downs, at the foot of the magnificent Bellevue, and the more distant sugar-loaf mountain called the Dangle, together with Tynnehinch, (less celebrated for its unrivalled scenery than as the residence of Ireland's first patriot,) the dark deep glen, the black lake and mystic vale of Lugelough, contrasted quite magically with the highly cultivated beauties of Dunran: (the parks, and wilds, and sublime cascade of Powerscourt, and the newly-created magnificence of Mount Kennedy, abundantly prove that perfection itself may exist in contrasts:) in fine I found myself enveloped by the hundred beauties of that enchanting district, which, though of one family, were rendered yet more attractive by the variety of their features; and had I not been tied to laborious duties, I should infallibly have sought refuge there altogether from the cares of the world.

One of the greatest pleasures I enjoyed whilst resident at Dunran, was the near abode of the late Lord Rossmore, at that time commander-in-chief in Ireland. His Lordship knew my father, and, from my commencement in public life, had been my friend and a sincere one. He was a Scotsman born, but had come to Ireland when very young, as page to the Lord Lieutenant. He had married an heiress; had purchased the estate of Mount Kennedy; built a noble mansion; laid out some of the finest gardens in Ireland; and, in fact, improved the demesne, as far as taste, skill, and money could accomplish. He was what may be called a remarkably fine old man, quite the gentleman, and when at Mount Kennedy quite the country gentleman. He lived in a style few people can attain to his table, supplied by his own farms, was adapted to the Viceroy himself, yet was ever spread for his neighbours: in a word, no man ever kept a more even hand in society than Lord Rossmore, and no man was ever better repaid by universal esteem. Had his connexions possessed his understanding, and practised his habits, they would probably have found more friends when they wanted them.

This intimacy at Mount Kennedy gave rise to an occurrence the most extraordinary and inexplicable of my whole existence -an occurrence which for many years occupied my thoughts, and wrought on my imagination. Lord Rossmore was advanced in years, but I never heard of his having had a single day's indisposition. He bore, in his green old age, the appearance of robust health. During the vice-royalty of Earl Hardwick, Lady Barrington, at a drawing-room at Dublin Castle, met Lord Rossmore. He had been making up one of his weekly parties for Mount Kennedy, to commence the next day, and had sent

down orders for every preparation to be made. The Lord Lieutenant was to be of the company.

"My little farmer," said he to Lady Barrington, addressing her by a pet name, "when you go home, tell Sir Jonah that no business is to prevent him from bringing you down to dine with me to-morrow. I will have no ifs in the matterso tell him that come he must!" She promised positively, and on her return informed me of her engagement, to which I at once agreed. We retired to our chamber about twelve; and towards two in the morning, I was awakened by a sound of a very extraordinary nature. I listened: it occurred first at short intervals; it resembled neither a voice nor an instrument; it was softer than any voice and wilder than any music, and seemed to float in the air. I don't know wherefore, but my heart beat forcibly: the sound became still more plaintive, till it almost died away in the air; when a sudden change, as if excited by a pang, changed its tone: it seemed descending. I felt every nerve tremble: it was not a natural sound, nor could I make out the point from whence it came.

At length I awakened Lady Barrington, who heard it as well as myself: she suggested that it might be an Eolian harp -but to that instrument it bore no similitude: it was altogether a different character of sound. My wife at first appeared less affected than I; but subsequently she was more so.

We now went to a large window in our bed-room which looked directly upon a small garden underneath the sound seemed then obviously to ascend from a grass-plot immediately below our window. It continued; Lady Barrington requested that I would call up her maid, which I did, and she was evidently more affected than either of us. The sounds lasted for more than half an hour. At last a deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to issue from the spot, and was shortly succeeded by a sharp but low cry, and by the distinct exclamation, thrice repeated, of "Rossmore-Rossmore-Rossmore!" I will not attempt to describe my own feelings; indeed I cannot. The maid fled in terror from the window, and it was with difficulty I prevailed on Lady Barrington to return to bed: in about a minute after, the sound died gradually away, until all was silent.

Lady Barrington, who is not so superstitious as I, attributed this circumstance to a hundred different causes, and made me promise that I would not mention it next day at Mount Kennedy, since we should be thereby rendered laughingstocks. At length, wearied with speculations, we fell into a sound slumber.

About seven the ensuing morning a strong rap at my chamber-door awakened me. The recollection of the past night's adventure rushed instantly upon my mind, and rendered me very unfit to be taken suddenly on any subject. It was light: I went to the door, when my faithful servant, Lawler, exclaimed, on the other side, "Oh Lord, Sir!"-" What is the matter?" said I hurriedly: "Oh, Sir!" ejaculated he, "Lord Rossmore's footman was running past the door in great haste, and told me in passing that my Lord, after coming from the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health, but that about halfafter two this morning, his own man hearing a noise in his master's bed (he slept in the same room,) went to him, and found him in the agonies of death; and before he could alarm the other servants, all was over!"

Let

I conjecture nothing. I only relate the incident as unequivocally matter of fact: Lord Rossmore was absolutely dying at the moment I heard his name pronounced. sceptics draw their own conclusions: perhaps natural causes may be assigned: but I am totally unequal to the task.

Atheism may ridicule me: Orthodoxy may despise me : Bigotry may lecture me: Fanaticism might burn me yet in my very faith I would seek consolation. It is in my mind better to believe too much than too little, and that is the only theological crime of which I can be fairly accused.

MEMORANDA CRITICA.

Remarks on Lady Morgan's novel of " The Wild Irish Girl," &c.--Prince O'Sul livan at Killarney-Miss Edgeworth's "Castle Rackrent"-Memoir of Jonathan Clerk-" Florence Macarthy"-Comparison between Lady Morgan and Thomas Moore as writers-The author's knowledge of both-" Captain Rock" condemned-The "Irish Melodies" by Moore and Power-The harmonizing of them by Sir John Stevenson injurious to the national music-Anecdote of Mr. Thomas Moore and Mrs. K*** y.

Ir is remarkable that the state of the Irish people, in its various gradations of habit and society, has been best illustrated by two female authors,-the one of more imaginative, the other of purer narrative powers: but each, in her respective line, possessing very considerable merit.

Though a fiction, not free from numerous inaccuracies, inappropriate dialogue, and forced incident, it is impossible to peruse the Wild Irish Girl" of Lady Morgan without deep interest, or to dispute its claims as a production of true national feeling as well as literary talent.

The tale was the first and is perhaps the best of all her writings. Compared with her "Ida of Athens," it strikingly exhibits the author's falling off from the unsophisticated dictates of nature to the less refined conceptions induced by what she herself styles fashionable society.

To persons unacquainted with Ireland, the "Wild Irish Girl" may appear an ordinary tale of romance and fancy but to such as understand the ancient history of that people, it may be considered as a delightful legend. The authoress might perhaps have had somewhat in view the last descendant of the Irish princes, who did not altogether forget the station of his forefathers.

O'Sullivan, lineally descended from the King of the Lakes, not many years since vegetated on a retired spot of his hereditary dominions at Killarney; and, though overwhelmed by poverty and deprivation, kept up in his mind a visionary dignity. Surveying from his wretched cottage that enchanting territory over which his ancestors had reigned for centuries, I have been told he never ceased to recollect his royal descent.

He was a man of gigantic stature and strength; of uncouth, yet authoritative mien-not shaming his pretensions by his presence. He was frequently visited by those who went to view the celebrated lakes, and I have conversed with many who have seen him: but at a period when familiar intercourse has been introduced between actual princes and their subjects, tending undoubtedly to diminish in the latter the sense of "that divinity which doth hedge a king," the poor descendant of the renowned O'Sullivan had no reason to expect much commiseration from modern sensibility.

The frequent and strange revolutions of the world within the last forty years,-the radical alterations in all the material habits of society,-announced the commencement of a new era and the ascendancy of commerce over rank, and of avarice over every thing, completed the regeneration. But, above all, the loosening of those ties which bound kindred and families, in one common interest, to uphold their race and name; the extinction of that spirit of chivalry which sustained those ties ;-and the common prostitution of the heraldic honours of antiquity;-have steeled the human mind against the lofty and noble pretensions of birth and rank; and whilst we superficially decry the principles of equality, we are travelling towards them, by the shortest and most dangerous road that degeneracy and meanness can point out.

I confess myself to be a determined enemy at once to political and social equality: in the exercise of justice alone should the principle exist; in any other sense, it never did and never can, for any length of time.

Miss Edgeworth's "Castle Rackrent" and "Fashionable Tales" are incomparable in depicting truly several traits of the rather modern Irish character: they are perhaps on one point somewhat overcharged; but, for the most part, may be said to exceed Lady Morgan's Irish novels. The fiction is less perceptible in them: they have a greater air of reality-of what I have myself often and often observed and noted in full progress and actual execution throughout my native country. The landlord, the agent, and the attorney of "Castle Rackrent" (in fact every person it describes) are neither fictitious nor even uncommon characters: and the changes of landed property in the country where I was born (where perhaps they have prevailed to the full as widely as in any other of the united empire) owed, in nine cases out of ten, their origin, progress, and catastrophe to incidents in no wise differing from those so accurately painted in Miss Edgeworth's narrative.

Though moderate fortunes have frequently and fairly been