Am having a glorious time, but sadly neglecting studies, English reading especially. We have a boat to ourselves and go fishing every evening passing by the lovely and majestic Sovereign Islands, and the forbidding heights of the Doon. In our walks, too, around the cliffs, where there is no vestige of human life except for the cruel and mocking cormorants and gulls, one wonders how it is that men can live so unconcernedly when great parts of the land around them are so mysteriously awful, giving no hope or shelter or joy, but only a vague fear and dread of what eternity both past and present means. Assuredly this is one of the most sublime places in Ireland. It is very difficult to think anything but big thoughts in the presence of these towering heights, and when big thoughts are not forthcoming, one must be silent.
Fr. Pat and Miss Crowley of Bantry are staying with us. We have caught seven pollock in two nights fishing – not bad. Have finished ‘The Pickwick Papers’. It is really a lovable, amiable book, but I am afraid I cannot enjoy Dickens so much as I used to. The characters of Sam Weller and Joe, the fat boy, are intensely amusing but after all, unreal. Of course, the question then arises whether any characters in books are real, for if they were real and ordinary, they might not be interesting.
