Killarney. Tuesday evening.—It is impossible to write here.—Beautiful visions crowd on the mind too rapidly for the hand to record. It is a region of enchantment—a hundred descriptions of it have been written—thousands of sketches have been made, but no description that I have read, or sketch that I have seen, made me familiar with Killarney. The Upper Lake, and the Lower Lake, Muckruss, and Innisfallen, must be seen to be understood. It is the colouring—the gleam of sunshine—the cloud—the tone—the effect—what, in short, cannot be conveyed by the pen without the cant of art, and is beyond the power of the pencil—that gives a magic to the scenery of Killarney. I say, be yond the power of the pencil, because everything changes its hue so rapidly, and the forms of objects seem to change with their colour, it is impossible to convey the variety of images presented to the eye; the eye may follow them, as it follows the flash of lightning, but to record faithfully, requires thought and profound repose, which dwell not here. The aspect of nature is ever varying from grave to gay.

To write is impossible—the doubts about the weather, too, keep the feelings in a constant state of agitation. No sooner is an excursion determined upon, than rain and storm appear; and no sooner is the excursion abandoned, than all is sunshine again. Oh! Killarney, thou art the most delightful, provoking place, that I ever visited, and therefore I am determined not to write one word more about thee.