Black-rock, near Cork, February 28, 1838.—Here I am on a lovely bank of the Lee, where the sun always seems to me to shine brighter than elsewhere, and the air feels sweeter and more balmy. The rough and chilly breath of winter is now softening into the gentleness of spring.

The beautiful scenery of this favoured spot is particularly striking to one who had so lately left the gloomy fogs of London. In this mild climate the myrtles are now covered with blossom in the open air; and the hydrangias are unfolding their delicate green leaves.

The window in which I am sitting, looks on a lawn of that bright yet delicate green so peculiar to this country, that lovely tint, of which those who have not visited the divisa dal mondo ultima Irlanda can form but a faint idea. Directly in front is a garden, where spring flowers of every hue meet the eye, and violets are breathing their delicious perfume, where the verdure of arbutus trees and brilliant gold leaf plants give a cheerful summer air to the scene. Beyond, flows the broad river, upon the glassy surface of which ships are gliding; some with dark red sails, others whose gracefully sloping masts and large white sails show that they come from the shores of Portugal. Near the beach are boats, in each of which a solitary figure lazily reclines, as if to enjoy the refreshing breeze and the bright sunshine. But no; these men are fishing.