The road to “Callonby” was beautiful beyond any thing I had ever seen in Ireland.  For upwards of two miles it led along the margin of the lofty cliffs of Moher, now jutting out into bold promontories, and again retreating, and forming small bays and mimic harbours, into which the heavy swell of the broad Atlantic was rolling its deep blue tide.  The evening was perfectly calm, and at a little distance from the shore the surface of the sea was without a ripple.  The only sound breaking the solemn stillness of the hour, was the heavy plash of the waves, as in minute peals they rolled in upon the pebbly beach, and brought back with them at each retreat, some of the larger and smoother stones, whose noise, as they fell back into old ocean’s bed, mingled with the din of the breaking surf.  In one of the many little bays I passed, lay three or four fishing smacks.  The sails were drying, and flapped lazily against the mast.  I could see the figures of the men as they passed backwards ad forwards upon the decks, and although the height was nearly eight hundred feet, could hear their voices quite distinctly.  Upon the golden strand, which was still marked with a deeper tint, where the tide had washed, stood a little white cottage of some fisherman—­at least, so the net before the door bespoke it.  Around it, stood some children, whose merry voices and laughing tones sometimes reached me where I was standing.  I could not but think, as I looked down from my lofty eyrie, upon that little group of boats, and that lone hut, how much of the “world” to the humble dweller beneath, lay in that secluded and narrow bay.  There, the deep sea, where their days were passed in “storm or sunshine,”—­there, the humble home, where at night they rested, and around whose hearth lay all their cares and all their joys.  How far, how very far removed from the busy haunts of men, and all the struggles and contentions of the ambitious world; and yet, how short-sighted to suppose that even they had not their griefs and sorrows, and that their humble lot was devoid of the inheritance of those woes, which all are heirs to.

I turned reluctantly, from the sea-shore to enter the gate of the park, and my path in a few moments was as completely screened from all prospect of the sea, as though it had lain miles inland.  An avenue of tall and ancient lime trees, so dense in their shadows as nearly to conceal the road beneath, led for above a mile through a beautiful lawn, whose surface, gently undulating, and studded with young clumps, was dotted over with sheep.  At length, descending by a very steep road, I reached a beautiful little stream, over which a rustic bridge was thrown.  As I looked down upon the rippling stream beneath, on the surface of which the dusky evening flies were dipping, I made a resolve, if I prospered in his lordship’s good graces, to devote a day to the “angle” there, before I left the country.  It was now growing late, and remember Lord Kilkee’s intimation