Cahirciveen, Saturday.—I wish I could describe all the beautiful sights, and sounds, and feelings of yesterday; and above all, that I could convey to other minds the soothing effect they produced on my own.

The day itself was one of those soft, genial days of early autumn, when the air is sufficiently sharp to invigorate the body, and produce a feeling of strength and energy, without being cold—when the sun shines with all the glowing brilliancy of summer without its scorching heat—when its slanting beams cast those beautiful masses of light and shade over the landscape, and seem to have imbibed the mellowed golden hue which all nature wears—when pearly dewdrops sparkle on leaf and flower, and filmy gossamers hover like threads of brilliant silver in the air, and impart a graceful undulating movement to the scene.

On such days as these, everything reminds us of their, short duration—that the already retiring sun will soon cease to shine, and that the falling leaves, so beautiful and brilliant in death, will soon wither away and be no more.

As it was our last morning at Darrynane, I rose very early, and went out before breakfast to take a sketch of the place. I also walked to the tower in the upper part of the grounds, which has been lately erected, and saw a curious labyrinth of walks in the plantations.