But for cloud effects, for wonderful
shadows, for fantastic and unbelievable sunsets, when the mountains
are violet, the lakes silver with red flashes, the islets gold and
crimson and purple, and the whole cloudy west in a flame, it is
unsurpassed; only your standard of beauty must not be a velvet lawn
studded with copper beeches, or a primary-hued landscape bathed in
American sunshine. Connemara is austere and gloomy under a dull
sky, but it has the poetic charm that belongs to all mystery, and
its bare cliffs and ridges are delicately pencilled on a violet
background, in a way peculiar to itself and enchantingly lovely.
The waste of all God's gifts; the incredible poverty; the miserable
huts, often without window or chimney; the sad-eyed women, sometimes
nothing but 'skins, bones, and grief'; the wild, beautiful children,
springing up like startled deer from behind piles of rocks or
growths of underbrush; the stony little bits of earth which the
peasants cling to with such passion, while good grasslands lie
unused, yet seem for ever out of reach,--all this makes one dream,
and wonder, and speculate, and hope against hope that the worst is
over and a better day dawning. We passed within sight of a hill
village without a single road to connect it with the outer world.
The only supply of turf was on the mountain-top, and from thence it
had to be brought, basket by basket, even in the snow. The only
manure for such land is seaweed, and that must be carried from the
shore to the tiny plats of sterile earth on the hillside.
Pages:
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203