“Dear Con.,--The world here--and part of it is a very pretty world, with silky tresses and trim ankles--has declared that you have had some sort of slight accident, and are laid up at a miserable wayside inn, to be blue-devilled and doctored _à discrétion_. I strained my shoulder yesterday hunting,--my horse swerved against a tree,--or I should ascertain all the particulars of your disaster in person; so there is nothing left for it but a note. “I am here domesticated at a charming country-house, the host an old Admiral, the hostess a _ci-devant_ belle of London,--in times not very recent,--and more lately what is called in newspapers 'one of the ornaments of the Irish Court.' We have abundance of guests,--county dons and native celebrities, clerical, lyrical, and quizzical, several pretty women, a first-rate cellar, and a very tolerable cook. I give you the catalogue of our attractions, for I am commissioned by Sir Charles and my Lady to ask you to partake of them. The invitation is given in all cordiality, and I hope you will not decline it, for it is, amongst other matters, a good opportunity of seeing an Irish 'interior,' a thing of which I have always had my doubts and misgivings, some of which are now solved; others I should like to investigate with your assistance. In a word, the whole is worth seeing, and it is, besides, one of those experiences which can be had on very pleasant terms. There is perfect liberty; always something going on, and always a way to be out of it if you like. The people are, perhaps, not more friendly than in England, but they are far more familiar; and if not more disposed to be pleased, they tell you they are, which amounts to the same. There is a good deal of splendor, a wide hospitality, and, I need scarcely add, a considerable share of bad taste. There is, too, a costly attention to the wishes of a guest, which will remind you of India, though I must own the Irish Brahmin has not the grand, high-bred air of the Bengalee. But again I say, come and see. “I have been told to explain to you why they don't send their boat. There is something about draught of water, and something about a 'gash,' whatever that is: I opine it to be a rapid. And then I am directed to say, that if you will have yourself paddled up to Brown's Barn, the Cobham barge will be there to meet you. “I write this with some difficulty, lying on my back on a sofa, while a very pretty girl is impatiently waiting to continue her reading to me of a new novel called 'The Antiquary.' a capital story, but strangely disfigured by whole scenes in a Scottish dialect. You must read it when you come over.