a perfect storm. Nothing can exceed the desert bleakness of the northern, or Tipperary side, of these mountains. Mile after mile our zigzag road led us up in traverses, through scenes of apparently unreclaimable sterility, unenlivened with a human habitation. Thousands of acres are nearly destitute of surface-earth, and are covered with fragments of stone. The only living beings that we met for several miles were two miserable sheep, that cowered from the storm beneath a dyke. When at length we reached the highest elevation attained by the road, the quality of the ground seemed somewhat less sterile. We passed a lonely hollow among the hills, in the basin of which was a dark pool surrounded with steep, mossy banks. Some miles of nearly level road succeeded, the quality of the soil still improving; traces of agricultural industry appeared, and we soon passed well-built farmhouses and thriving plantations belonging to the tenants of the Duke of Devonshire, who is universally allowed to be a humane and considerate landlord, although an absentee.*

* From the example afforded by such landlords as the Duke of Devonshire, some persons have sought a defence of absenteeism in general. These persons say, "Look at the comfortable and prosperous tenantry on the duke's estate, or on the estates of Lords A., B., or C., who are absentees. Contrast the comforts of these tenants with the wretched condition of the tenants of

The southern descent of the mountains between Tipperary and Waterford is as rich and beautiful as the northern side is barren. The road leads for several miles through ravines clothed with luxuriant ash and oak woods, whose solitudes are enlivened with the wild music of rushing waters. From these defiles we emerged beneath the Castle of Lismore.

The greater part of the drive from Lismore to Mount Melleraye is exquisitely beautiful. It is shaded, as far as Cappoquin, by embowering oaks and beech of old growth. On the Melleraye side of Cappoquin, the road becomes very abrupt, and in one or two places dangerous from its great steepness. It runs for about a mile along the upper verge

certain tyrannical resident landlords; and then, (if you can,) call residence a blessing or absenteeism an evil!"

It requires little pains to expose the sophistry of such a plea as this. The benevolent absentee landlord is not benevolent because he is an absentee, but because he has a humane heart and just principles. His absenteeism has nothing to do with his benevolence; unless, perhaps, it may prevent its full expansion. In like manner, the resident tyrant is not a tyrant because he is resident; but because he is extravagant and avaricious; or because he hates the religious and political principles of the people. If a greater number of the benevolent proprietors of large estates who are now absentees resided in Ireland, their presence and example would powerfully tend to shame their grasping and exterminating brethren out of their tyranny.

The advocates of absenteeism are in the habit of assuming that the tyrannical landlords are chiefly to be found among the residents. This assumption, I believe, to be directly the reverse of the fact.

of a wooded glen, through which flows a brook, that, when we passed, was swollen and turbid from the recent rains. I had been looking anxiously out for the monastery, but night fell before we were within two miles of it.

At length we reached the abode of the Trappists, and on arriving at the outer gate we were met by a procession consisting of the abbot, the sub-prior, and about twenty of the brethren, all dressed in their monastic habiliments. The abbot, in episcopal mitre and robes, and bearing his crozier, led forward Mr. O'Connell by the hand, whilst I was conducted by the sub-prior in a similar manner. The monks then followed, chanting a vesper hymn. The loud music had a grand effect as it rolled along the lofty roof. We proceeded through the aisle of the monastery church, of which the extent, partially revealed by the torches borne by the brethren, seemed greater than it really was, from the utter darkness that obscured its farther extremity. When the usual vesper service had been performed in a chapel adjoining the principal church, an address of welcome was presented to Mr. O'Connell, who pronounced an appropriate reply. He begged permission to constitute himself counsel to the monastery, whose inmates were at that period threatened with litigation. The matter alluded to has since been set right.

Two hours after midnight I was wakened by a violent storm of rain and wind. Looking forth upon the night, I saw lights in the chapel, and the chant of hymns was heard in the fitful pauses of the gust. The monks were celebrating the usual service of lauds. The hour-the darkness-the stormthe dim lights of the chapel, and the voices streaming out upon the lonely mountain's side, all combined to produce an effect in a high degree wild, impressive, and romantic.

There are some young plantations adjoining the monastery. I presented the reverend fathers with Cruickshank's work on the "Culture of Foresttrees,” of which I hope they have made good use.

During our stay at the monastery, Mr. O'Connell and I used to breakfast tête-à-tête in the abbot's parlour. Immediately after breakfast, he retired to his bed-room, where he remained quite alone until dinner, which meal we partook of tête-à-tête, and immediately on its conclusion, he would again retire either to his dormitory, or to the chapel, where he remained for an hour or two. One day, Mr. Villiers Stuart came to wait on the abbot's illustrious guest, and was told he had given strict directions that he should not be disturbed while in retreat. A few days afterwards, a public meeting was held in Lismore, at which Mr. Stuart

VOL. I.

D

alluded to that circumstance, humorously adding, that he was happy to find that Mr. O'Connell's sojourn at Mount Melleraye had not infected him with the silence of its inmates, as his adoption of the Carthusian system of the Trappists would seriously injure the interests of popular liberty in Ireland.

After a week spent at Melleraye, we quitted it, grateful for the hospitable kindness of the abbot, and interested in the success of his useful establishment. On our journey to Cork, the Liberator was, as usual, extremely communicative. He spoke of novels and novelists. He complained that Miss Edgeworth had never advocated the Catholic claims in any of her numerous publications. I praised her Irish tales, especially her "Absentee" and "Ormond."

"I don't like 'Ormond,'" said O'Connell," she has spoiled it, by making the Irish officer in the French brigade such a thorough scoundrel. And then the name she gives him-my name-Connal! I am quite sure she was guided in her selection of that name by hostility to me."

"That I think very improbable," said I. "If such had been her motive, she would have spelt the name as you do yours.

"Oh! that would have been too palpable."

We spoke of a story I meant to weave into a novel.'