In consequence of these arrangements, the faithful Dick brought his carriage to the door about eight o’clock this morning, just as we finished breakfast. Experienced travellers assert that if one would have a correct idea of a country, one should see it at the season which most characterises it. Thus one should see Russia in the month of January, when it is covered with snow, and Naples in the month of August. A cold country is only curious when it is cold; a moujik sweating violently being as little interesting as a _lazzarone_ shivering in a corner by the fire. This being so, one must arrange to see Ireland under heavy rain, for it is only necessary to consult the meteorological charts to be convinced that more rain falls in Green Erin than in any other country in Europe. But this is not my fate, at least not at present. It appears that I have unusual luck. Since I have been in Kerry, particularly, the weather has been splendid. This morning a brilliant sunshine illumined the lawns and old oaks of Lansdowne Lodge, when I turned round to give them a last glance, as the carriage passed through the gate. During breakfast, Mr. Trench and I had commenced a serious theological discussion. It had no visible result, as far as our conversion is concerned, for we still remain, he a Plymouth brother, and I an Apostolic Roman Catholic; but it continued with increasing animation during the whole journey from Kenmare to Killarney, and by this time we had reached such transcendental heights, we had “talked and retalked” with so much animation, that, absorbed in seeking my arguments, I had allowed myself to forget my duties as a conscientious tourist, and had scarcely paid any attention to the country we were passing through. I am, however, almost sure that the road we followed was the same as that we had arrived by the day before yesterday. I can therefore affirm, with a quiet conscience, that Derrygariff is always in the same place, that we have again followed the valley of Coom-a-Dhuv; that we skirted the lakes of Cummeen and Thommeen and I distinctly recollect that some one called me to admire the cascade of Derrycunihy, explaining to me that the mountain from which it issues is no other than majestic Garranthuohill! (I am anxious to give the exact facts, for _à propos_ of my first articles an influential critic reproached me in his paper the other day because I did not give sufficient details.)