWL.

"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 wonde