ch,
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 pri