talking to an old peasant who, dumb to most men, poured out his cares for him. Both were unhappy: X----- because he had then first decided that art and poetry were not for him, and the old peasant because his life was ebbing out with no achievement remaining and no hope left him. Both how Celtic! how full of striving after a something never to be completely expressed in word or deed. The peasant was wandering in his mind with prolonged sorrow. Once he burst out with "God possesses the heavens--God possesses the heavens--but He covets the world"; and once he lamented that his old neighbours were gone, and that all had forgotten him: they used to draw a chair to the fire for him in every cabin, and now they said, "Who is that old fellow there?" "The fret [Irish for doom] is over me," he repeated, and then went on to talk once more of God and heaven. More than once also he said, waving his arm towards the mountain, "Only myself knows what happened under the thorn-tree forty years ago"; and as he said it the tear
Beautiful writing, marred somewhat by typos in transcription that, along with a wealth of Irish words, sometimes spoiled the flow of the book. It was hard to know what was a typo and what needed to be looked up.
It is basically a recounting of peasant tales of Fairies, elves, and ghosts. Nothing scary and no long adventures, just straight reportage of unnatural things.
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