Wednesday.—Ready for our intended start for Cahirciveen, at half-past seven; but various delays interfered; first the horses came without the carriage, and had to return to fetch it; and then the following direful truths came out: imprimis—that Finn had no horses for us, and consequently, that none had been sent forward to Wales's, as had been promised. The four horses to our carriage had been procured from another inn; and, as a further consolation, we were told that we must make up our minds to perform the entire journey with them, the distance being only thirty-two Irish miles. All this was provoking enough, and to add to the agrement, our post-boys were sulky—and not without cause—for they, too, had reason to complain, haying been enticed to undertake the job with their tired horses—on the assurance that we were going to Dungourney.

Our start was no favourable omen of a prosperous journey; just outside the gate, a trace broke, which delayed us ten minutes; then—a little further on—another fracture of harness, and a further halt of fifteen minutes to refit; and yet, to our surprise, we accomplished our journey to Glenorglen (eleven Irish miles) in less than two hours. The foggy, threatening weather obscured the mountains, which was unfortunate, as on this road, Mac Gillicuddy's Reeks must be seen to great advantage when the atmosphere is clear. A drive of six or seven miles further brought us to Wales's solitary Inn.