Summary
Miltown Malbay.—Tuesday Morning.—A change of place since I wrote last. I am sitting in a little whitewashed room, writing at a ricketty table; a turf fire is burning in the grate behind me, and a large battered kettle is singing on it to make tea for our breakfast. All this sounds homely, and perhaps uncomfortable, but it is not so. Though the window is curtainless, and the room bare, it looks out upon the glorious Atlantic, the intensely blue sea; and white breakers are foaming among the rocks, and the whole scene without is grand and beautiful. Even this homely room, with it scanty furniture, is amusing, by its extreme contrast to the magnificence we yesterday enjoyed at Dromoland castle. Since we left Vermont on Friday, we have seen so much that is interesting and pleasant, and beautiful and joyful,—three short days have been so crowded with impressions—that I feel it almost impossible to describe all I have felt, and thought. Besides, the present is delightful; and it is so seldom that we actually enjoy the present moment, that I like to dwell upon it.
We live not in our moments or our years;
The present we fling from us like the rind
Of some sweet future, which we after find,
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with tears—
Vain tears for that which never may arrive:
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live
Neglected or unheeded disappears.
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- Rambles in the South of Ireland during the Year 1838 , pp. 169 - 197Publisher: Cambridge University PressPrint publication year: 2010First published in: 1839