Blackrock; Tuesday, October the 10th.—I hope I shall have courage to write out the notes I made during our delightful journey here yesterday. It was such a poetry-breathing day!—the clouds seemed full of thoughts and stories; the earth and all its inhabitants looked happy, and I exclaimed with Wordsworth,

Really, on some blessed days all the countenances we behold seem full of joy. Is it our own fascinated gaze, which sees them through the glowing medium of our sunny feelings; or does the same mysterious cause which imbues us with happiness also act upon them?

Now, though I said it was a poetry and happiness-breathing day, do not expect my descriptions to be either. I shall merely relate, in plain matter-of-fact language, what appeared to me interesting.

Most sorry was I to leave dear, dear Vermont; and the first few miles I could see nothing, and think of nothing, but of the tearful faces we left on the steps of the hall-door.

The first place I remarked, was Mannister Abbey, an extensive and picturesque ruin. It combines well with a curious conical-shaped height, called Tory Hill, which rises abruptly out of the plain, in beautifying the landscape. We passed close to the ruins of E-amore castle, remarkable for the accuracy of its coigns, and sharp finished tracery of its few remaining windows.