404 NOTES OF A BOTANIST chap, xn 
savannas to the northward, from the top of the 
before-mentioned granite ridge, reminded me of a 
view in the drive from Killarney to Kenmare, 
where on reaching the summit of the Pass of 
Cairn-a-Dhur one looks down on the valley where 
are 30,000 acres of as fine bog as any in Ireland. 
But Duida is 8000 feet above the sea, while 
Macgillicuddy's Reeks are only some 3000. 
You will credit me when I say that to the sight 
Esmeralda is a Paradise — in reality it is an Inferno, 
scarcely habitable by man. When I stood in the 
middle of the small square, round which are built 
the houses at Esmeralda — the straw doors all 
carefully closed and looking as if nothing human 
ever came forth from them — the warm east wind 
fanning my face and raising the sand in the plaza, 
but bringing no sound of life on its wings — no bird 
or even a butterfly to be seen — amid the luxuri- 
ance of vegetable life, animal life almost extinct — 
I thought the scene inexpressibly mournful. But 
the utter absence of living things was only apparent, 
not real. If I passed my hand across my face I 
brought it away covered with blood and with the 
crushed bodies of gorged mosquitoes. In this you 
have a key to explain the unearthly silence. The 
apparently tenantless houses had all inhabitants in 
them who, bat-like, drowse away the day, and only 
steal forth in the grey of morn and evening to seek 
a scanty subsistence. Throughout the day the 
very air may be said to be alive with mosquitoes, 
from which even with closed doors one can only 
imperfectly escape. I constantly returned from my 
walks with my hands, feet, neck, and face covered 
with blood, and I found I could nowhere escape 
