This morning I felt too much fatigued by our long expedition of yesterday, to venture over the same road again. My companions wished to take some more accurate sketches of the Ogham inscriptions, &c. So, as I heard from a local antiquarian, that many interesting antiquities were to be found within a very short distance of Dingle, I thought I would venture alone on this short excursion.

That I might have plenty of time to make drawings of the objects and inscriptions, I started off at half-past eight. My conveyance was a little jingling nondescript vehicle, drawn by a rough pony, whose solemn pace, and philosophical contempt for the whip, shewed that he was little accustomed to convey parties of pleasure to view antiquities. We, or rather he, (the horse,) was driven by our grave friend the waiter, a sort of matter-of-fact, yet good-humoured man of all-work, to the Inn; who clambered up the little dickey, and perched himself on its narrow summit, with a degree of trembling caution which made me apprehend he would find as much difficulty in keeping his own seat, as in driving the horse.