The Aran Islands

A letter has come from Michael while I am in Paris.  It is in English.

My dear friend,—­I hope that you are in good health since I have heard from you before, its many a time I do think of you since and it was not forgetting you I was for the future.

I was at home in the beginning of March for a fortnight and was very bad with the Influence, but I took good care of myself.

I am getting good wages from the first of this year, and I am afraid I won’t be able to stand with it, although it is not hard, I am working in a saw-mills and getting the money for the wood and keeping an account of it.

I am getting a letter and some news from home two or three times a week, and they are all well in health, and your friends in the island as well as if I mentioned them.

Did you see any of my friends in Dublin Mr.—­or any of those gentlemen or gentlewomen.

I think I soon try America but not until next year if I am alive.

I hope we might meet again in good and pleasant health.

It is now time to come to a conclusion, good-bye and not for ever, write soon—­I am your friend in Galway.

Write soon dear friend.

Another letter in a more rhetorical mood.

My dear Mr. S.,—­I am for a long time trying to spare a little time for to write a few words to you.

Hoping that you are still considering good and pleasant health since
I got a letter from you before.

I see now that your time is coming round to come to this place to learn your native language.  There was a great Feis in this island two weeks ago, and there was a very large attendance from the South island, and not very many from the North.

Two cousins of my own have been in this house for three weeks or beyond it, but now they are gone, and there is a place for you if you wish to come, and you can write before you and we’ll try and manage you as well as we can.

I am at home now for about two months, for the mill was burnt where I was at work.  After that I was in Dublin, but I did not get my health in that city.—­Mise le mor mheas ort a chara.

Soon after I received this letter I wrote to Michael to say that I was going back to them.  This time I chose a day when the steamer went direct to the middle island, and as we came up between the two lines of curaghs that were waiting outside the slip, I saw Michael, dressed once more in his island clothes, rowing in one of them.

He made no sign of recognition, but as soon as they could get alongside he clambered on board and came straight up on the bridge to where I was.

‘Bhfuil tu go maith?’ (’Are you well?’) he said.  ’Where is your bag?’

His curagh had got a bad place near the bow of the steamer, so I was slung down from a considerable height on top of some sacks of flour and my own bag, while the curagh swayed and battered itself against the side.

When we were clear I asked Michael if he had got my letter.

‘Ah no,’ he said, ’not a sight of it, but maybe it will come next week.’

Part of the slip had been washed away during the winter, so we had to land to the left of it, among the rocks, taking our turn with the other curaghs that were coming in.

As soon as I was on shore the men crowded round me to bid me welcome, asking me as they shook hands if I had travelled far in the winter, and seen many wonders, ending, as usual, with the inquiry if there was much war at present in the world.

It gave me a thrill of delight to hear their Gaelic blessings, and to see the steamer moving away, leaving me quite alone among them.  The day was fine with a clear sky, and the sea was glittering beyond the limestone.  Further off a light haze on the cliffs of the larger island, and on the Connaught hills, gave me the illusion that it was still summer.

A little boy was sent off to tell the old woman that I was coming, and we followed slowly, talking and carrying the baggage.

When I had exhausted my news they told me theirs.  A power of strangers—­four or five—­a French priest among them, had been on the island in the summer; the potatoes were bad, but the rye had begun well, till a dry week came and then it had turned into oats.

‘If you didn’t know us so well,’ said the man who was talking, ’you’d think it was a lie we were telling, but the sorrow a lie is in it.  It grew straight and well till it was high as your knee, then it turned into oats.  Did ever you see the like of that in County Wicklow?’

In the cottage everything was as usual, but Michael’s presence has brought back the old woman’s humour and contentment.  As I sat down on my stool and lit my pipe with the corner of a sod, I could have cried out with the feeling of festivity that this return procured me.

This year Michael is busy in the daytime, but at present there is a harvest moon, and we spend most of the evening wandering about the island, looking out over the bay where the shadows of the clouds throw strange patterns of gold and black.  As we were returning through the village this evening a tumult of revelry broke out from one of the smaller cottages, and Michael said it was the young boys and girls who have sport at this time of the year.  I would have liked to join them, but feared to embarrass their amusement.  When we passed on again the groups of scattered cottages on each side of the way reminded me of places I have sometimes passed when travelling at night in France or Bavaria, places that seemed so enshrined in the blue silence of night one could not believe they would reawaken.

Afterwards we went up on the Dun, where Michael said he had never been before after nightfall, though he lives within a stone’s-throw.  The place gains unexpected grandeur in this light, standing out like a corona of prehistoric stone upon the summit of the island.  We walked round the top of the wall for some time looking down on the faint yellow roofs, with the rocks glittering beyond them, and the silence of the bay.  Though Michael is sensible of the beauty of the nature round him, he never speaks of it directly, and many of our evening walks are occupied with long Gaelic discourses about the movements of the stars and moon.

These people make no distinction between the natural and the supernatural.

This afternoon—­it was Sunday, when there is usually some interesting talk among the islanders—­it rained, so I went into the schoolmaster’s kitchen, which is a good deal frequented by the more advanced among the people.  I know so little of their ways of fishing and farming that I do not find it easy to keep up our talk without reaching matters where they cannot follow me, and since the novelty of my photographs has passed off I have some difficulty in giving them the entertainment they seem to expect from my company.  To-day I showed them some simple gymnastic feats and conjurer’s tricks, which gave them great amusement.

‘Tell us now,’ said an old woman when I had finished, ’didn’t you learn those things from the witches that do be out in the country?’

In one of the tricks I seemed to join a piece of string which was cut by the people, and the illusion was so complete that I saw one man going off with it into a corner and pulling at the apparent joining till he sank red furrows round his hands.

Then he brought it back to me.

‘Bedad,’ he said, ’this is the greatest wonder ever I seen.  The cord is a taste thinner where you joined it but as strong as ever it was.’

A few of the younger men looked doubtful, but the older people, who have watched the rye turning into oats, seemed to accept the magic frankly, and did not show any surprise that ‘a duine uasal’ (a noble person) should be able to do like the witches.

My intercourse with these people has made me realise that miracles must abound wherever the new conception of law is not understood.  On these islands alone miracles enough happen every year to equip a divine emissary Rye is turned into oats, storms are raised to keep evictors from the shore, cows that are isolated on lonely rocks bring forth calves, and other things of the same kind are common.

The wonder is a rare expected event, like the thunderstorm or the rainbow, except that it is a little rarer and a little more wonderful.  Often, when I am walking and get into conversation with some of the people, and tell them that I have received a paper from Dublin, they ask me—­’And is there any great wonder in the world at this time?’

When I had finished my feats of dexterity, I was surprised to find that none of the islanders, even the youngest and most agile, could do what I did.  As I pulled their limbs about in my effort to teach them, I felt that the ease and beauty of their movements has made me think them lighter than they really are.  Seen in their curaghs between these cliffs and the Atlantic, they appear lithe and small, but if they were dressed as we are and seen in an ordinary room, many of them would seem heavily and powerfully made.

One man, however, the champion dancer of the island, got up after a while and displayed the salmon leap—­lying flat on his face and then springing up, horizontally, high in the air—­and some other feats of extraordinary agility, but he is not young and we could not get him to dance.

In the evening I had to repeat my tricks here in the kitchen, for the fame of them had spread over the island.

No doubt these feats will be remembered here for generations.  The people have so few images for description that they seize on anything that is remarkable in their visitors and use it afterwards in their talk.

For the last few years when they are speaking of any one with fine rings they say:  ’She had beautiful rings on her fingers like Lady—­,’ a visitor to the island.

I have been down sitting on the pier till it was quite dark.  I am only beginning to understand the nights of Inishmaan and the influence they have had in giving distinction to these men who do most of their work after nightfall.

I could hear nothing but a few curlews and other wild-fowl whistling and shrieking in the seaweed, and the low rustling of the waves.  It was one of the dark sultry nights peculiar to September, with no light anywhere except the phosphorescence of the sea, and an occasional rift in the clouds that showed the stars behind them.

The sense of solitude was immense.  I could not see or realise my own body, and I seemed to exist merely in my perception of the waves and of the crying birds, and of the smell of seaweed.

When I tried to come home I lost myself among the sandhills, and the night seemed to grow unutterably cold and dejected, as I groped among slimy masses of seaweed and wet crumbling walls.

After a while I heard a movement in the sand, and two grey shadows appeared beside me.  They were two men who were going home from fishing.  I spoke to them and knew their voices, and we went home together.

In the autumn season the threshing of the rye is one of the many tasks that fall to the men and boys.  The sheaves are collected on a bare rock, and then each is beaten separately on a couple of stones placed on end one against the other.  The land is so poor that a field hardly produces more grain than is needed for seed the following year, so the rye-growing is carried on merely for the straw, which is used for thatching.

The stooks are carried to and from the threshing fields, piled on donkeys that one meets everywhere at this season, with their black, unbridled heads just visible beneath a pinnacle of golden straw.

While the threshing is going on sons and daughters keep turning up with one thing and another till there is a little crowd on the rocks, and any one who is passing stops for an hour or two to talk on his way to the sea, so that, like the kelp-burning in the summer-time, this work is full of sociability.

When the threshing is over the straw is taken up to the cottages and piled up in an outhouse, or more often in a corner of the kitchen, where it brings a new liveliness of colour.

A few days ago when I was visiting a cottage where there are the most beautiful children on the island, the eldest daughter, a girl of about fourteen, went and sat down on a heap of straw by the doorway.  A ray of sunlight fell on her and on a portion of the rye, giving her figure and red dress with the straw under it a curious relief against the nets and oilskins, and forming a natural picture of exquisite harmony and colour.

In our own cottage the thatching—­it is done every year—­has just been carried out.  The rope-twisting was done partly in the lane, partly in the kitchen when the weather was uncertain.  Two men usually sit together at this work, one of them hammering the straw with a heavy block of wood, the other forming the rope, the main body of which is twisted by a boy or girl with a bent stick specially formed for this employment.

In wet weather, when the work must be done indoors, the person who is twisting recedes gradually out of the door, across the lane, and sometimes across a field or two beyond it.  A great length is needed to form the close network which is spread over the thatch, as each piece measures about fifty yards.  When this work is in progress in half the cottages of the village, the road has a curious look, and one has to pick one’s steps through a maze of twisting ropes that pass from the dark doorways on either side into the fields.

When four or five immense balls of rope have been completed, a thatching party is arranged, and before dawn some morning they come down to the house, and the work is taken in hand with such energy that it is usually ended within the day.

Like all work that is done in common on the island, the thatching is regarded as a sort of festival.  From the moment a roof is taken in hand there is a whirl of laughter and talk till it is ended, and, as the man whose house is being covered is a host instead of an employer, he lays himself out to please the men who work with him.

The day our own house was thatched the large table was taken into the kitchen from my room, and high teas were given every few hours.  Most of the people who came along the road turned down into the kitchen for a few minutes, and the talking was incessant.  Once when I went into the window I heard Michael retailing my astronomical lectures from the apex of the gable, but usually their topics have to do with the affairs of the island.

It is likely that much of the intelligence and charm of these people is due to the absence of any division of labour, and to the correspondingly wide development of each individual, whose varied knowledge and skill necessitates a considerable activity of mind.  Each man can speak two languages.  He is a skilled fisherman, and can manage a curagh with extraordinary nerve and dexterity He can farm simply, burn kelp, cut out pampooties, mend nets, build and thatch a house, and make a cradle or a coffin.  His work changes with the seasons in a way that keeps him free from the dullness that comes to people who have always the same occupation.  The danger of his life on the sea gives him the alertness of the primitive hunter, and the long nights he spends fishing in his curagh bring him some of the emotions that are thought peculiar to men who have lived with the arts.

As Michael is busy in the daytime, I have got a boy to come up and read Irish to me every afternoon.  He is about fifteen, and is singularly intelligent, with a real sympathy for the language and the stories we read.

One evening when he had been reading to me for two hours, I asked him if he was tired.

‘Tired?’ he said, ‘sure you wouldn’t ever be tired reading!’

A few years ago this predisposition for intellectual things would have made him sit with old people and learn their stories, but now boys like him turn to books and to papers in Irish that are sent them from Dublin.

In most of the stories we read, where the English and Irish are printed side by side, I see him looking across to the English in passages that are a little obscure, though he is indignant if I say that he knows English better than Irish.  Probably he knows the local Irish better than English, and printed English better than printed Irish, as the latter has frequent dialectic forms he does not know.

A few days ago when he was reading a folk-tale from Douglas Hyde’s Beside the Fire, something caught his eye in the translation.

‘There’s a mistake in the English,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘he’s put “gold chair” instead of “golden chair.”’

I pointed out that we speak of gold watches and gold pins.

‘And why wouldn’t we?’ he said; ’but “golden chair” would be much nicer.’

It is curious to see how his rudimentary culture has given him the beginning of a critical spirit that occupies itself with the form of language as well as with ideas.

One day I alluded to my trick of joining string.

‘You can’t join a string, don’t be saying it,’ he said; ’I don’t know what way you’re after fooling us, but you didn’t join that string, not a bit of you.’

Another day when he was with me the fire burned low and I held up a newspaper before it to make a draught.  It did not answer very well, and though the boy said nothing I saw he thought me a fool.

The next day he ran up in great excitement.

‘I’m after trying the paper over the fire,’ he said, ’and it burned grand.  Didn’t I think, when I seen you doing it there was no good in it at all, but I put a paper over the master’s (the school-master’s) fire and it flamed up.  Then I pulled back the corner of the paper and I ran my head in, and believe me, there was a big cold wind blowing up the chimney that would sweep the head from you.’

We nearly quarrelled because he wanted me to take his photograph in his Sunday clothes from Galway, instead of his native homespuns that become him far better, though he does not like them as they seem to connect him with the primitive life of the island.  With his keen temperament, he may go far if he can ever step out into the world.

He is constantly thinking.

One day he asked me if there was great wonder on their names out in the country.

I said there was no wonder on them at all.

‘Well,’ he said, ’there is great wonder on your name in the island, and I was thinking maybe there would be great wonder on our names out in the country.’

In a sense he is right.  Though the names here are ordinary enough, they are used in a way that differs altogether from the modern system of surnames.

When a child begins to wander about the island, the neighbours speak of it by its Christian name, followed by the Christian name of its father.  If this is not enough to identify it, the father’s epithet—­ whether it is a nickname or the name of his own father—­is added.

Sometimes when the father’s name does not lend itself, the mother’s Christian name is adopted as epithet for the children.

An old woman near this cottage is called ‘Peggeen,’ and her sons are ‘Patch Pheggeen,’ ‘Seaghan Pheggeen,’ etc.

Occasionally the surname is employed in its Irish form, but I have not heard them using the ‘Mac’ prefix when speaking Irish among themselves; perhaps the idea of a surname which it gives is too modern for them, perhaps they do use it at times that I have not noticed.

Sometimes a man is named from the colour of his hair.  There is thus a Seaghan Ruadh (Red John), and his children are ’Mourteen Seaghan Ruadh,’ etc.

Another man is known as ‘an iasgaire’ (’the fisher’), and his children are ‘Maire an iasgaire’ (’Mary daughter of the fisher’), and so on.

The schoolmaster tells me that when he reads out the roll in the morning the children repeat the local name all together in a whisper after each official name, and then the child answers.  If he calls, for instance, ‘Patrick O’Flaharty,’ the children murmur, ’Patch Seaghan Dearg’ or some such name, and the boy answers.

People who come to the island are treated in much the same way.  A French Gaelic student was in the islands recently, and he is always spoken of as ‘An Saggart Ruadh’ (’the red priest’) or as ’An Saggart Francach’ (’the French priest’), but never by his name.

If an islander’s name alone is enough to distinguish him it is used by itself, and I know one man who is spoken of as Eamonn.  There may be other Edmunds on the island, but if so they have probably good nicknames or epithets of their own.

In other countries where the names are in a somewhat similar condition, as in modern Greece, the man’s calling is usually one of the most common means of distinguishing him, but in this place, where all have the same calling, this means is not available.

Late this evening I saw a three-oared curagh with two old women in her besides the rowers, landing at the slip through a heavy roll.  They were coming from Inishere, and they rowed up quickly enough till they were within a few yards of the surf-line, where they spun round and waited with the prow towards the sea, while wave after wave passed underneath them and broke on the remains of the slip.  Five minutes passed; ten minutes; and still they waited with the oars just paddling in the water, and their heads turned over their shoulders.

I was beginning to think that they would have to give up and row round to the lee side of the island, when the curagh seemed suddenly to turn into a living thing.  The prow was again towards the slip, leaping and hurling itself through the spray.  Before it touched, the man in the bow wheeled round, two white legs came out over the prow like the flash of a sword, and before the next wave arrived he had dragged the curagh out of danger.

This sudden and united action in men without discipline shows well the education that the waves have given them.  When the curagh was in safety the two old women were carried up through the surf and slippery seaweed on the backs of their sons.

In this broken weather a curagh cannot go out without danger, yet accidents are rare and seem to be nearly always caused by drink, Since I was here last year four men have been drowned on their way home from the large island.  First a curagh belonging to the south island which put off with two men in her heavy with drink, came to shore here the next evening dry and uninjured, with the sail half set, and no one in her.

More recently a curagh from this island with three men, who were the worse for drink, was upset on its way home.  The steamer was not far off, and saved two of the men, but could not reach the third.

Now a man has been washed ashore in Donegal with one pampooty on him, and a striped shirt with a purse in one of the pockets, and a box for tobacco.

For three days the people have been trying to fix his identity.  Some think it is the man from this island, others think that the man from the south answers the description more exactly.  To-night as we were returning from the slip we met the mother of the man who was drowned from this island, still weeping and looking out over the sea.  She stopped the people who had come over from the south island to ask them with a terrified whisper what is thought over there.

Later in the evening, when I was sitting in one of the cottages, the sister of the dead man came in through the rain with her infant, and there was a long talk about the rumours that had come in.  She pieced together all she could remember about his clothes, and what his purse was like, and where he had got it, and the same for his tobacco box, and his stockings.  In the end there seemed little doubt that it was her brother.

‘Ah!’ she said, ’It’s Mike sure enough, and please God they’ll give him a decent burial.’

Then she began to keen slowly to herself.  She had loose yellow hair plastered round her head with the rain, and as she sat by the door sucking her infant, she seemed like a type of the women’s life upon the islands.

For a while the people sat silent, and one could hear nothing but the lips of the infant, the rain hissing in the yard, and the breathing of four pigs that lay sleeping in one corner.  Then one of the men began to talk about the new boats that have been sent to the south island, and the conversation went back to its usual round of topics.

The loss of one man seems a slight catastrophe to all except the immediate relatives.  Often when an accident happens a father is lost with his two eldest sons, or in some other way all the active men of a household die together.

A few years ago three men of a family that used to make the wooden vessels—­like tiny barrels—­that are still used among the people, went to the big island together.  They were drowned on their way home, and the art of making these little barrels died with them, at least on Inishmaan, though it still lingers in the north and south islands.

Another catastrophe that took place last winter gave a curious zest to the observance of holy days.  It seems that it is not the custom for the men to go out fishing on the evening of a holy day, but one night last December some men, who wished to begin fishing early the next morning, rowed out to sleep in their hookers.

Towards morning a terrible storm rose, and several hookers with their crews on board were blown from their moorings and wrecked.  The sea was so high that no attempt at rescue could be made, and the men were drowned.

‘Ah!’ said the man who told me the story, ’I’m thinking it will be a long time before men will go out again on a holy day.  That storm was the only storm that reached into the harbour the whole winter, and I’m thinking there was something in it.’

Today when I went down to the slip I found a pig-jobber from Kilronan with about twenty pigs that were to be shipped for the English market.

When the steamer was getting near, the whole drove was moved down on the slip and the curaghs were carried out close to the sea.  Then each beast was caught in its turn and thrown on its side, while its legs were hitched together in a single knot, with a tag of rope remaining, by which it could be carried.

Probably the pain inflicted was not great, yet the animals shut their eyes and shrieked with almost human intonations, till the suggestion of the noise became so intense that the men and women who were merely looking on grew wild with excitement, and the pigs waiting their turn foamed at the mouth and tore each other with their teeth.

After a while there was a pause.  The whole slip was covered with a mass of sobbing animals, with here and there a terrified woman crouching among the bodies, and patting some special favourite to keep it quiet while the curaghs were being launched.

Then the screaming began again while the pigs were carried out and laid in their places, with a waistcoat tied round their feet to keep them from damaging the canvas.  They seemed to know where they were going, and looked up at me over the gunnel with an ignoble desperation that made me shudder to think that I had eaten of this whimpering flesh.  When the last curagh went out I was left on the slip with a band of women and children, and one old boar who sat looking out over the sea.

The women were over-excited, and when I tried to talk to them they crowded round me and began jeering and shrieking at me because I am not married.  A dozen screamed at a time, and so rapidly that I could not understand all that they were saying, yet I was able to make out that they were taking advantage of the absence of their husbands to give me the full volume of their contempt.  Some little boys who were listening threw themselves down, writhing with laughter among the seaweed, and the young girls grew red with embarrassment and stared down into the surf.

For a moment I was in confusion.  I tried to speak to them, but I could not make myself heard, so I sat down on the slip and drew out my wallet of photographs.  In an instant I had the whole band clambering round me, in their ordinary mood.

When the curaghs came back—­one of them towing a large kitchen table that stood itself up on the waves and then turned somersaults in an extraordinary manner—­word went round that the ceannuighe (pedlar) was arriving.

He opened his wares on the slip as soon as he landed, and sold a quantity of cheap knives and jewellery to the girls and the younger women.  He spoke no Irish, and the bargaining gave immense amusement to the crowd that collected round him.

I was surprised to notice that several women who professed to know no English could make themselves understood without difficulty when it pleased them.

‘The rings is too dear at you, sir,’ said one girl using the Gaelic construction; ’let you put less money on them and all the girls will be buying.’

After the jewellery’ he displayed some cheap religious pictures—­abominable oleographs—­but I did not see many buyers.

I am told that most of the pedlars who come here are Germans or Poles, but I did not have occasion to speak with this man by himself.

I have come over for a few days to the south island, and, as usual, my voyage was not favourable.

The morning was fine, and seemed to promise one of the peculiarly hushed, pellucid days that occur sometimes before rain in early winter.  From the first gleam of dawn the sky was covered with white cloud, and the tranquillity was so complete that every sound seemed to float away by itself across the silence of the bay.  Lines of blue smoke were going up in spirals over the village, and further off heavy fragments of rain-cloud were lying on the horizon.  We started early in the day, and, although the sea looked calm from a distance, we met a considerable roll coming from the south-west when we got out from the shore.

Near the middle of the sound the man who was rowing in the bow broke his oar-pin, and the proper management of the canoe became a matter of some difficulty.  We had only a three-oared curagh, and if the sea had gone much higher we should have run a good deal of danger.  Our progress was so slow that clouds came up with a rise in the wind before we reached the shore, and rain began to fall in large single drops.  The black curagh working slowly through this world of grey, and the soft hissing of the rain gave me one of the moods in which we realise with immense distress the short moment we have left us to experience all the wonder and beauty of the world.

The approach to the south island is made at a fine sandy beach on the north-west.  This interval in the rocks is of great service to the people, but the tract of wet sand with a few hideous fishermen’s houses, lately built on it, looks singularly desolate in broken weather.

The tide was going out when we landed, so we merely stranded the curagh and went up to the little hotel.  The cess-collector was at work in one of the rooms, and there were a number of men and boys waiting about, who stared at us while we stood at the door and talked to the proprietor.

When we had had our drink I went down to the sea with my men, who were in a hurry to be off.  Some time was spent in replacing the oar-pin, and then they set out, though the wind was still increasing.  A good many fishermen came down to see the start, and long after the curagh was out of sight I stood and talked with them in Irish, as I was anxious to compare their language and temperament with what I knew of the other island.

The language seems to be identical, though some of these men speak rather more distinctly than any Irish speakers I have yet heard.  In physical type, dress, and general character, however, there seems to be a considerable difference.  The people on this island are more advanced than their neighbours, and the families here are gradually forming into different ranks, made up of the well-to-do, the struggling, and the quite poor and thriftless.  These distinctions are present in the middle island also, but over there they have had no effect on the people, among whom there is still absolute equality.

A little later the steamer came in sight and lay to in the offing.  While the curaghs were being put out I noticed in the crowd several men of the ragged, humorous type that was once thought to represent the real peasant of Ireland.  Rain was now falling heavily, and as we looked out through the fog there was something nearly appalling in the shrieks of laughter kept up by one of these individuals, a man of extraordinary ugliness and wit.

At last he moved off toward the houses, wiping his eyes with the tail of his coat and moaning to himself ‘Ta me marbh,’ (’I’m killed’), till some one stopped him and he began again pouring out a medley of rude puns and jokes that meant more than they said.

There is quaint humour, and sometimes wild humour, on the middle island, but never this half-sensual ecstasy of laughter.  Perhaps a man must have a sense of intimate misery, not known there, before he can set himself to jeer and mock at the world.  These strange men with receding foreheads, high cheekbones, and ungovernable eyes seem to represent some old type found on these few acres at the extreme border of Europe, where it is only in wild jests and laughter that they can express their loneliness and desolation.

The mode of reciting ballads in this island is singularly harsh.  I fell in with a curious man to-day beyond the east village, and we wandered out on the rocks towards the sea.  A wintry shower came on while we were together, and we crouched down in the bracken, under a loose wall.  When we had gone through the usual topics he asked me if I was fond of songs, and began singing to show what he could do.

The music was much like what I have heard before on the islands—­a monotonous chant with pauses on the high and low notes to mark the rhythm; but the harsh nasal tone in which he sang was almost intolerable.  His performance reminded me in general effect of a chant I once heard from a party of Orientals I was travelling with in a third-class carriage from Paris to Dieppe, but the islander ran his voice over a much wider range.

His pronunciation was lost in the rasping of his throat, and, though he shrieked into my ear to make sure that I understood him above the howling of the wind, I could only make out that it was an endless ballad telling the fortune of a young man who went to sea, and had many adventures.  The English nautical terms were employed continually in describing his life on the ship, but the man seemed to feel that they were not in their place, and stopped short when one of them occurred to give me a poke with his finger and explain gib, topsail, and bowsprit, which were for me the most intelligible features of the poem.  Again, when the scene changed to Dublin, ‘glass of whiskey,’ ‘public-house,’ and such things were in English.

When the shower was over he showed me a curious cave hidden among the cliffs, a short distance from the sea.  On our way back he asked me the three questions I am met with on every side—­whether I am a rich man, whether I am married, and whether I have ever seen a poorer place than these islands.

When he heard that I was not married he urged me to come back in the summer so that he might take me over in a curagh to the Spa in County Glare, where there is ‘spree mor agus go leor ladies’ (’a big spree and plenty of ladies’).

Something about the man repelled me while I was with him, and though I was cordial and liberal he seemed to feel that I abhorred him.  We arranged to meet again in the evening, but when I dragged myself with an inexplicable loathing to the place of meeting, there was no trace of him.

It is characteristic that this man, who is probably a drunkard and shebeener and certainly in penury, refused the chance of a shilling because he felt that I did not like him.  He had a curiously mixed expression of hardness and melancholy.  Probably his character has given him a bad reputation on the island, and he lives here with the restlessness of a man who has no sympathy with his companions.

I have come over again to Inishmaan, and this time I had fine weather for my passage.  The air was full of luminous sunshine from the early morning, and it was almost a summer’s day when I set sail at noon with Michael and two other men who had come over for me in a curagh.

The wind was in our favour, so the sail was put up and Michael sat in the stem to steer with an oar while I rowed with the others.

We had had a good dinner and drink and were wrought up by this sudden revival of summer to a dreamy voluptuous gaiety, that made us shout with exultation to hear our voices passing out across the blue twinkling of the sea.

Even after the people of the south island, these men of Inishmaan seemed to be moved by strange archaic sympathies with the world.  Their mood accorded itself with wonderful fineness to the suggestions of the day, and their ancient Gaelic seemed so full of divine simplicity that I would have liked to turn the prow to the west and row with them for ever.

I told them I was going back to Paris in a few days to sell my books and my bed, and that then I was coming back to grow as strong and simple as they were among the islands of the west.

When our excitement sobered down, Michael told me that one of the priests had left his gun at our cottage and given me leave to use it till he returned to the island.  There was another gun and a ferret in the house also, and he said that as soon as we got home he was going to take me out fowling on rabbits.

A little later in the day we set off, and I nearly laughed to see Michael’s eagerness that I should turn out a good shot.

We put the ferret down in a crevice between two bare sheets of rock, and waited.  In a few minutes we heard rushing paws underneath us, then a rabbit shot up straight into the air from the crevice at our feet and set off for a wall that was a few feet away.  I threw up the gun and fired.

‘Buail tu e,’ screamed Michael at my elbow as he ran up the rock.  I had killed it.

We shot seven or eight more in the next hour, and Michael was immensely pleased.  If I had done badly I think I should have had to leave the islands.  The people would have despised me.  A ’duine uasal’ who cannot shoot seems to these descendants of hunters a fallen type who is worse than an apostate.

The women of this island are before conventionality, and share some of the liberal features that are thought peculiar to the women of Paris and New York.

Many of them are too contented and too sturdy to have more than a decorative interest, but there are others full of curious individuality.

This year I have got to know a wonderfully humorous girl, who has been spinning in the kitchen for the last few days with the old woman’s spinning-wheel.  The morning she began I heard her exquisite intonation almost before I awoke, brooding and cooing over every syllable she uttered.

I have heard something similar in the voices of German and Polish women, but I do not think men—­at least European men—­who are always further than women from the simple, animal emotions, or any speakers who use languages with weak gutturals, like French or English, can produce this inarticulate chant in their ordinary talk.

She plays continual tricks with her Gaelic in the way girls are fond of, piling up diminutives and repeating adjectives with a humorous scorn of syntax.  While she is here the talk never stops in the kitchen.  To-day she has been asking me many questions about Germany, for it seems one of her sisters married a German husband in America some years ago, who kept her in great comfort, with a fine ’capull glas’ (’grey horse’) to ride on, and this girl has decided to escape in the same way from the drudgery of the island.

This was my last evening on my stool in the chimney corner, and I had a long talk with some neighbours who came in to bid me prosperity, and lay about on the floor with their heads on low stools and their feet stretched out to the embers of the turf.  The old woman was at the other side of the fire, and the girl I have spoken of was standing at her spinning-wheel, talking and joking with every one.  She says when I go away now I am to marry a rich wife with plenty of money, and if she dies on me I am to come back here and marry herself for my second wife.

I have never heard talk so simple and so attractive as the talk of these people.  This evening they began disputing about their wives, and it appeared that the greatest merit they see in a woman is that she should be fruitful and bring them many children.  As no money can be earned by children on the island this one attitude shows the immense difference between these people and the people of Paris.

The direct sexual instincts are not weak on the island, but they are so subordinated to the instincts of the family that they rarely lead to irregularity.  The life here is still at an almost patriarchal stage, and the people are nearly as far from the romantic moods of love as they are from the impulsive life of the savage.

The wind was so high this morning that there was some doubt whether the steamer would arrive, and I spent half the day wandering about with Michael watching the horizon.

At last, when we had given her up, she came in sight far away to the north, where she had gone to have the wind with her where the sea was at its highest.

I got my baggage from the cottage and set off for the slip with Michael and the old man, turning into a cottage here and there to say good-bye.

In spite of the wind outside, the sea at the slip was as calm as a pool.  The men who were standing about while the steamer was at the south island wondered for the last time whether I would be married when I came back to see them.  Then we pulled out and took our place in the line.  As the tide was running hard the steamer stopped a certain distance from the shore, and gave us a long race for good places at her side.  In the struggle we did not come off well, so I had to clamber across two curaghs, twisting and fumbling with the roll, in order to get on board.

It seemed strange to see the curaghs full of well-known faces turning back to the slip without me, but the roll in the sound soon took off my attention.  Some men were on board whom I had seen on the south island, and a good many Kilronan people on their way home from Galway, who told me that in one part of their passage in the morning they had come in for heavy seas.

As is usual on Saturday, the steamer had a large cargo of flour and porter to discharge at Kilronan, and, as it was nearly four o’clock before the tide could float her at the pier, I felt some doubt about our passage to Galway.

The wind increased as the afternoon went on, and when I came down in the twilight I found that the cargo was not yet all unladen, and that the captain feared to face the gale that was rising.  It was some time before he came to a final decision, and we walked backwards and forwards from the village with heavy clouds flying overhead and the wind howling in the walls.  At last he telegraphed to Galway to know if he was wanted the next day, and we went into a public-house to wait for the reply.

The kitchen was filled with men sitting closely on long forms ranged in lines at each side of the fire.  A wild-looking but beautiful girl was kneeling on the hearth talking loudly to the men, and a few natives of Inishmaan were hanging about the door, miserably drunk.  At the end of the kitchen the bar was arranged, with a sort of alcove beside it, where some older men were playing cards.  Overhead there were the open rafters, filled with turf and tobacco smoke.

This is the haunt so much dreaded by the women of the other islands, where the men linger with their money till they go out at last with reeling steps and are lost in the sound.  Without this background of empty curaghs, and bodies floating naked with the tide, there would be something almost absurd about the dissipation of this simple place where men sit, evening after evening, drinking bad whisky and porter, and talking with endless repetition of fishing, and kelp, and of the sorrows of purgatory.

When we had finished our whiskey word came that the boat might remain.

With some difficulty I got my bags out of the steamer and carried them up through the crowd of women and donkeys that were still struggling on the quay in an inconceivable medley of flour-bags and cases of petroleum.  When I reached the inn the old woman was in great good humour, and I spent some time talking by the kitchen fire.  Then I groped my way back to the harbour, where, I was told, the old net-mender, who came to see me on my first visit to the islands, was spending the night as watchman.

It was quite dark on the pier, and a terrible gale was blowing.  There was no one in the little office where I expected to find him, so I groped my way further on towards a figure I saw moving with a lantern.

It was the old man, and he remembered me at once when I hailed him and told him who I was.  He spent some time arranging one of his lanterns, and then he took me back to his office—­a mere shed of planks and corrugated iron, put up for the contractor of some work which is in progress on the pier.

When we reached the light I saw that his head was rolled up in an extraordinary collection of mufflers to keep him from the cold, and that his face was much older than when I saw him before, though still full of intelligence.

He began to tell how he had gone to see a relative of mine in Dublin when he first left the island as a cabin-boy, between forty and fifty years ago.

He told his story with the usual detail:—­

We saw a man walking about on the quay in Dublin, and looking at us without saying a word.  Then he came down to the yacht.  ’Are you the men from Aran?’ said he.

‘We are,’ said we.

‘You’re to come with me so,’ said he.  ‘Why?’ said we.

Then he told us it was Mr. Synge had sent him and we went with him.  Mr. Synge brought us into his kitchen and gave the men a glass of whisky all round, and a half-glass to me because I was a boy—­though at that time and to this day I can drink as much as two men and not be the worse of it.  We were some time in the kitchen, then one of the men said we should be going.  I said it would not be right to go without saying a word to Mr. Synge.  Then the servant-girl went up and brought him down, and he gave us another glass of whisky, and he gave me a book in Irish because I was going to sea, and I was able to read in the Irish.

I owe it to Mr. Synge and that book that when I came back here, after not hearing a word of Irish for thirty years, I had as good Irish, or maybe better Irish, than any person on the island.

I could see all through his talk that the sense of superiority which his scholarship in this little-known language gave him above the ordinary seaman, had influenced his whole personality and been the central interest of his life.

On one voyage he had a fellow-sailor who often boasted that he had been at school and learned Greek, and this incident took place:—­

One night we had a quarrel, and I asked him could he read a Greek book with all his talk of it.

‘I can so,’ said he.

‘We’ll see that,’ said I.

Then I got the Irish book out of my chest, and I gave it into his hand.

‘Read that to me,’ said I, ‘if you know Greek.’

He took it, and he looked at it this way, and that way, and not a bit of him could make it out.

‘Bedad, I’ve forgotten my Greek,’ said he.

‘You’re telling a lie,’ said I.  ‘I’m not,’ said he; ’it’s the divil a bit I can read it.’

Then I took the book back into my hand, and said to him—­’It’s the sorra a word of Greek you ever knew in your life, for there’s not a word of Greek in that book, and not a bit of you knew.’

He told me another story of the only time he had heard Irish spoken during his voyages:—­

One night I was in New York, walking in the streets with some other men, and we came upon two women quarrelling in Irish at the door of a public-house.

‘What’s that jargon?’ said one of the men.

‘It’s no jargon,’ said I.

‘What is it?’ said he.

‘It’s Irish,’ said I.

Then I went up to them, and you know, sir, there is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting.  The moment I spoke to them they stopped scratching and swearing and stood there as quiet as two lambs.

Then they asked me in Irish if I wouldn’t come in and have a drink, and I said I couldn’t leave my mates.

‘Bring them too,’ said they.

Then we all had a drop together.

While we were talking another man had slipped in and sat down in the corner with his pipe, and the rain had become so heavy we could hardly hear our voices over the noise on the iron roof.

The old man went on telling of his experiences at sea and the places he had been to.

‘If I had my life to live over again,’ he said, ’there’s no other way I’d spend it.  I went in and out everywhere and saw everything.  I was never afraid to take my glass, though I was never drunk in my life, and I was a great player of cards though I never played for money’

‘There’s no diversion at all in cards if you don’t play for money’ said the man in the corner.

‘There was no use in my playing for money’ said the old man, ’for I’d always lose, and what’s the use in playing if you always lose?’

Then our conversation branched off to the Irish language and the books written in it.

He began to criticise Archbishop MacHale’s version of Moore’s Irish Melodies with great severity and acuteness, citing whole poems both in the English and Irish, and then giving versions that he had made himself.

‘A translation is no translation,’ he said, ’unless it will give you the music of a poem along with the words of it.  In my translation you won’t find a foot or a syllable that’s not in the English, yet I’ve put down all his words mean, and nothing but it.  Archbishop MacHale’s work is a most miserable production.’

From the verses he cited his judgment seemed perfectly justified, and even if he was wrong, it is interesting to note that this poor sailor and night-watchman was ready to rise up and criticise an eminent dignitary and scholar on rather delicate points of versification and the finer distinctions between old words of Gaelic.

In spite of his singular intelligence and minute observation his reasoning was medieval.

I asked him what he thought about the future of the language on these islands.

‘It can never die out,’ said he, ’because there’s no family in the place can live without a bit of a field for potatoes, and they have only the Irish words for all that they do in the fields.  They sail their new boats—­their hookers—­in English, but they sail a curagh oftener in Irish, and in the fields they have the Irish alone.  It can never die out, and when the people begin to see it fallen very low, it will rise up again like the phoenix from its own ashes.’

‘And the Gaelic League?’ I asked him.

’The Gaelic League!  Didn’t they come down here with their organisers and their secretaries, and their meetings and their speechifyings, and start a branch of it, and teach a power of Irish for five weeks and a half!’ [a]

‘What do we want here with their teaching Irish?’ said the man in the corner; ‘haven’t we Irish enough?’

‘You have not,’ said the old man; ’there’s not a soul in Aran can count up to nine hundred and ninety-nine without using an English word but myself.’

It was getting late, and the rain had lessened for a moment, so I groped my way back to the inn through the intense darkness of a late autumn night.

[a] This was written, it should be remembered, some years ago.