Monday evening.—Glengariff.—We have all been so much occupied since our return here with sketching the lovely scenery of this enchanting region, that I have had but little time for writing a description of it—if indeed that could be done. Such a party of sketchers as we have been—so full of enthusiasm—has seldom, I think, been seen by any one. Enthusiasm, by-the-bye, is very catching—every mountain, glen, or rock, and every waterfall or clear stream, has called forth either our pencils to attempt a delineation, or some exclamation or observation, such as, “What an excellent subject!—what a study!—oh, do stop for this!—do wait!—that is beautiful!—did you ever see a finer effect!—such colouring!” and so on. W——is the only one of the party who can look upon scenery with any degree of tolerable composure—or rather, he is often the means of preventing us from being benighted in some romantic spot where a fine sunset has induced us to linger, watching the gradual changes of colour upon rock and mountain. If it were not for his prudence, I verily believe that some of us might have been floundering through bogs at the risk of being lost in the dark, and perhaps, bog dried, of being

Half-a-dozen books are generally carried about wherever we go, with pencils, knives, and little water-bottles in proportion.