killaloe Monday Morning.—I am sitting at an open window in Clarisford House, which looks on a lovely view of mountains, valleys, and the fine woods which surround this place. The soft summer air wafts the perfume of roses and a thousand flowers from the brilliant parterre beneath; that of the sweet clover-hay from the fields beyond; and the heath and wild thyme from the distant mountains. The river—the “old river” Shannon, rushes over purple rocks through yonder meadow land; and its soothing sound mingles pleasantly with the song of birds and sharpening of the mowers' scythes. It is a happy and beautiful morning.

We arrived here yesterday from Vermont, in time to attend the Cathedral service. The Cathedral is a curious old building, with very narrow high windows. To the right of the entrance is an elaborately carved arch, which was only discovered about twenty years ago, when the church was repaired; tradition affirms that under this arch are the remains of King Brian Boroihme.

A stone-roofed chapel in the churchyard, is also called by the country-people his tomb. This little pyramidal edifice is said to have been built in the seventh century, and is evidently of great antiquity. Its high roof is now covered with a growth of young ash-trees, which, though they look well, will, I fear, by their weight, eventually destroy the building.