194 
Cottage, and, unluckily; as he naturally 
thinks, just as he reaches the village, he 
is overturned, and dislocates his shoulder. 
This event, however—such is the course of 
things—was the very means of bringing 
him within reach of his mistress. The com- 
modore hears of the accident, and insists 
upon swinging a hammock for him in his 
own cottage till he recovers. The mother 
is as watchful as a cat, but of course, event- 
ually, the young folks get an interview, and 
all is explained. The coxswain detects the 
lieutenant kissing the young lady’s hand, 
and reports—and as saints seldom do any 
thing, it seems, direct, she manoeuvres with 
the apothecary, alarms the commodore for 
his health, and effects a removal to Chel- 
tenham—to get rid of the lieutenant. But 
just as this is brought about, a letter arrives 
to summon the lieuteflant to his old post on 
board a new ship—with a promising pros- 
pect of prize money from American captures. 
The commodore and the ladies, never- 
theless, proceed to Cheltenham, where the 
widow presently flirts with the preacher ; and 
a military officer, just returned from India, 
rich as the mines of Golconda, smiles upon 
Emily. The commodore, finding himself 
neglected, determines on returning to the 
cottage with the coxswain—and soon re- 
ceives a communication of the approaching 
marriage of both mother and daughter. 
But suddenly presents himself again the 
young lieutenant. His ship had encountered 
an American vessel of war; in the engage- 
ment—which is detailed with great parti- 
cularity—the captain and first lieutenant 
were killed—the second fights the ship, and 
after a desperate struggle defeats the enemy, 
for which he is made post. With his new 
rank, and £3,000 prize money, he demands 
the commodore’s consent to propose for 
Emily, which is promptly given, accom- 
panied with a declaration that he is pro- 
bably too late. He is, however, not too 
late—and Emily is rescued at the very 
altar ; and the preacher, finding the widow 
not so rich as he had anticipated, holds 
back, and leaves her finally in the lurch— 
or to look out for another of the order. 
Legends of the Lakes of Killarney, by 
T. Crofton Croker. 2 vols. ; 1829.—At 
the very announcement, every body knows 
what he has to expect from Crofton Croker 
—vernacular exhibition of Irish extrava- 
gance—humour we scarcely venture to call 
it. But he is a very clever fellow, with a 
pencil at once light and vivacious, dextrous 
and effective. He shews off all his accom- 
plishments—seribbling, sketching, and scor- 
ing. Many of the sketches are equal to 
Mr. Hood’s, and quite in his style—and the 
music is, we dare say, accurately given, and 
conveying a meaning which words of course 
cannot—and for our own part we welcome 
any thing calculated to supersede verbal 
description. The legends, unluckily, in 
spite of all his maneuvring, pall upon the 
Monthly Review of Literature, 
(Fer. 
taste, from the sameness, not so much of 
the tales and their incidents, as from the 
cast and character of the absurdity. He 
has not, we dare say, any thing like ex- 
hausted his wares, but another budget will 
be perfectly intolerable—nobody wants more 
than a specimen of what is radically absurd. 
The book furnishes a survey and tour of 
these celebrated Killarney lakes—every spot 
has a name, and every name a legend—and 
Mr. Croker hasno mercy. The cicerones 
of the place, who are as cunning as foxes, 
cover their roguery and inventiveness with 
the cloak of simplicity, and keep up the 
ball by playing into each other’s hands— 
the stimulus, too, is a powerful one—the 
best talker is the best guide, and the best 
paid. Generally, the legends are sheer ex~ 
travaganzas, which it soon becomes difficult 
to grin at. We caught ourselves, several 
times, when we came to a new one, turn- 
ing over the pages to see how Jong it was— 
a strong symptom of weariness, we take it, 
and of the incompetency of these things to 
keep up an interest. The author has con- 
trived to interweave his compliments to his 
literary acquaintances with great dexterity 
—nothing like this kind of “‘ clawing.” 
The Legends, however, are not all—the 
volumes furnish a number of little charac- 
teristic incidents, indicative of deep-seated 
prejudices and impressions, which can be 
the result of nothing but the corrupt teach- 
ing of the country. 
“ That’s a wonderful story—where did 
you get it, Daniel?’ ‘This is said in reply 
to alegend of St. Bridget—who made three 
ears of corn grow out of a griddle-cake. 
“ Why then,”’ said Daniel, “I read it many 
a long day ago in the Scripturs, or the 
lives of the Saints, or some such book ; and 
sure, I suppose it’s all one; but at any rate 
we ought to put our trust in God.” 
On coming out of Killamey Church, an 
immense crowd assembled to see, what in 
Killarney was a wonder, a Protestant Lady 
Kenmare coming out of church— 
Mixing with the crowd, I could not avoid over- 
hearing some of the remarks—* Why then, isn’t 
she a fine figure of a woman?” said one. 
“Oh, but isn’t it a pity to see her coming out of 
a church, where a Lady Kenmare never went be- 
fore, since the world was a world ?” said another. 
“ Och,” said a third, ‘‘ she’ll soon be taught 
the right way, and come to the true church; for 
didn’t my lord take her to Rome to see the pope? 
And doesn’t she go to visit the ladies at the con- 
vint, and hear the childer the riglit catechism? 
And doesn’t the priest stand by, and be explain- 
ing the maning of it all to her ladyship?” 
“That’s true for you,’ was the reply; “and, 
sure, if she was at last mass to-day, she’d have 
hard 2a beautiful fine sarmint, from Bishop 
Eagan, that would have convarted her entirely, 
so it would. For didn’t he tell low the Catholics 
was the only true chure? and how there wasn’t 
much differ between them and the rale protes- 
tants? for, sure, there isa great differ between 
the rale protestants and such methodises and 
oF 
