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 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?"