Black-rock, August 28, 1838.—We have been for some time past planning an excursion to Mitchelstown; and last Wednesday being at length fixed upon, we started at an early hour, fully prepared to enjoy our drive, the first part of which lay along the banks of the Lee, and was very delightful.

It was one of those mornings when everything combines to embellish scenery—when the light blue mists seem sporting among the valleys, and with playful coquetry disclose at one time, and then again conceal, those beautiful spots they are reluctant to quit—when all the outlines are soft, yet well defined, the colouring varied, yet harmonious—when sparkling dew-drops linger on tree and flower to catch the first beam of the rising sun, and pay their diamond tribute to the God of day—when the breeze still slumbers as if unwilling to disturb the river's surface, and efface the reflection of a scene so beautiful—if any country can be lovely without these accidental circumstances, it is that along the banks of the Cork river, and up the valley of Glanmire.

We went through Fermoy, and turned off the Dublin road, near Lord Mountcashel's place. A pleasant drive of about five hours brought us to Mitchelstown Castle. It is a noble pile of building, surrounded by fine woods, and commanding extensive views over a broad and fertile plain of the splendid range of the Galtee mountains.