This transcendent spot was the limit of our excursion, and how can I, in general terms, more aptly sum up its attractions than in telling you, that _reeking_, as we were, from Killarney, the matchless scenery of which was still vibrating on every retina, shadowed in our imaginations and resting in the hearts of all our party, who felt as if nature was reposing, admiration drained to its dregs, and language run out, by all that we had been called upon to see, think, and feel, so recently, Glengariffe strung each palsied nerve anew. We rose "like giants refreshed with wine," and experienced that delight which only the highest excitement of mental or physical excellence occasionally produces, namely a consciousness of power within ourselves, of which, till thus extraordinarily elicited, we do not dream of being in possession. Perhaps this is one of the most pleasurable feelings of the human mind, and we now enjoyed it rapturously, surprising our own ears with the awakened flow of eloquence, poured out from fountains which might have been supposed already exhausted; and admiring beauties in all around, the greatest charm of which, though sometimes undiscerned, is the vivid reflection from our own souls. But you must only glance your eye along that blue expanse, and catch a hasty glimpse of that splendid bay, where the concentrated powers of France, while menacing destruction, were themselves destroyed. Before we regain our inn, and rejoin our friends, you must pause for a moment with me in a scene which, from its singularity, delayed our retrograde progress. Having mounted our shaggy steeds, we turned our faces, like Sir Bertram, "to the wolds," and conceitedly imagined ourselves able to retrace, unassisted, the homeward path; but we were mistaken; and after proceeding for sometime without meeting a living creature of whom to ask the way, we at length espied a thing scarcely human, naked almost to the hips, and trotting at a quick, equal pace, holding a staff horizontally in both hands, and having a tattered weather-beaten bag that looked like an old Spanish wine skin, strapped upon his back. "Who, and what are you?" exclaimed Russel. This was not a conciliating address, and accordingly it was rudely answered: "May be as good as yourself. I am a post; and my father was a post before me." This letter-carrier for so we interpreted him to be, never relaxed his steady trot, nor condescended to be angry. Calm contempt appeared to be the feeling which dictated his reply; and he would have passed on his way with-deigning to look behind him, if Frederick had not said, in his cheerful manner, "My good fellow, I know that you are the very man to tell us how we shall get into the track that leads over the mountain to Killarney, for I have lost my way, and my friends here are strangers?"