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When I got up this m he writes, after he had been a long time in Innismaan, I found that the people had goo Mass and latched the kit door from the outside, so that I could not open it to give myself light.I sat for nearly an hour beside the fire with a curious feeling that I should be quite alone in this little cottage. I am so used to sitting here with the people that <tt>..t>I have never felt the room before as a place where any man might live and work by himself. After a while as I waited, with just light enough from the ey to let me see the rafters and the greyness of the walls, I became indescribably mournful, for I felt that this little er on the face of the world, and the people who live in it, have a pead dignity fr<big>藏书网</big>om which we are shut for ever. This life, which he describes elsewhere as the most primitive left in Europe, satisfied some y of his nature. Before I met him in Paris he had wandered over much of Europe, listening to stories in the Black Forest, making friends with servants and with poor people, and this from ahetiterest, for he had gathered no statistics, had no m<samp>..</samp>oo give, and cared nothing for the wrongs of the poor, being tent to pay for the pleasure of eye and ear with a tune upon the fiddle. He did not love them the better because they were poor and miserable, and it was only when he found Innismaan and the Blaskets, where there is her riches nor poverty, her what he calls the nullity of the rior the squalor of the p<q></q>oor that his writing lost its old morbid brooding, that he found his genius and his peace. Here were men and women who uhe weight of their y lived, as the artist lives, in the presence of death and childhood, and the great affes and the iastient when life outleaps its limits, and who, as it is always with those who have refused or escaped the trivial and the temporary,<var>9９ｌiｂ?</var> had dignity and good manners where manners mattered. Here above all was silence from all reat orator took delight in, from formidable men, from moral indignation, from the sciolist who is never sad, from all in modern life that would destroy the arts; and here, to take a thought from another playwright of our school, he could love Time as only women and great artists do and need never sell it.
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