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diff --git a/old/25571-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/25571-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..22b30b1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/25571-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,3769 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Little Manx Nation, by Hall Caine + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Manx Nation - 1891, by Hall Caine + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Little Manx Nation - 1891 + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: May 23, 2008 [EBook #25571] +Last Updated: October 6, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE MANX NATION - 1891 *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE LITTLE MANX NATION + </h1> + <h2> + By Hall Caine + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Published by William Heinemann - 1891 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_TOC"> DETAILED CONTENTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>THE LITTLE MANX NATION</b></big> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE STORY OF THE MANX KINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE STORY OF THE MANX BISHOPS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE STORY OF THE MANX PEOPLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + To the REVEREND T. S. BROWN, M.A. + </h3> + <p> + You see what I send you—my lectures at the Royal Institution in the + Spring. In making a little book of them I have thought it best to leave + them as they were delivered, with all the colloquialisms that are natural + to spoken words frankly exposed to cold print. This does not help them to + any particular distinction as literature, but perhaps it lends them an + ease and familiarity which may partly atone to you and to all good souls + for their plentiful lack of dignity. I have said so often that I am not an + historian, that I ought to add that whatever history lies hidden here + belongs to Train, our only accredited chronicler, and, even at the risk of + bowing too low, I must needs protest, in our north-country homespun, that + he shall have the pudding if he will also take the pudding-bag. You know + what I mean. At some points our history—especially our early history—is + still so vague, so dubious, so full of mystery. It is all the fault of + little Mannanan, our ancient Manx magician, who enshrouded our island in + mist. Or should I say it is to his credit, for has he not left us through + all time some shadowy figures to fight about, like “rael, thrue, reg’lar” + Manxmen. As for the stories, the “yarns” that lie like flies—like + blue-bottles, like bees, I trust not like wasps—in the amber of the + history, you will see that they are mainly my own. On second thought it + occurs to me that maybe they are mainly yours. Let us say that they are + both yours and mine, or perhaps, if the world finds anything good in them, + any humour, any pathos, any racy touches of our rugged people, you will + permit me to determine their ownership in the way of this paraphrase of + Coleridge’s doggerel version of the two Latin hexameters— + </p> + <p> + “They’re mine and they are likewise yours, But an if that will not do, Let + them be mine, good friend! for I Am the poorer of the two.” + </p> + <p> + Hawthorns, Keswick, June 1891. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + DETAILED CONTENTS + </h2> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE STORY OF THE MANX KINGS </a> + </p> + <p> + THE STORY OF THE MANX KINGS <br /> Islanders—Our Island—The + Name of our Island—Our History—King <br /> Orry—The + Tynwald—The Lost Saga—The Manx Macbeth—The Manx <br /> + Glo’ster—Scotch and English Dominion—The Stanley Dynasty—Iliam + <br /> Dhoan—The Athol Dynasty—Smuggling and Wrecking—The + Revestment—Home <br /> Rule—Orry’s Sons <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE STORY OF THE MANX BISHOPS </a> + </p> + <p> + THE STORY OF THE MANX BISHOPS <br /> The Druids—Conversion to + Christianity—The Early Bishops of <br /> Man—Bishops of the + Welsh Dynasty—Bishops of the Norse Dynasty—Sodor <br /> and + Man—The Early Bishops of the House of Stanley—Tithes in + <br /> Kind—The Gambling Bishop—The Deemsters—The + Bishopric Vacant—Bishop <br /> Wilson—Bishop Wilson’s + Censures—The Great Corn Famine—The Bishop at <br /> Court—Stories + of Bishop Wilson—Quarrels of Church and State—Some <br /> Old + Ordeals—The Herring Fishery—The Fishermen’s Service—Some + Old <br /> Laws—Katherine Kinrade—Bishop Wilson’s last Days—The + Athol Bishops. <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE STORY OF THE MANX PEOPLE </a> + </p> + <p> + THE STORY OF THE MANX PEOPLE <br /> The Manx Language—Manx Names—Manx + imagination—Manx Proverbs—Manx <br /> Ballads—Manx + Carols—Decay of the Manx Language—Manx <br /> Superstitions—Manx + Stories—Manx “Characters”—Manx <br /> Characteristics—Manx + Types—Literary Associations—Manx <br /> Progress—Conclusion + <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LITTLE MANX NATION + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF THE MANX KINGS + </h2> + <p> + There are just two ideas which are associated in the popular imagination + with the first thought of the Isle of Man. The one is that Manxmen have + three legs, and the other that Manx cats have no tails. But whatever the + popular conception, or misconception, of Man and its people, I shall + assume that what you ask from me is that simple knowledge of simple things + which has come to me by the accident of my parentage. I must confess to + you at the outset that I am not much of a hand at grave history. Facts and + figures I cannot expound with authority. But I know the history of the + Isle of Man, can see it clear, can see it whole, and perhaps it will + content you if I can show you the soul of it and make it to live before + you. In attempting to traverse the history I feel like one who carries a + dark lantern through ten dark centuries. I turn the bull’s eye on this + incident and that, take a peep here and there, a white light now, and then + a blank darkness. Those ten centuries are full of lusty fights, victories, + vanquishments, quarrels, peacemaking, shindies big and little, rumpus + solemn and ridiculous, clouds of dust, regal dust, political dust, and + religious dust—you know the way of it. But beneath it all and behind + it all lies the real, true, living human heart of Manxland. I want to show + it to you, if you will allow me to spare the needful time from facts and + figures. It will get you close to Man and its people, and it is not to be + found in the history books. + </p> + <p> + ISLANDERS + </p> + <p> + And now, first, we Manxmen are islanders. It is not everybody who lives on + an island that is an islander. You know what I mean. I mean by an islander + one whose daily life is affected by the constant presence of the sea. This + is possible in a big island if it is far enough away from the rest of the + world, Iceland, for example, but it is inevitable in a little one. The sea + is always present with Manxmen. Everything they do, everything they say, + gets the colour and shimmer of the sea. The sea goes into their bones, it + comes out at their skin. Their talk is full of it. They buy by it, they + sell by it, they quarrel by it, they fight by it, they swear by it, they + pray by it. Of course they are not conscious of this. Only their + degenerate son, myself to wit, a chiel among them takin’ notes, knows how + the sea exudes from the Manxmen. Say you ask if the Governor is at home. + If he is not, what is the answer? “He’s not on the island, sir.” You + inquire for the best hotel. “So-and-so is the best hotel on the island, + sir.” You go to a Manx fair and hear a farmer selling a cow. “Aw,” says + he, “she’s a ter’ble gran’ craythuer for milkin’, sir, and for butter + maybe there isn’ the lek of her on the island, sir.” Coming out of church + you listen to the talk of two old Manxwomen discussing the preacher. + “Well, well, ma’am, well, well! Aw, the voice at him! and the prayers! and + the beautiful texes! There isn’ the lek of him on the island at all, at + all!” Always the island, the island, the island, or else the boats, and + going out to the herrings. The sea is always present. You feel it, you + hear it, you see it, you can never forget it. It dominates you. Manxmen + are all sea-folk. + </p> + <p> + You will think this implies that Manxmen stick close to their island. They + do more than that. I will tell you a story. Five years ago I went up into + the mountains to seek an old Manx bard, last of a race of whom I shall + have something to tell you in their turn. All his life he had been a poet. + I did not gather that he had read any poetry except his own. Up to seventy + he had been a bachelor. Then this good Boaz had lit on his Ruth and + married, and had many children. I found him in a lonely glen, peopled only + in story, and then by fairies. A bare hill side, not a bush in sight, a + dead stretch of sea in front, rarely brightened by a sail. I had come + through a blinding hail-storm. The old man was sitting in the chimney + nook, a little red shawl round his head and knotted under his chin. Within + this aureole his face was as strong as Savonarola’s, long and gaunt, and + with skin stretched over it like parchment. He was no hermit, but a + farmer, and had lived on that land, man and boy, nearly ninety years. He + had never been off the island, and had strange notions of the rest of the + world. Talked of England, London, theatres, palaces, king’s + entertainments, evening parties. He saw them all through the mists of + rumour, and by the light of his Bible. He had strange notions, some of + them bad shots for the truth, some of them startlingly true. I dare not + tell you what they were. A Royal Institution audience would be aghast. + They had, as a whole, a strong smell of sulphur. But the old bard was not + merely an islander, he belonged to his land more than his land belonged to + him. The fishing town nearest to his farm was Peel, the great fishing + centre on the west coast. It was only five miles away. I asked how long it + was since he had been there? “Fifteen years,” he answered. The next + nearest town was the old capital, on the east coast, Castletown, the home + of the Governor, of the last of the Manx lords, the place of the Castle, + the Court, the prison, the garrison, the College. It was just six miles + away. How long was it since he had been there? “Twenty years.” The new + capital, Douglas, the heart of the island, its point of touch with the + world, was nine miles away. How long since he had been in Douglas? “Sixty + years,” said the old bard. God bless him, the sweet, dear old soul! + Untaught, narrow, self-centred, bred on his byre like his bullocks, but + keeping his soul alive for all that, caring not a ha’porth for the things + of the world, he was a true Manxman, and I’m proud of him. One thing I + have to thank him for. But for him, and the like of him, we should not be + here to-day. It is not the cultured Manxman, the Manxman that goes to the + ends of the earth, that makes the Manx nation valuable to study. Our race + is what it is by virtue of the Manxman who has had no life outside Man, + and so has kept alive our language, our customs, our laws and our + patriarchal Constitution. + </p> + <p> + OUR ISLAND + </p> + <p> + It lies in the middle of the Irish Sea, at about equal distances from + England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Seen from the sea it is a lovely + thing to look upon. It never fails to bring me a thrill of the heart as it + comes out of the distance. It lies like a bird on the waters. You see it + from end to end, and from water’s edge to topmost peak, often enshrouded + in mists, a dim ghost on a grey sea; sometimes purple against the setting + sun. Then as you sail up to it, a rugged rocky coast, grand in its + beetling heights on the south and west, and broken into the sweetest bays + everywhere. The water clear as crystal and blue as the sky in summer. You + can see the shingle and the moss through many fathoms. Then mountains + within, not in peaks, but round foreheads. The colour of the island is + green and gold; its flavour is that of a nut. Both colour and flavour come + of the gorse. This covers the mountains and moorlands, for, except on the + north, the island has next to no trees. But O, the beauty and delight of + it in the Spring! Long, broad stretches glittering under the sun with the + gold of the gorse, and all the air full of the nutty perfume. There is + nothing like it in the world. Then the glens, such fairy spots, deep, + solemn, musical with the slumberous waters, clad in dark mosses, + brightened by the red fuchsia. The fuchsia is everywhere where the gorse + is not. At the cottage doors, by the waysides, in the gardens. If the + gorse should fail the fuchsia might even take its place on the mountains. + Such is Man, but I am partly conscious that it is Man as seen by a + Manxman. You want a drop of Manx blood in you to see it aright. Then you + may go the earth over and see grander things a thousand times, things more + sublime and beautiful, but you will come back to Manxland and tramp the + Mull Hills in May, long hour in, and long hour out, and look at the + flowering gorse and sniff its flavour, or lie by the chasms and listen to + the screams of the sea-birds, as they whirl and dip and dart and skim over + the Sugar-loaf Rock, and you’ll say after all that God has smiled on our + little island, and that it is the fairest spot in His beautiful world, + and, above all, that it is <i>ours</i>. + </p> + <p> + THE NAME OF OUR ISLAND + </p> + <p> + This is a matter in dispute among philologists, and I am no authority. + Some say that Caesar meant the Isle of Man when he spoke of Mona; others + say he meant Anglesea. The present name is modern. So is Elian Vannin, its + Manx equivalent. In the Icelandic Sagas the island is called Mon. + Elsewhere it is called Eubonia. One historian thinks the island derives + its name from Mannin—in being an old Celtic word for island, + therefore Meadhon-in (pronounced Mannin) would signify: The middle island. + That definition requires that the Manxman had no hand in naming Man. He + would never think of describing its geographical situation on the sea. + Manxmen say the island got its name from a mythical personage called + Mannanan-Beg-Mac-y-Learr, Little Mannanan, son of Learr. This man was a + sort of Prospero, a magician, and the island’s first ruler. The story goes + that if he dreaded an enemy he would enshroud the island in mist, “and + that by art magic.” Happy island, where such faith could ever exist! + Modern science knows that mist, and where it comes from. + </p> + <p> + OUR HISTORY + </p> + <p> + It falls into three periods, first, a period of Celtic rule, second of + Norse rule, third of English dominion. Manx history is the history of + surrounding nations. We have no Sagas of our own heroes. The Sagas are all + of our conquerors. Save for our first three hundred recorded years we have + never been masters in our own house. The first chapter of our history has + yet to be written. We know we were Celts to begin with, but how we came we + have never learnt, whether we walked dry-shod from Wales or sailed in + boats from Ireland. To find out the facts of our early history would be + like digging up the island of Prospero. Perhaps we had better leave it + alone. Ten to one we were a gang of political exiles. Perhaps we left our + country for our country’s good. Be it so. It was the first and last time + that it could be said of us. + </p> + <p> + KING ORRY + </p> + <p> + Early in the sixth century Man became subject to the kings and princes of + Wales, who ruled from Anglesea. There were twelve of them in succession, + and the last of them fell in the tenth century. We know next to nothing + about them but their names. Then came the Vikings. The young bloods of + Scandinavia had newly established their Norse kingdom in Iceland, and were + huckstering and sea roving about the Baltic and among the British Isles. + They had been to the Orkneys and Shetlands, and Faroes, perhaps to + Ireland, certainly to the coast of Cumberland, making Scandinavian + settlements everywhere. So they came to Mön early in the tenth century, + led by one Orry, or Gorree. Some say this man was nothing but a common + sea-rover. Others say he was a son of the Danish or Norwegian monarch. It + does not matter much. Orry had a better claim to regard than that of the + son of a great king. He was himself a great man. The story of his first + landing is a stirring thing. It was night, a clear, brilliant, starry + night, all the dark heavens lit up. Orry’s ships were at anchor behind + him; and with his men he had touched the beach, when down came the Celts + to face him, and to challenge him. They demanded to know where he came + from. Then the red-haired sea-warrior pointed to the milky way going off + towards the North. “That is the way of my country,” he answered. The Celts + went down like one man in awe before him. He was their born king. It is + what the actors call a fine moment. Still, nobody has ever told us how + Orry and the Celts understood one another, speaking different tongues. Let + us not ask. + </p> + <p> + King Orry had come to stay, and sea-warriors do not usually bring their + women over tempestuous seas. So the Norsemen married the Celtic women, and + from that union came the Manx people. Thus the Manxman to begin with was + half Norse, half Celt. He is much the same still. Manxmen usually marry + Manx women, and when they do not, they often marry Cumberland women. As + the Norseman settled in Cumberland as well as in Man the race is not + seriously affected either way. So the Manxman, such as he is, taken all + the centuries through, is thoroughbred. + </p> + <p> + Now what King Orry did in the Isle of Man was the greatest work that ever + was done there. He established our Constitution. It was on the model of + the Constitution just established in Iceland. The government was + representative and patriarchal. The Manx people being sea-folk, living by + the sea, a race of fishermen and sea-rovers, he divided the island into + six ship-shires, now called Sheadings. Each ship-shire elected four men to + an assemblage of law-makers. This assemblage, equivalent to the Icelandic + Logretta, was called the House of Keys. There is no saying what the word + means. Prof. Rhys thinks it is derived from the Manx name <i>Kiare-as-Feed</i>, + meaning the four-and-twenty. Train says the representatives were called + Taxiaxi, signifying pledges or hostages, and consequently were styled + Keys. Vigfusson’s theory was that Keys is from the Norse word <i>Keise</i>, + or chosen men. The common Manx notion, the idea familiar to my own + boyhood, is, that the twenty-four members of the House of Keys are the + twenty-four material keys whereby the closed doors of the law are + unlocked. But besides the sea-folk of the ship-shires King Orry remembered + the Church. He found it on the island at his coming, left it where he + found it, and gave it a voice in the government. He established a Tynwald + Court, equivalent to the Icelandic All Moot, where Church and State sat + together. Then he appointed two law-men, called Deemsters, one for the + north and the other for the south. These were equivalent to his Icelandic + Lögsögumadur, speaker of the law and judge of all offences. Finally, he + caused to be built an artificial Mount of Laws, similar in its features to + the Icelandic Logberg at Thingvellir. Such was the machinery of the Norse + Constitution which King Orry established in Man. The working of it was + very simple. The House of Keys, the people’s delegates, discussed all + questions of interest to the people, and sent up its desires to the + Tynwald Court. This assembly of people and Church in joint session + assented, and the desires of the people became Acts of Tynwald. These Acts + were submitted to the King. Having obtained the King’s sanction they were + promulgated on the Tynwald Hill on the national day in the presence of the + nation. The scene of that promulgation of the laws was stirring and + impressive. Let me describe it. + </p> + <p> + THE TYNWALD + </p> + <p> + Perhaps there were two Tynwald Hills in King Orry’s time, but I shall + assume that there was one only. It stood somewhere about midway in the + island. In the heart of a wide range of hill and dale, with a long valley + to the south, a hill to the north, a table-land to the east, and to the + west the broad Irish Sea. Not, of course, a place to be compared with the + grand and gloomy valley of the Logberg, where in a vast amphitheatre of + dark hills and great jökulls tipped with snow, with deep chasms and + yawning black pits, one’s heart stands still. But the place of the Manx + Tynwald was an impressive spot. The Hill itself was a circular mount cut + into broad steps, the apex being only a few feet in diameter. About it was + a flat grass plot. Near it, just a hundred and forty yards away, connected + with the mount by a beaten path, was a chapel. All around was bare and + solitary, perhaps as bleak and stark as the lonely plains of Thingvellir. + </p> + <p> + Such was the scene. Hither came the King and his people on Tynwald Day. It + fell on the 24th of June, the first of the seven days of the Icelandic + gathering of the Althing. What occurred in Iceland occurred also in Man. + The King with his Keys and his clergy gathered in the chapel. Thence they + passed in procession to the law-rock. On the top round of the Tynwald the + King sat on a chair and faced to the east. His sword was held before him, + point upwards. His barons and beneficed men, his deemsters, knights, + esquires, coroners, and yeomen, stood on the lower steps of the mount. On + the grass plot beyond the people were gathered in crowds. Then the work of + the day began. The coroners proclaimed a warning. No man should make + disturbance at Tynwald on pain of death. Then the Acts of Tynwald were + read or recited aloud by the deemsters; first in the language of the laws, + and next in the language of the people. After other formalities the + procession of the King returned to the chapel, where the laws were signed + and attested, and so the annual Tynwald ended. + </p> + <p> + Now this primitive ceremonial, begun by King Orry early in the tenth + century, is observed to this day. On Midsummer-day of this year of grace a + ceremony similar in all its essentials will be observed by the present + Governor, his Keys, clergy, deemsters, coroners, and people, on or near + the same spot. It is the old Icelandic ordinance, but it has gone from + Iceland. The year 1800 saw the last of it on the lava law-rock of + Thingvellir. It is gone from every other Norse kingdom founded by the old + sea-rovers among the Western Isles. Manxmen alone have held on to it. + Shall we also let it go? Shall we laugh at it as a bit of mummery that is + useless in an age of books and newspapers, and foolish and pompous in days + of frock-coats and chimney-pot hats? I think not. We cannot afford to lose + it. Remember, it is the last visible sign of our independence as a nation. + It is our hand-grasp with the past. Our little nation is the only Norse + nation now on earth that can shake hands with the days of the Sagas, and + the Sea-Kings. Then let him who will laugh at our primitive ceremonial. It + is the badge of our ancient liberty, and we need not envy the man who can + look on it unmoved. + </p> + <p> + THE LOST SAGA + </p> + <p> + Of King Orry himself we learn very little. He was not only the first of + our kings, but also the greatest. We may be sure of that; first, by what + we know; and next, by what we do not know. He was a conqueror, and yet we + do not learn that he ever attempted to curtail the liberties of his + subjects. He found us free men, and did not try to make us slaves. On the + contrary, he gave us a representative Constitution, which has lasted a + thousand years. We might call him our Manx King Alfred, if the + indirections of history did not rather tempt us to christen him our Manx + King Lear. His Saga has never been written, or else it is lost. Would that + we could recover it! Oh, that imagination had the authority of history to + vitalise the old man and his times! I seem to see him as he lived. There + are hints of his character in his laws, that are as stage directions, + telling of the entrances and exits of his people, though the drama of + their day is gone. For example, in that preliminary warning of the coroner + at Tynwald, there is a clause which says that none shall “bawl or quarrel + or lye or lounge or sit.” Do you not see what that implies? Again, there + is another clause which forbids any man, “on paine of life and lyme,” to + make disturbance or stir in the time of Tynwald, or any murmur or rising + in the king’s presence. Can you not read between the lines of that edict? + Once more, no inquest of a deemster, no judge or jury, was necessary to + the death-sentence of a man who rose against the king or his governor on + his seat on Tynwald. Nobody can miss the meaning of that. Once again, it + was a common right of the people to present petitions at Tynwald, a common + privilege of persons unjustly punished to appeal against judgment, and a + common prerogative of outlaws to ask at the foot of the Tynwald Mount on + Tynwald Day for the removal of their outlawry. All these old rights and + regulations came from Iceland, and by the help of the Sagas it needs no + special imagination to make the scenes of their action live again. I seem + to see King Orry sitting on his chair on the Tynwald with his face towards + the east. He has long given up sea-roving. + </p> + <p> + His long red hair is become grey or white. But the old lion has the + muscles and fiery eye of the warrior still. His deemsters and barons are + about him, and his people are on the sward below. They are free men; they + mean to have their rights, both from him and from each other. Disputes run + high, there are loud voices, mighty oaths, sometimes blows, fights, and + terrific hurly-burlies. Then old Orry comes down with a great voice and a + sword, and ploughs a way through the fighters and scatters them. No man + dare lift his hand on the king. Peace is restored, and the king goes back + to his seat. + </p> + <p> + Then up from the valley comes a woe-begone man in tatters, grim and gaunt + and dirty, a famished and hunted wolf. He is an outlaw, has killed a man, + is pursued in a blood-feud, and asks for relief of his outlawry. And so on + and so on, a scene of rugged, lusty passions, hate and revenge, but also + love and brotherhood; drinking, laughing, swearing, fighting, savage vices + but also savage virtues, noble contempt of death, and magnificent + self-sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + The chapter is lost, but we know what it must have been. King Orry was its + hero. Our Manx Alfred, our Manx Arthur, our Manx Lear. Then room for him + among our heroes! he must stand high. + </p> + <p> + THE MANX MACBETH + </p> + <p> + The line of Orry came to an end at the beginning of the eleventh century. + Scotland was then under the sway of the tyrant Macbeth, and, oddly enough, + a parallel tragedy to that of Duncan and his kinsman was being enacted in + Man. A son of Harold the Black, of Iceland, Goddard Crovan, a mighty + soldier, conquered the island and took the crown by treachery, coming + first as a guest of the Manx king. Treachery breeds treachery, duplicity + is a bad seed to sow for loyalty, and the Manx people were divided in + their allegiance. About twenty years after Crovan’s conquest the people of + the south of the island took up arms against the people of the north, and + the story goes that, when victory wavered, the women of the north rushed + out to the help of their husbands, and so won the fight. For that day’s + work, the northern wives were given the right to half of all their + husband’s goods immovable, while the wives of the south had only a third. + The last of the line of Goddard Crovan died in 1265, and so ended the + dynasty of the Norsemen in Man. They had been three hundred years there. + They found us a people of the race and language of the people of Ireland, + and they left us Manxmen. They were our only true Manx kings, and when + they fell, our independence as a nation ceased. + </p> + <p> + THE MANX GLO’STER + </p> + <p> + Then the first pretender to the throne was one Ivar, a murderer, a sort of + Richard III., not all bad, but nearly all; said to possess virtues enough + to save the island and vices enough to ruin it. The island was surrendered + to Scotland by treaty with Norway. The Manx hated the Scotch. They knew + them as a race of pirates. Some three centuries later there was one Cutlar + MacCullock, whose name was a terror, so merciless were his ravages. Over + the cradles of their infants the Manx mothers sang this song:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God keep the good corn, the sheep and the bullocks, + From Satan, from sin and from Cutlar MacCullock. +</pre> + <p> + Bad as Ivar was, the Scotch threatened to be worse. + </p> + <p> + So the Manx, fearing that their kingdom might become a part of the kingdom + of Scotland, supported Ivar. They were beaten. Ivar was a brave tiger, and + died fighting. + </p> + <p> + SCOTCH AND ENGLISH DOMINION + </p> + <p> + Man was conquered, and the King of Scotland appointed a lieutenant to rule + the island. But the Manx loved the Scotch no better as masters than as + pirates, and they petitioned the English king, Edward I., to take them + under his protection. He came, and the Scotch were driven out. But King + Robert Bruce reconquered the island for the Scotch. Yet again the island + fell to English dominion. This was in the time of Henry IV. It is a sorry + story. Henry gave the island to the Earl of Salisbury. Salisbury sold it + to one Sir William le Scroop. A copy of the deed of sale exists. It puts a + Manxman’s teeth on edge. “With all the right of being crowned with a + golden crown.” Scroop was beheaded by Henry, who confiscated his estate, + and gave the island to the Earl of Northumberland. It is a silly + inventory, but let us get through with it. Northumberland was banished, + and finally Henry made a grant of the island to Sir John de Stanley. This + was in 1407. Thus there had been four Kings of Man—not one of whom + had, so far as I know, set foot on its soil—three grants of the + island, and one miserable sale. Where the carcase is, there will the + eagles be gathered together. + </p> + <p> + THE STANLEY DYNASTY + </p> + <p> + When the crown came to Sir John Stanley he was in no hurry to put it on. + He paid no heed to his Manx subjects, and never saw his Manx kingdom. I + dare say he thought the gift horse was something of a white elephant. No + wonder if he did, for words could not exaggerate the wretched condition of + the island and its people. The houses of the poor were hovels built of + sod, with floors of clay, and sooty rafters of briar and straw and dried + gorse. The people were hardly better fed than their beasts. So Stanley + left the island alone. It will be interesting to mark how different was + the mood of his children, and his children’s children. The second Stanley + went over to Man and did good work there. He promulgated our laws, and had + them written down for the first time—they had hitherto been locked + in the breasts of the deemsters in imitation of the practice of the + Druids. The line of the Stanleys lasted more than three hundred years. + Their rule was good for the island. They gave the tenants security of + tenure, and the landowners an act of settlement. They lifted the material + condition of our people, gave us the enjoyment of our venerable laws, and + ratified our patriarchal Constitution. Honour to the Stanleys of the Manx + dynasty! They have left a good mark on Man. + </p> + <p> + ILIAM DHOAN + </p> + <p> + And now I come to the one incident in modern Manx history which shares, + with the three legs of Man and the Manx cat, the consciousness of + everybody who knows anything about our island and its people. This is the + incident of the betrayal of Man and the Stanleys to the Parliament in the + time of Cromwell. It was a stirring drama, and though the curtain has long + fallen on it, the dark stage is still haunted by the ghosts of its + characters. Chief among these was William Christian, the Manxman called + Iliam Dhoan, Brown William, a familiar name that seems to hint of a fine + type of man. You will find him in “Peveril of the Peak.” He is there mixed + up with Edward Christian, a very different person, just as Peel Castle is + mixed up with Castle Rushen, consciously no doubt, and with an eye to + imaginative effects, for Scott had a brother in the Isle of Man who could + have kept him from error if fact had been of any great consequence in the + novelist’s reckoning. + </p> + <p> + Christian was Receiver-General, a sort of Chancellor of the Exchequer, for + the great Earl of Derby. The Earl had faith in him, and put nearly + everything under his command that fell within the province of his + lordship. Then came the struggle with Rigby at Latham House, and the + imprisonment of the Earl’s six children by Fairfax. The Manx were against + the Parliament, and subscribed £500, probably the best part of the money + in the island, in support of the king. Then the Earl of Derby left the + island with a body of volunteers, and in going away committed his wife to + the care of Christian. You know what happened to him. He was taken + prisoner in Lancashire, charged with bearing arms for Charles Stuart and + holding the Isle of Man against the Commons, condemned, and executed at + Bolton. + </p> + <p> + With the forfeiture of the Earl the lordship of the island was granted by + Parliament to Lord Fairfax. He sent an army to take possession, but the + Countess-Dowager still held the island. Christian commanded the Manx + militia. At this moment the Manx people showed signs of disaffection. They + suddenly remembered two grievances, one was a grievance of land tenure, + the other was that a troop of soldiers was kept at free quarterage. I + cannot but wish they had bethought them of both a little earlier. They + formed an association, and broke into rebellion against the + Countess-Dowager within eight days of the Earl’s execution. Perhaps they + did not know of the Earl’s death, for news travelled slowly over sea in + those days. But at least they knew of his absence. As a Manxman I am not + proud of them. + </p> + <p> + During these eight days Mr. Receiver-General had begun to trim his sails. + He had a lively wit, and saw which way things were going. Rumour says he + was at the root of the secret association. Be that as it may, he carried + the demands of the people to the Countess. She had no choice but to yield. + The troops were disbanded. It was a bad victory. + </p> + <p> + A fortnight before, when her husband lay under his death sentence, the + Countess had offered the island in exchange for his life. So now Mr. + Receiver-General used this act of love against her. He seized some of the + forts, saying the Countess was selling the island to the Parliament. Then + the army of the Parliament landed, and Christian straightway delivered the + island up to it, protesting that he had taken the forts on its behalf. + Some say the Countess was imprisoned in the vaults of the Castle. Others + say she had a free pass to England. So ended act one. + </p> + <p> + When the act-drop rose on act two, Mr. Receiver-General was in office + under the Parliament. From the place of Receiver-General he was promoted + to the place of Governor. He had then the money of the island under his + control, and he used it badly. Deficits were found in his accounts. He + fled to London, was arrested for a large debt, and clapped into the Fleet. + Then the Commonwealth fell, the Dowager Countess went upstairs again, and + Charles II. restored the son of the great Earl to the lordship of Man. + After that came the Act of Indemnity, a general pardon for all who had + taken part against the royal cause. Thereupon Christian went back to the + Isle of Man, was arrested on a charge of treason to the Countess-Dowager + of Derby, pleaded the royal act of general pardon against all proceedings + libelled against him, was tried by the House of Keys, and condemned to + death. So ended act two. + </p> + <p> + Christian had a nephew, Edward Christian, who was one of the two + deemsters. This man dissented from the voice of the court, and hastened to + London to petition the king. Charles is said to have heard his plea, and + to have sent an order to suspend sentence. Some say the order came too + late; some say the Governor had it early enough and ignored it. At all + events Christian was shot. He protested that he had never been anything + but a faithful servant to the Derbys, and made a brave end. The place of + his execution was Hango Hill, a bleak, bare stretch of land with the broad + sea Under it. The soldiers wished to bind Christian. “Trouble not + yourselves for me,” he said, “for I that dare face death in whatever shape + he comes, will not start at your fire and bullets.” He pinned a piece of + white paper on his breast, and said: “Hit this, and you do your own work + and mine.” Then he stretched forth his arms as a signal, was shot through + the heart, and fell. Such was the end of Brown William. He may have been a + traitor, but he was no coward. + </p> + <p> + When the chief actor in the tragedy had fallen, King Charles appeared, as + Fortinbras appears in “Hamlet,” to make a review and a reckoning, and to + take the spoils. He ordered the Governor, the remaining Deemsters, and + three of the Keys to be brought before him, pronounced the execution of + Christian to be a violation of his general pardon, and imposed severe + penalties of fine and imprisonment. “The rest” in this drama has not been + “silence.” One long clamour has followed. Christian’s guilt has been + questioned, the legality of his trial has been disputed, the validity of + Charles’s censure of the judges has been denied. The case is a mass of + tangle, as every case must be that stands between the two stools of the + Royal cause and the Commonwealth. But I shall make bold to summarise the + truth in a very few words: + </p> + <p> + First, that Christian was untrue to the house of Derby is as clear as + noonday. If he had been their loyal servant he could never have taken + office under the Parliament. + </p> + <p> + Second, though untrue to the Countess-Dowager, Christian could not be + guilty of treason to her, because she had ceased to be the sovereign when + her husband was executed. Fairfax was then the Lord of Man, and Christian + was guilty of no treason to him. + </p> + <p> + Third, whether true or untrue to the Countess-Dowager, the act of pardon + had nothing on earth to do with Christian, who was not charged with + treason to King Charles, but to the Manx reigning family. The Isle of Man + was not a dominion of England, and if Charles’s order had arrived before + Christian’s execution, the Governor, Keys, and Deemster would have been + fully justified in shooting the man in defiance of the king. + </p> + <p> + I feel some diffidence in offering this opinion, but I can have none + whatever in saying what I think of Christian. My fellow Manxmen are for + the most part his ardent supporters. They affirm his innocence, and + protest that he was a martyr-hero, declaring that at least he met his fate + by asserting the rights of his countrymen. I shall not hesitate to say + that I read the facts another way. This is how I see the man: + </p> + <p> + First, he was a servant of the Derbys, honoured, empowered, entrusted with + the care of his mistress, the Countess, when his master, the Earl, left + the island to fight for the king. Second, eight days after his master’s + fate, he rose in rebellion against his mistress and seized some of the + forts of defence. Third, he delivered the island to the army of the + Parliament, and continued to hold his office under it. Fourth, he robbed + the treasury of the island and fled from his new masters, the Parliament. + Fifth, when the new master fell he chopped round, became a king’s man once + more, and returned to the island on the strength of the general pardon. + Sixth, when he was condemned to death he, who had held office under the + Parliament, protested that he had never been anything but a faithful + servant to the Derbys. + </p> + <p> + Such is Christian. <i>He</i> a hero! No, but a poor, sorry, knock-kneed + time-server. A thing of rags and patches. A Manx Vicar of Bray. Let us + talk of him as little as we may, and boast of him not at all. Man and + Manxmen have no need ol him. No, thank God, we can tell of better men. Let + us turn his picture to the wall. + </p> + <p> + THE ATHOL DYNASTY + </p> + <p> + The last of the Stanleys of the Manx dynasty died childless in 1735, and + then the lordship of Man devolved by the female line on the second Duke of + Athol by right of his grandmother, who was a daughter of the great Earl of + Derby. There is little that is good to say of the Lords of the House of + Athol except that they sold the island. Almost the first, and quite the + best, thing they did on coming to Man, was to try to get out of it. Let us + make no disguise of the clear truth. The Manx Athols were bad, and nearly + everything about them was bad. Never was the condition of the island so + abject as during their day. Never were the poor so poor. Never was the + name of Manxman so deservedly a badge of disgrace. The chief dishonour was + that of the Athols. They kept a swashbuckler court in their little Manx + kingdom. Gentlemen of the type of Barry Lyndon overran it. Captain + Macheaths, Jonathan Wilds, and worse, were masters of the island, which + was now a refuge for debtors and felons. Roystering, philandering, + gambling, fighting, such was the order of things. + </p> + <p> + What days they had! What nights! His Grace of Athol was himself in the + thick of it all. He kept a deal of company, chiefly rogues and rascals. + For example, among his “lord captains” was one Captain Fletcher. This Blue + Beard had a magnificent horse, to which, when he was merry, he made his + wife, who was a religious woman, kneel down and say her prayers. The + mother of my friend, the Reverend T. E. Brown, came upon the dead body of + one of these Barry Lyndons, who had fallen in a duel, and the blue mark + was on the white forehead, where the pistol shot had been. I remember to + have heard of another Sir Lucius O’Trigger, whose body lay exposed in the + hold of a fishing-smack, while a parson read the burial service from the + quay. This was some artifice to prevent seizure for debt. Oh, these good + old times, with their soiled and dirty splendours! There was no lively + chronicler, no Pepys, no Walpole then, to give us a picture of the Court + of these Kings of Man. What a picture it must have been! Can you not see + it? The troops of gentlemen debtors from the Coffee Houses of London, with + their periwigs, their canes, and fine linen; down on their luck, but still + beruffled, besnuffed, and red-heeled. I can see them strutting with noses + up, through old Douglas market-place on market morning, past the Manx folk + in their homespun, their curranes and undyed stockings. Then out at Mount + Murray, the home of the Athols, their imitations of Vauxhall, torches, + dancings, bows and congés, bankrupt shows, perhaps, but the bankrupt + Barrys making the best of them—one seems to see it all. And then + again, their genteel quarrels—quarrels were easily bred in that + atmosphere. “Sir, I have the honour to tell you that you are a pimp, + lately escaped from the Fleet.” “My lord, permit me to say that you lie, + that you are the son of a lady, and were born in a sponging-house.” Then + out leapt the weapons, and presently two men were crossing swords under + the trees, and by-and-by one of them was left under the moonlight, with + the shadow of the leaves playing on his white face. + </p> + <p> + Poor gay dogs, they are dead! The page of their history is lost. Perhaps + that is just as well. It must have been a dark page, maybe a little red + too, even as blood runs red. You can see the scene of their revelries. It + is an inn now. The walls seem to echo to their voices. But the tables they + ate at are like themselves—worm-eaten. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye to them! They have gone over the Styx. + </p> + <p> + SMUGGLING AND WRECKING + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, what of the Manx people? Their condition was pitiful. An author + who wrote fifty years after the advent of the Athols gives a description + of such misery that one’s flesh creeps as one reads it. Badly housed, + badly clad, badly fed, and hardly taught at all, the very poor were in a + state of abjectness unfit for dogs. Treat men as dogs and they speedily + acquire the habits of dogs, the vices of dogs, and none of their virtues. + That was what happened to a part of the Manx people; they developed the + instincts of dogs, while their masters, the other dogs, the gay dogs, were + playing their bad game together. Smuggling became common on the coasts of + Man. Spirits and tobacco were the goods chiefly smuggled, and the illicit + trade rose to a great height. There was no way to check it. The island was + an independent kingdom. My lord of Athol swept in the ill-gotten gains, + and his people got what they could. It was a game of grab. Meantime the + trade of the surrounding countries, England, Wales, and Ireland, was + suffering grievously. The name of the island must have smelt strong in + those days. + </p> + <p> + But there was a fouler odour than that of smuggling. Wrecking was not + unknown. The island lent itself naturally to that evil work. The mists of + Little Mannanan, son of Lear, did not forsake our island when Saint + Patrick swept him out of it. They continued to come up from the south, and + to conspire with the rapid currents from the north to drive ships on to + our rocks. Our coasts were badly lighted, or lighted not at all. An open + flare stuck out from a pole at the end of a pier was often all that a + dangerous headland had to keep vessels away from it. Nothing was easier + than for a fishing smack to run down pole and flare together, as if by + accident, on returning to harbour. But there was a worse danger than bad + lights, and that was false lights. It was so easy to set them. Sometimes + they were there of themselves, without evil intention of any human soul, + luring sailors to their destruction. Then when ships came ashore it was so + easy to juggle with one’s conscience and say it was the will of God, and + no bad doings of any man’s. The poor sea-going men were at the bottom of + the sea by this time, and their cargo was drifting up with the tide, so + there was nothing to do but to take it. Such was the way of things. The + Manxman could find his excuses. He was miserably poor, he had bad masters, + smuggling was his best occupation, his coasts were indifferently lighted, + ships came ashore of themselves—what was he to do? That the name of + Manxman did not become a curse, an execration, and a reproach in these + evil days of the Athols seems to say that behind all this wicked work + there were splendid virtues doing noble duty somewhere. The real sap, the + true human heart of Manxland, was somehow kept alive. Besides cut-throats + in ruffles, and wreckers in homespun, there were true, sweet, + simple-hearted people who would not sell their souls to fill their mouths. + </p> + <p> + Does it surprise you that some of all this comes within the memory of men + still living? I am myself well within the period of middle life, and, + though too young to touch these evil days, I can remember men and women + who must have been in the thick of them. On the north of the island is + Kirk Maughold Head, a bold, rugged headland going far out into the sea. + Within this rocky foreland lie two bays, sweet coverlets of blue waters, + washing a shingly shore under shelter of dark cliffs. One of these bays is + called Port-y-Vullin, and just outside of it, between the mainland and the + head, is a rock, known as the Carrick, a treacherous grey reef, visible at + low water, and hidden at flood-tide. On the low <i>brews</i> of + Port-y-Vullin stood two houses, the one a mill, worked by the waters + coming down from the near mountain of Barrule, the other a weaver’s + cottage. Three weavers lived together there, all bachelors, and all old, + and never a woman or child among them—Jemmy of eighty years, Danny + of seventy, and Billy of sixty something. Year in, year out, they worked + at their looms, and early or late, whenever you passed on the road behind, + you heard the click of them. Fishermen coming back to harbour late at + night always looked for the light of their windows. “Yander’s + Jemmy-Danny-Billy’s,” they would say, and steer home by that landmark. But + the light which guided the native seamen misled the stranger, and many a + ship in the old days was torn to pieces on the jagged teeth of that + sea-lion, the Carrick. Then, hearing loud human cries above the shrieks of + wind and wave, the three helpless old men would come tottering down to the + beach, like three innocent witches, trembling and wailing, holding each + other’s hands like little children, and never once dreaming of what bad + work the candles over their looms had done. + </p> + <p> + But there were those who were not so guileless. Among them was a sad old + salt, whom I shall call Hommy-Billy-mooar, Tommy, son of big Billy. Did I + know him, or do I only imagine him as I have heard of him? I cannot say, + but nevertheless I see him plainly. One of his eyes was gone, and the + other was badly damaged. His face was of stained mahogany, one side of his + mouth turned up, the other side turned down, he could laugh and cry + together. He was half landsman, tilling his own croft, half seaman, going + out with the boats to the herrings. In his youth he had sailed on a + smuggler, running in from Whitehaven with spirits. The joy of “the trade,” + as they called smuggling, was that a man could buy spirits at two + shillings a gallon for sale on the island, and drink as much as he “plazed + abooard for nothin’.” When Hommy married, he lived in a house near the + church, the venerable St. Maughold away on the headland, with its lonely + churchyard within sound of the sea. + </p> + <p> + There on tempestuous nights the old eagle looked out from his eyrie on the + doings of the sea, over the back of the cottage of the old weavers to the + Carrick. If anything came ashore he awakened his boys, scurried over to + the bay, seized all they could carry, stole back home, hid his treasures + in the thatch of the roof, or among the straw of the loft, went off to + bed, and rose in the morning with an innocent look, and listened to the + story of last night’s doings with a face full of surprise. They say that + Hommy carried on this work for years, and though many suspected, none + detected him, not even his wife, who was a good Methodist. The poor woman + found him out at last, and, being troubled with a conscience, she died, + and Hommy buried her in Kirk Maughold churchyard, and put a stone over her + with a good inscription. Then he went on as before. But one morning there + was a mighty hue and cry. A ship had been wrecked on the Carrick, and the + crew who were saved had seen some rascals carrying off in the darkness + certain rolls of Irish cloth which they had thrown overboard. Suspicion + lit on Hommy and his boys. Hommy was quite hurt. “Wrecking was it? Lord + a-massy! To think, to think!” Revenue officers were to come to-morrow to + search his house. Those rolls of Irish cloth were under the thatch, above + the dry gorse stored up on the “lath” in his cowhouse. That night he + carried them off to the churchyard, took up the stone from over his wife’s + grave, dug the grave open and put in the cloth. Next day his one eye wept + a good deal while the officers of revenue made their fruitless search. “Aw + well, well, did they think because a man was poor he had no feelings?” + Afterwards he pretended to become a Methodist, and then he removed the + cloth from his wife’s grave because he had doubts about how she could rise + in the resurrection with such a weight on her coffin. Poor old Hommy, he + came to a bad end. He spent his last days in jail in Castle Rushen. A + one-eyed mate of his told me he saw him there. Hommy was unhappy. He said + “Castle Rushen wasn’t no place for a poor man when he was gettin’ anyways + ould.” + </p> + <p> + THE REVESTMENT + </p> + <p> + It is hardly a matter for much surprise that the British Government did + what it could to curb the smuggling that was rife in Man in the days of + the Athols. The bad work had begun in the days of the Derbys, when an Act + was passed which authorised the Earl of Derby to dispose of his royalty + and revenue in the island, and empowered the Lords of the Treasury to + treat with him for the sale of it. The Earl would not sell, and when the + Duke of Athol was asked to do so, he tried to put matters off. But the + evil had by this time grown so grievously that the British Government + threatened to strip the Duke without remuneration. Then he agreed to + accept £70,000 as compensation for the absolute surrender of the island. + He was also to have £2000 out of the Irish revenue, which, as well as the + English revenue, was to benefit by the suppression of the clandestine + trade. This was in exchange for some £6000 a year which was the Duke’s + Manx revenue, much of it from duties and customs paid in goods which were + afterwards smuggled into England, Ireland, and Scotland. So much for his + Grace of Athol. Of course the Manx people got nothing. The thief was + punished, the receiver was enriched; it is the way of the world. + </p> + <p> + In our history of Man, we call this sweet transaction, which occurred in + 1765, “The Revestment,” meaning the revesting of the island in the crown + of England. Our Manx people did not like it at all. I have heard a rugged + old song on the subject sung at Manx inns: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For the babes unborn shall rue the day + When the Isle of Man was sold away; + And there’s ne’er an old wife that loves a dram + But she will lament for the Isle of Man. +</pre> + <p> + Clearly drams became scarce when “the trade” was put down. But, indeed, + the Manx had the most strange fears and ludicrous sorrows. The one came of + their anxiety about the fate of their ancient Constitution, the other came + of their foolish generosity. They dreaded that the government of the + island would be merged into that of England, and they imagined that + because the Duke of Athol had been compelled to surrender, he had been + badly treated. Their patriotism was satisfied when the Duke of Athol was + made Governor-in-Chief under the English crown, for then it was clear that + they were to be left alone; but their sympathy was moved to see him come + back as servant who had once been lord. They had disliked the Duke of + Athol down to that hour, but they forgot their hatred in sight of his + humiliation, and when he landed in his new character, they received him + with acclamations. I am touched by the thought of my countrymen’s + unselfish conduct in that hour; but I thank God I was not alive to witness + it. + </p> + <p> + I should have shrieked with laughter. The absurdity of the situation + passes the limits even of a farce. A certain Duke, who had received £6000 + a year, whereof a large part came of an immoral trade, had been to London + and sold his interest in it for £70,000, because if he had not taken that, + he would probably have got nothing. With thirteen years’ purchase of his + insecure revenue in his pocket, and £2000 a year promised, and his salary + as Governor-in-Chief besides, he returns to the island where half the + people are impoverished by his sale of the island, and nobody else has + received a copper coin, and everybody is doomed to pay back interest on + what the Duke has received! What is the picture? The Duke lands at the old + jetty, and there his carriage is waiting to take him to the house, where + he and his have kept swashbuckler courts, with troops of fine gentlemen + debtors from London. The Manxmen forget everything except that his dignity + is reduced. They unyoke his horses, get into his shafts, drag him through + the streets, toss up their caps and cry hurrah! hurrah! One seems to see + the Duke sitting there with his arms folded, and his head on his breast. + He can’t help laughing. The thing is too ridiculous. Oh, if Swift had been + there to see it, what a scorching satire we should have had! + </p> + <p> + But the Athols soon spirited away their popularity. First they clamoured + for a further sum on account of the lost revenues, and they got it. Then + they tried to appropriate part of the income of the clergy. Again, they + put members of their family into the bishopric, and one of them sold his + tithes to a factor who tried to extort them by strong measures, which led + to green crop riots. In the end, their gross selfishness, which thought of + their own losses but forgot the losses of the people, raised such open + marks of aversion in the island that they finally signified to the king + their desire to sell all their remaining rights, their land and manorial + rights. This they did in 1829, receiving altogether, for custom, revenue, + tithes, patronage of the bishopric, and quit rents, the sum of £416,000. + Such was the value to the last of the Athols of the Manx dynasty, of that + little hungry island of the Irish Sea, which Henry IV. gave to the + Stanleys, and Sir John de Stanley did not think worth while to look at. So + there was an end of the House of Athol. Exit the House of Athol! The play + goes on without them. + </p> + <p> + HOME RULE + </p> + <p> + It might be said that with the final sale of 1829 the history of the Isle + of Man came to a close. Since then we have been in the happy condition of + the nation without a history. Man is now a dependency of the English + crown. The crown is represented by a Lieutenant-Governor. Our old Norse + Constitution remains. We have Home Rule, and it works well. The Manx + people are attached to the throne of England, and her Majesty has not more + loyal subjects in her dominions. We are deeply interested in Imperial + affairs, but we have no voice in them. I do not think we have ever dreamt + of a day when we should send representatives to Westminster. Our + sympathies as a nation are not altogether, I think, with the party of + progress. We are devoted to old institutions, and hold fast to such of + them as are our own. All this is, perhaps, what you would expect of a race + of islanders with our antecedents. + </p> + <p> + Our social history has not been brilliant. I do not gather that the Isle + of Man was ever Merry Man. Not even in its gayest days do we catch any + note of merriment amid the rumpus of its revelries. It is an odd thing + that woman plays next to no part whatever in the history of the island. + Surely ours is the only national pie in which woman has not had a finger. + In this respect the island justifies the ungallant reading of its name—it + is distinctly the Isle of Man. Not even amid the glitter and gewgaws of + our Captain Macheaths do you catch the glint of the gown of a Polly. No + bevy of ladies, no merry parties, no pageants worthy of the name. No, our + social history gives no idea of Merry Man. + </p> + <p> + Our civil history is not glorious. We are compelled to allow that it has + no heroism in it. There has been no fight for principle, no brave + endurance of wrong. Since the days of Orry, we have had nothing to tell in + Saga, if the Sagaman were here. We have played no part in the work of the + world. The great world has been going on for ten centuries without taking + much note of us. We are a little nation, but even little nations have held + their own. We have not. + </p> + <p> + One great king we have had, King Orry. He gave us our patriarchal + Constitution, and it is a fine thing. It combines most of the best + qualities of representative government. Its freedom is more free than that + of some republics. The people seem to be more seen, and their voice more + heard, than in any other form of government whose operation I have + witnessed. Yet there is nothing noisy about our Home Rule. And this + Constitution we have kept alive for a thousand years, while it has died + out of every other Norse kingdom. That is, perhaps, our highest national + honour. We may have played a timid part; we may have accepted rulers from + anywhere; we may never have made a struggle for independence; and no + Manxman may ever have been strong enough to stand up alone for his people. + It is like our character that we have taken things easily, and instead of + resisting our enemies, or throwing them from our rocky island into the + sea, we have been law abiding under lawless masters and peaceful under + oppression. But this one thing we have done: we have clung to our + patriarchal Constitution, not caring a ha’p’orth who administered our laws + so long as the laws were our own. That is something; I think it is a good + deal. It means that through many changes undergone by the greater peoples + of the world, we are King Orry’s men still. Let me in a last word tell you + a story which shows what that description implies. + </p> + <p> + ORRY’S SONS + </p> + <p> + On the west coast of the Isle of Man stands the town of Peel. It is a + little fishing port, looking out on the Irish Sea. To the north of it + there is a broad shore, to the south lies the harbour with a rocky + headland called Contrary Head; in front—until lately divided from + the mainland by a narrow strait—is a rugged island rock. On this + rock stand the broken ruins of a castle, Peel Castle, and never did castle + stand on a grander spot. The sea flows round it, beating on the jagged + cliffs beneath, and behind it are the wilder cliffs of Contrary. In the + water between and around Contrary contrary currents flow, and when the + wind is high they race and prance there like an unbroken horse. It is a + grand scene, but a perilous place for ships. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon in October of 1889 a Norwegian ship (strange chance!), the + <i>St George</i> (name surely chosen by the Fates!), in a fearful tempest + was drifting on to Contrary Head. She was labouring hard in the heavy sea, + rearing, plunging, creaking, groaning, and driving fast through clamouring + winds and threshing breakers on to the cruel, black, steep horns of rock. + All Peel was down at the beach watching her. Flakes of sea-foam were + flying around, and the waves breaking on the beach were scooping up the + shingle and flinging it through the air like sleet. + </p> + <p> + Peel has a lifeboat, and it was got out. There were so many volunteers + that the harbour-master had difficulties of selection. The boat got off; + the coxswain was called Charlie Cain; one of his crew was named Gorry, + otherwise Orry. It was a perilous adventure. The Norwegian had lost her + masts, and her spars were floating around her in the snow-like surf. She + was dangerous to approach, but the lifeboat reached her. Charlie cried out + to the Norwegian captain: “How many of you?” The answer came back, + “Twenty-two!” Charlie counted them as they hung on at the ship’s side, and + said: “I only see twenty-one; not a man shall leave the ship until you + bring the odd one on deck.” The odd one, a disabled man, had been left + below to his fate. Now he was brought up, and all were taken aboard the + lifeboat. + </p> + <p> + On landing at Peel there was great excitement, men cheering and women + crying. The Manx women spotted a baby among the Norwegians, fought for it, + one woman got it, and carried it off to a fire and dry clothing. It was + the captain’s wife’s baby, and an hour afterwards the poor captain’s wife, + like a creature distracted, was searching for it all over the town. And to + heighten the scene, report says that at that tremendous moment a splendid + rainbow spanned the bay from side to side. That ought to be true if it is + not. + </p> + <p> + It was a brilliant rescue, but the moving part of the story is yet to + tell. The Norwegian Government, touched by the splendid heroism of the + Manxmen, struck medals for the lifeboat men and sent them across to the + Governor. These medals were distributed last summer on the island rock + within the ruins of old Peel Castle. Think of it! One thousand years + before, not far from that same place, Orry the Viking came ashore from + Denmark or Norway. And now his Manx sons, still bearing his very name, + Orry, save from the sea the sons of the brethren he left behind, and down + the milky way, whence Orry himself once came, come now to the Manxmen the + thanks and the blessings of their kinsmen, Orry’s father’s children. + </p> + <p> + Such a story as this thrills one to the heart. It links Manxmen to the + great past. What are a thousand years before it? Time sinks away, and the + old sea-warrior seems to speak to us still through the surf of that storm + at Peel. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF THE MANX BISHOPS + </h2> + <p> + Some years ago, in going down the valley of Foxdale, towards the mouth of + Glen Rushen, I lost my way on a rough and unbeaten path under the mountain + called Slieu Whallin. There I was met by a typical old Manx farmer, who + climbed the hillside some distance to serve as my guide. “Aw, man,” said + he, “many a Sunday I’ve crossed these mountains in snow and hail + together.” I asked why on Sunday. “You see,” said the old fellow, “I’m one + of those men that have been guilty of what St. Paul calls the foolishness + of preaching.” It turned out that he was a local preacher to the + Wesleyans, and that for two score years or more, in all seasons, in all + weathers, every Sunday, year in, year out, he had made the journey from + his farm in Foxdale to the western villages of Kirk Patrick, where his + voluntary duty lay. He left me with a laugh and a cheery word. “Ask again + at the cottage at the top of the brew,” he shouted. “An ould widda lives + there with her gel.” At the summit of the hill, just under South Barrule, + with Cronk-ny-arrey-Lhaa to the west, I came upon a disused lead mine, + called the old Cross Vein, its shaft open save for a plank or two thrown + across it, and filled with water almost to the surface of the ground. And + there, under the lee of the roofless walls of the ruined engine-house, + stood the tiny one-story cottage where I had been directed to inquire my + way again. I knocked, and then saw the outer conditions of an existence + about as miserable as the mind of man can conceive. The door was opened by + a youngish woman, having a thin, white face, and within the little house + an elderly woman was breaking scraps of vegetables into a pot that swung + from a hook above a handful of turf fire, which burned on the ground. They + were the widow and daughter. Their house consisted of two rooms, a living + room and a sleeping closet, both open to the thatch, which was sooty with + smoke. The floor was of bare earth, trodden hard and shiny. There was one + little window in each apartment, but after the breakages of years, the + panes were obscured by rags stuffed into the gaps to keep out the weather. + The roof bore traces of damp, and I asked if the rain came into the house. + “Och, yes, and bad, bad, bad!” said the elder woman. “He left us, sir, + years ago.” That was her way of saying that her husband was dead, and that + since his death there had been no man to do an odd job about the place. + The two women lived by working in the fields, at weeding, at planting + potatoes, at thinning cabbages, and at the hay in its season. Their little + bankrupt barn belonged to them, and it was all they had. In that they + lived, or lingered, on the mountain top, a long stretch of bare hillside, + away from any neighbour, alone in their poverty, with mountains before and + behind, the broad grey sea, without ship or sail, down a gully to the + west, nothing visible to the east save the smoke from the valley where lay + the habitations of men, nothing audible anywhere but the deep rumble of + the waves’ bellow, or the chirp of the birds overhead, or, perhaps, when + the wind was southerly, the church bells on Sunday morning. Never have I + looked upon such lonely penury, and yet there, even there, these forlorn + women kept their souls alive. “Yes,” they said, “we’re working when we can + get the work, and trusting, trusting, trusting still.” + </p> + <p> + I have lingered too long over this poor adventure of losing my way to Glen + Rushen, but my little sketch may perhaps get you close to that side of + Manx life whereon I wish to speak to-day. I want to tell the history of + religion in Man, so far as we know it; and better, to my thinking, than a + grave or solid disquisition on the ways and doings of Bishops or Spiritual + Barons, are any peeps into the hearts and home lives of the Manx, which + will show what is called the “innate religiosity” of the humblest of the + people. To this end also, when I have discharged my scant duty to church + history, or perhaps in the course of my hasty exposition of it, I shall + dwell on some of those homely manners and customs, which, more than + prayer-books and printed services, tell us what our fathers believed, what + we still believe, and how we stand towards that other life, that inner + life, that is not concerned with what we eat and what we drink, and + wherewithal we shall be clothed. + </p> + <p> + THE DRUIDS + </p> + <p> + And now, just as the first chapter of our Manx civil history is lost, so + the first chapter of our church history is lost. That the Druids occupied + the island seems to some people to be clear from many Celtic names and + some remains, such as we are accustomed to call Druidical, and certain + customs still observed. Perhaps worthy of a word is the circumstance that + in the parish where the Bishop now lives, and has always lived, Kirk + Michael, there is a place called by a name which in the Manx signifies + Chief Druid. Strangely are the faiths of the ages linked together. + </p> + <p> + CONVERSION TO CHRISTIANITY + </p> + <p> + We do not know, with any certainty, at what time the island was converted + to Christianity. The accepted opinion is that Christianity was established + in Man by St. Patrick about the middle of the fifth century. The story + goes that the Saint of Ireland was on a voyage thither from England, when + a storm cast him ashore on a little islet on the western coast of Man. + This islet was afterwards called St. Patrick’s Isle. St. Patrick built his + church on it. The church was rebuilt eight centuries later within the + walls of a castle which rose on the same rocky site. It became the + cathedral church of the island. When the Norwegians came they renamed the + islet Holm Isle. Tradition says that St. Patrick’s coming was in the time + of Mannanan, the magician, our little Manx Prospero. It also says that St. + Patrick drove Mannanan away, and that St. Patrick’s successor, St. + Germain, followed up the good work of exterminating evil spirits by + driving out of the island all venomous creatures whatever. We sometimes + bless the memory of St. Germain, and wish he would come again. + </p> + <p> + THE EARLY BISHOPS OF MAN + </p> + <p> + After St. Germain came St. Maughold. This Bishop was a sort of + transfigured Manx Caliban. I trust the name does him no wrong. He had been + an Irish prince, had lived a bad, gross life as a robber at the head of a + band of robbers, had been converted by St. Patrick, and, resolving to + abandon the temptations of the world, had embarked on the sea in a wicker + boat without oar or helm. Almost he had his will at once, but the north + wind, which threatened to remove him from the temptations of this world, + cast him ashore on the north of the Isle of Man. There he built his + church, and the rocky headland whereon it stands is still known by his + name. High on the craggy cliff-side, looking towards the sea, is a seat + hewn out of the rock. This is called St. Maughold’s Chair. Not far away + there is a well supposed to possess miraculous properties. It is called + St. Maughold’s Well. Thus tradition has perpetuated the odour of his great + sanctity, which is the more extraordinary in a variation of his legend, + which says that it was not after his conversion, and in submission to the + will of God, that he put forth from Ireland in his wicker boat, but that + he was thrust out thus, with hands and feet bound, by way of punishment + for his crimes as a captain of banditti. + </p> + <p> + But if Maughold was Caliban in Ireland, he was more than Prospero in Man. + Rumour of his piety went back to Ireland, and St. Bridget, who had founded + a nunnery at Kildare, resolved on a pilgrimage to the good man’s island. + She crossed the water, attended by her virgins, called her daughters of + fire, founded a nunnery near Douglas, worked miracles there, touched the + altar in testimony of her virginity, whereupon it grew green and + flourished. This, if I may be pardoned the continued parallel, is our Manx + Miranda. And indeed it is difficult to shake off the idea that Shakespeare + must have known something of the early story of Man, its magicians and its + saints. We know the perfidy of circumstance, the lying tricks that fact is + always playing with us, too well and painfully to say anything of the kind + with certainty. But the angles of resemblance are many between the + groundwork of the “Tempest” and the earliest of Manx records. + Mannanan-beg-Mac-y-Lear, the magician who surrounded the island with mists + when enemies came near in ships; Maughold, the robber and libertine, bound + hand and foot, and driven ashore in a wicker boat; and then Bridget, the + virgin saint. Moreover, the stories of Little Man-nanan, of St. Patrick, + and of St. Maughold were printed in Manx in the sixteenth century. Truly + that is not enough, for, after all, we have no evidence that Shakespeare, + who knew everything, knew Manx. But then Man has long been famous for its + seamen. We had one of them at Trafalgar, holding Nelson in his arms when + he died. The best days, or the worst days—which?—of the trade + of the West Coast of Africa saw Manx captains in the thick of it. Shall I + confess to you that in the bad days of the English slave trade the four + merchantmen that brought the largest black cargo to the big human auction + mart at the Goree Piazza at Liverpool were commanded by four Manxmen! They + were a sad quartet. One of them had only one arm and an iron hook; another + had only one arm and one eye; a third had only one leg and a stump; the + fourth was covered with scars from the iron of the chains of a slave which + he had worn twelve months at Barbadoes. Just about enough humanity in the + four to make one complete man. But with vigour enough, fire enough, heart + enough—I daren’t say soul enough—in their dismembered old + trunks to make ten men apiece; born sea-rovers, true sons of Orry, their + blood half brine. Well, is it not conceivable that in those earlier days + of treasure seeking, when Elizabeth’s English captains were spoiling the + Spaniard in the Indies, Manx sailors were also there? If so, why might not + Shakespeare, who must have ferreted out many a stranger creature, have + found in some London tavern an old Manx sea-dog, who could tell him of the + Manx Prospero, the Manx Caliban, and the Manx Miranda? + </p> + <p> + But I have rambled on about my sailors; I must return to my Bishops. They + seem to have been a line of pious, humble, charitable, godly men at the + beginning. Irishmen, chiefly, living the lives of hermits and saints. + Apparently they were at first appointed by the people themselves. Would it + be interesting to know the grounds of selection? One was selected for his + sanctity, a natural qualification, but another was chosen because he had a + pleasant face, and a fine portly figure; not bad qualifications, either. + Thus things went on for about a hundred years, and, for all we know, + Celtic Bishops and Celtic people lived together in their little island in + peace, hearing nothing of the loud religious hubbub that was disturbing + Europe. + </p> + <p> + BISHOPS OF THE WELSH DYNASTY + </p> + <p> + Then came the rule of the Welsh kings, and, though we know but little with + certainty, we seem to realise that it brought great changes to the + religious’ life of Man. The Church began to possess itself of lands: the + baronial territories of the island fell into the hands of the clergy; the + early Bishops became Barons. This gave the Church certain powers of + government. The Bishops became judges, and as judges they possessed great + power over the person of the subject. Sometimes they stood in the highest + place of all, being also Governor to the Welsh Kings. Then they were + called Sword-Bishops. Their power at such times, when the crosier and + sword were in the two hands of one man, must have been portentous, and + even terrible. We have no records that picture what came of that. But it + is not difficult to imagine the condition. The old order of things had + passed away. The hermit-saints, the saintly hermits, had gone, and in + their place were monkish barons, living in abbeys and monasteries, + whipping the poor bodies of their people, as well as comforting their torn + hearts, fattening on broad lands, praying each with his lips: “Give us + this day our daily bread,” but saying each to his soul: “Soul, thou hast + much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease; eat, drink, and be + merry.” + </p> + <p> + BISHOPS OF THE NORSE DYNASTY + </p> + <p> + Little as we know of these times, we see that things must have come to a + pretty pass, for when the Scandinavian dynasty came in the ecclesiastical + authorities were forbidden to exercise civil control over any subjects of + the king that were not also the tenants of their own baronies. So the + Bishops were required to confine themselves to keeping their own house in + order. The Norse Constitution established in Man by King Orry made no + effort to overthrow the Celtic Church founded by St. Patrick, and + corrupted by his Welsh successors, but it curtailed its liberties, and + reduced its dignity. It demanded as an act of fealty that the Bishop or + chief Baron should hold the stirrup of the King’s saddle, as he mounted + his horse at Tynwald. But it still suffered the Bishop and certain of his + clergy to sit in the highest court of the legislature. The Church ceased + to be purely Celtic; it became Celto-Scandinavian, otherwise Manx. It was + under the Archbishop of Drontheim for its Metropolitan, and its young + clergy were sent over to Drontheim to be educated. Its revenues were + apportioned after the most apostolic manner; one-third of the tithes to + the Bishop for his maintenance, the support of his courts, his churches, + and (miserable conclusion! ) his prisons; one-third to the priests, and + the remaining third to the relief of the poor and the education of youth. + It is a curious and significant fact that when the Reformation came the + last third was seized by the lord. Good old lordly trick, we know it well! + </p> + <p> + SODOR AND MAN + </p> + <p> + The Bishopric of the island was now no longer called the Bishopric of Man, + but Sodor and Man. The title has given rise to much speculation. One + authority derives it from <i>Soterenssis</i>, a name given by Danish + writers to the western islands, and afterwards corrupted to <i>Soderensk</i>. + Another authority derives it from <i>Sudreyjas</i>, signifying in the + Norwegian the Southern Isles. A third derives it from the Greek <i>Soter</i>, + Saviour, to whose name the cathedral of Iona was dedicated. And yet a + fourth authority derives it from the supposed third name of the little + islet rock called variously Holm Isle, Sodor, Peel, and St. Patrick’s + Isle, whereon St. Patrick or St. Germain built his church, I can claim no + right to an opinion where these good doctors differ, and shall content + myself with saying that the balance of belief is in favour of the + Norwegian derivation, which offers this explanation of the title of Bishop + of Sodor and Man, that the Isle of Man was not included by the Norsemen in + the southern cluster of islands called the Sudereys, and that the Bishop + was sometimes called the Bishop of Man and the Isles, and sometimes Bishop + of the Sudereys and the Isle of Man. Only one warning note shall I dare, + as an ignorant layman, to strike on that definition, and it is this: that + the title of Bishop of Sodor dates back to the seventh century certainly, + and that the Norseman did not come south until three centuries later. + </p> + <p> + THE EARLY BISHOPS OF THE HOUSE OF STANLEY + </p> + <p> + But now I come to matters whereon I have more authority to speak. When the + Isle of Man passed to the Stanley family, the Bishopric fell to their + patronage, and they lost no time in putting their own people into it. It + was then under the English metropolitan of Canterbury, but early in the + sixteenth century it became part of the province of York. About that time + the baronies, the abbeys, and the nunneries were suppressed. It does not + appear that the change of metropolitan had made much change of religious + life. Apparently the clergy kept the Manx people in miserable ignorance. + It was not until the seventeenth century that the Book of Common Prayer + was translated into the Manx language. The Gospels and the Acts were + unknown to the Manx until nearly a century later. Nor was this due to + ignorance of the clergy of the Manx tongue, for most of them must have + been Manxmen, and several of the Bishops were Manxmen also. But grievous + abuses had by this time attached themselves to the Manx Church, and some + of them were flagrant and wicked, and some were impudent and amusing. + </p> + <p> + TITHES IN KIND + </p> + <p> + Naturally the more outrageous of the latter sort gathered about the + process of collecting tithes. + </p> + <p> + Tithes were paid in kind in those days. It was not until well within our + own century that they were commuted to a money payment. The Manxman paid + tithe on everything. He began to pay tithe before coming into the world, + and he went on paying tithe even after he had gone out of it. This is a + hard saying, but nevertheless a simple truth. Throughout his journey from + the cradle to the grave, the Manxman paid tithe on all he inherited, on + all he had, on all he did, on all his wife did, and on all he left behind + him. We have the equivalent of this in England at the present hour, but it + was yet more tyrannical, and infinitely more ludicrous, in the Isle of Man + down to the year 1839. It is only vanity and folly and vexation of spirit + to quarrel with the modern English taxgatherer; you are sure to go the + wall, with humiliation and with disgrace. It was not always so when taxes + were paid in kind. There was, at least, the satisfaction of cheating. The + Manx people could not always deny themselves that satisfaction. For + instance, they were required to pay tithe of herring as soon as the + herring boats were brought above full sea mark, and there were ways of + counting known to the fishermen with which the black-coated arithmeticians + of the Church were not able to cope. A man paid tithe on such goods and + even such clothes as his wife possessed on their wedding day, and young + brides became wondrous wise in the selection for the vicarage of the + garments that were out of fashion. A corpse-present was demanded over the + grave of a dead man out of the horses and cattle whereof he died + possessed, and dying men left verbal wills which consigned their + broken-winded horses and dry cows to the mercy and care of the clergyman. + You will not marvel much that such dealings led to disputes, sometimes to + quarrels, occasionally to riots. In my boyhood I heard old people over the + farm-house fire chuckle and tell of various wise doings, to outwit the + parson. One of these concerned the oats harvest. When the oats were in + sheaf, the parson’s cart came up, driven by the sumner, the parson’s + official servant. The gate of the field was thrown open, and honestly and + religiously one sheaf out of every ten was thrown into the cart. But the + husbandman had been thrifty in advance. The parson’s sheaves had all been + grouped thick about the gate, and they were the shortest, and the + thinnest, and the blackest, and the dirtiest, and the poorest that the + field had yielded. Similar were the doings at the digging of the potatoes, + but the scenes of recrimination which often ensued were usually confined + to the farmer and the sumner. More outrageous contentions with the priest + himself sometimes occurred within the very walls of the church. It was the + practice to bring tithe of butter and cheese and eggs, and lay it on the + altar on Sunday. This had to be done under pain of exclusion from the + communion, and that was a penalty most grievous to material welfare. So + the Manxmen and Manxwomen were compelled to go to church much as they went + to market, with their butter- and egg-baskets over their arms. It is a + ludicrous picture, as one sees it in one’s mind’s eye, but what comes + after reaches the extremity of farce. Say the scene is Maughold old + church, once the temple of the saintly hermit. It is Sunday morning, the + bells are ringing, and Juan-beg-Marry-a-thruss, a rascally old skinflint, + is coming along with a basket. It contains some butter that he could not + sell at Ramsey market yesterday because it was rank, and a few eggs which + he knows to be stale and addled—the old hen has sat on them, and + they have brought forth nothing. These he places reverently on the altar. + But the parson knows Juan, and proceeds to examine his tithe. May I take + so much liberty with history, and with the desecrated old church, as to + imagine the scene which follows? + </p> + <p> + Priest, pointing contemptuously towards the altar: + “Juan-beg-Marry-a-thruss, what is this?” “Butter and eggs, so plaze your + reverence.” “Pig-swill and chalk you mean, man!” “Aw ‘deed if I’d known + your reverence was so morthal partic’lar the ould hen herself should have + been layin’ some fresh eggs for your reverence.” + </p> + <p> + “Take them away, you thief of the Church! Do you think what isn’t fit for + your pig is good enough for your priest? Bring better, or never let me + look on your wizened old wicked face again.” + </p> + <p> + Exit Juan-beg-Marry-a-thruss, perhaps with butter and eggs flying after + his retreating figure. + </p> + <p> + THE GAMBLING BISHOP + </p> + <p> + This is an imaginary picture, but no less outrageous things happened + whereof the records remain. A demoralised laity usually co-exists with a + demoralised clergy, and there are some bad stories of the Bishops who + preceded the Reformation. There is one story of a Bishop of that period, + who was a gross drunkard and notorious gambler. He played with his clergy + as long as they had anything to lose, and then he played with a deemster + and lost five hundred pounds himself. Poor little island, that had two + such men for its masters, the one its master in the things of this world, + the other its master in the things of the world to come! If anything is + needful to complete the picture of wretchedness in which the poor Manx + people must have existed then, it is the knowledge of what manner of man a + deemster was in those days, what his powers were, and how he exercised + them. + </p> + <p> + THE DEEMSTERS + </p> + <p> + The two deemsters—a name of obvious significance, deem-sters, such + as deem the laws—were then the only judges of the island, all other + legal functionaries being of more recent date. On entering into office, + the deemster took an oath, which is sworn by all deemsters to this day, + declaring by the wonderful works which God hath miraculously wrought in + six days and seven nights, that he would execute the laws of the island + justly “betwixt party and party, as indifferently as the herring’s + backbone doth lie in the midst of the fish.” But these laws down to the + time of the second Stanley existed only in the breasts of the deemsters + themselves, being therefore called Breast Laws, and thus they were + supposed to be handed down orally from deemster to deemster. The + superstition fostered corruption as well as incapacity, and it will not be + wronging the truth to say that some of the deemsters of old time were both + ignorant and unprincipled. Their jurisdiction was absolute in all that + were then thought to be temporal affairs, beginning with a debt of a + shilling, and going up to murder. They kept their courts in the centres of + their districts, one of them being in the north of the island, the other + in the south, but they were free to hold a court anywhere, and at any + time. A deemster riding from Ramsey to Peel might find his way stopped by + a noisy claimant, who held his defendant by the lug, having dragged him + bodily from the field to the highway, to receive instant judgment from the + judge riding past. Or at midnight, in his own home, a deemster might be + broken in upon by a clamorous gang of disputants and their witnesses, who + came from the pot-house for the settlement of their differences. On such + occasions, the deemster invariably acted on the sound old legal maxim, + once recognised by an Act of Parliament, that suits not likely to bear + good costs should always be settled out of court. First, the deemster + demanded his fee. If neither claimant nor defendant could give it, he + probably troubled himself no further than to take up his horse-whip and + drive both out into the road. I dare say there were many good men among + deemsters of the old order, who loved justice for its own sake, and liked + to see the poor and the weak righted, but the memory of deemsters of this + kind is not green. The bulk of men are not better than their + opportunities, and the temptations of the deemsters of old were neither + few nor slight. + </p> + <p> + THE BISHOPRIC VACANT + </p> + <p> + With such masters in the State, and such masters in the Church, the island + fell low in material welfare, and its poverty reacted on both. Within + fifty years the Bishopric was nineteen years vacant, though it may be that + at the beginning of the seventeenth century this was partly due to + religious disturbances. Then in 1697, with the monasteries and nunneries + dispersed, the abbeys in ruins, the cathedral church a wreck, the clergy + sunk in sloth and ignorance, there came to the Bishopric, four years + vacant, a true man whose name on the page of Manx Church history is like a + star on a dark night, when only one is shining—Bishop Thomas Wilson. + He was a strange and complex creature, half angel, only half man, the + serenest of saints, and yet almost the bitterest of tyrants. Let me tell + you about him. + </p> + <p> + BISHOP WILSON + </p> + <p> + Thomas Wilson was from Trinity College, Dublin, and became domestic + chaplain to William, Earl of Derby, and preceptor to the Earl’s son, who + died young. While he held this position, the Bishopric of Sodor and Man + became vacant, and it was offered to him. He declined it, thinking himself + unworthy of so high a trust. The Bishopric continued vacant. Perhaps the + candidates for it were few; certainly the emoluments were small; perhaps + the patron was slothful—certainly he gave little attention to the + Church. At length complaint was made to the King that the spiritual needs + of the island were being neglected. The Earl was commanded to fill the + Bishopric, and once again he offered it to his chaplain. Then Wilson + yielded. He took possession in 1698, and was enthroned at Peel Castle. The + picture of his enthronement must have been something to remember. Peel + Castle was already tumbling to its fall, and the cathedral church was a + woful wreck. It is even said that from a hole in the roof the soil and + rain could enter, and blades of grass were shooting up on the altar. The + Bishop’s house at Kirk Michael, which had been long shut up, was in a + similar plight; damp, mouldy, broken-windowed, green with moss within and + without. What would one give to turn back the centuries and look on at + that primitive ceremony in St. Germain’s Chapel in April 1698! There would + be the clergy, a sorry troop, with wise and good men among them, no doubt, + but a poor, battered, bedraggled, neglected lot, chiefly learned in + dubious arts of collecting tithes. And the Bishop himself, the good + chaplain of Earl Derby, the preceptor of his son, what a face he must have + had to watch and to study, as he stood there that April morning, and saw + for the first time what work he had come to tackle! + </p> + <p> + BISHOP WILSON’S CENSURES + </p> + <p> + But Bishop Wilson set about his task with a strong heart, and a resolute + hand. He found himself in a twofold trust. Since the Reformation, the + monasteries and nunneries had been dispersed, and all the baronies had + been broken up, save one, the barony of the Bishop. Thus Bishop Wilson was + the head of the court of his barony. This was a civil court with power, of + jurisdiction over felonies. Its separate criminal control came to an end + in 1777, Such was Bishop Wilson’s position as last and sole Baron of Man. + Then as head of the Church he had powers over offences which were once + called offences against common law. Irregular behaviour, cursing, + quarrelling, and drinking, as well as transgressions of the moral code, + adultery, seduction, prostitution, and the like, were punishable by the + Church and the Church courts. The censures of Bishop Wilson on such + offences did not err on the side of clemency. He was the enemy of sin, and + no “gentle foe of sinners.” He was a believer in witchcraft, and for + suspicion of commerce with evil spirits and possession of the evil eye he + punished many a blameless old body. For open and convicted adultery he + caused the offenders to stand for an hour at high fair at each of the + market-places of Douglas, Peel, Ramsey, and Castletown, bearing labels on + their breasts calling on all people to take warning lest they came under + the same Church censure. Common unchastity he punished by exposure in + church at full congregation, when the guilty man or the poor victimised + girl stepped up from the west porch to the altar, covered from neck to + heels in a white sheet. Slanderers and evil speakers he clapped into the + Peel, or perhaps the whipping-stocks, with tongue in a noose of leather, + and when after a lapse of time the gag was removed the liberated tongue + was obliged to denounce itself by saying thrice, clearly, boldly, probably + with good accent and discretion, “False tongue, thou hast lied.” + </p> + <p> + It is perhaps as well that some of us did not live in Bishop Wilson’s + time. We might not have lived long. If the Church still held and exercised + the same powers over evil speakers we should never hear our own ears in + the streets for the din of the voices of the penitents; and if it still + punished unchastity in a white sheet the trade of the linen weaver would + be brisk. + </p> + <p> + You will say that I have justified my statement that Bishop Wilson was the + bitterest of tyrants. Let me now establish my opinion that he was also the + serenest of saints. I have told you how low was the condition of the + Church, how lax its rule, how deep its clergy lay in sloth and ignorance, + and perhaps also in vice, when Bishop Wilson came to Man in 1698. Well, in + 1703, only five years later, the Lord Chancellor King said this: “If the + ancient discipline of the Church were lost elsewhere it might be found in + all its force in the Isle of Man.” This points first to force and vigour + on the Bishop’s part, but surely it also points to purity of character and + nobility of aim. Bishop Wilson began by putting his own house in order. + His clergy ceased to gamble and to drink, and they were obliged to collect + their tithes with mercy. He once suspended a clergyman for an opinion on a + minor point, but many times he punished his clergy for offences against + the moral law and the material welfare of the poor. In a stiff fight for + integrity of life and purity of thought, he spared none. I truly believe + that if he had caught himself in an act of gross injustice he would have + clambered up into the pillory. He was a brave, strong-hearted creature, of + the build of a great man. Yes! In spite of all his contradictions, he <i>was</i> + a great man. We Manxmen shall never look upon his like again! + </p> + <p> + THE GREAT CORN FAMINE + </p> + <p> + Towards 1740 a long and terrible corn famine fell upon our island. The + fisheries had failed that season, and the crops had been blighted two + years running. Miserably poor at all times, ill-clad, ill-housed, ill-fed + at the best, the people were in danger of sheer destitution. In that day + of their bitter trouble the poorest of the poor trooped off to Bishop’s + court. The Bishop threw open his house to them all, good and bad, + improvident and thrifty, lazy and industrious, drunken and sober; he made + no distinctions in that bad hour. He asked no man for his name who + couldn’t give it, no woman for her marriage lines who hadn’t got them, no + child whether it was born in wedlock. That they were all hungry was all he + knew, and he saved their lives in thousands. He bought ship-loads of + English corn and served it out in bushels; also tons of Irish potatoes, + and served them out in <i>kischens</i>. He gave orders that the measure + was to be piled as high as it would hold, and never smoothed flat again. + Yet he was himself a poor man. While he had money he spent it. When every + penny was gone he pledged his revenue in advance. After his credit was + done he begged in England for his poor people in Man—<i>he</i> + begged for <i>us</i> who would not have held out his hat to save his own + life! God bless him! But we repaid him. Oh yes, we repaid him. His money + he never got back, but gold is not the currency of the other world. + Prayers and blessings are the wealth that is there, and these went up + after him to the great White Throne from the swelling throats of his + people. + </p> + <p> + THE BISHOP AT COURT + </p> + <p> + Not of Bishop Wilson could it be said, as it was said of another, that he + “flattered princes in the temple of God.” One day, when he was coming to + Court, Queen Caroline saw him and said to a company of Bishops and + Archbishops that surrounded her, “See, my lords, here is a Bishop who does + not come for a translation.” “No, indeed, and please your Majesty,” said + Bishop Wilson, “I will not leave my wife in her old age because she is + poor.” When Bishop Wilson was an old man, Cardinal Fleury sent over to ask + after his age and health, saying that they were the two oldest and poorest + Bishops in the world. At the same time he got an order that no French + privateer should ever ravage the Isle of Man. The order has long lapsed, + but I am told that to this day French seamen respect a Manxman. It touches + me to think of it that thus does the glory of this good man’s life shine + on our faces still. + </p> + <p> + STORIES OF BISHOP WILSON + </p> + <p> + How his people must have loved him! Many of the stories told of him are of + rather general application, but some of them ought to be true if they are + not. + </p> + <p> + One day in the old three-cornered market-place at Ramsey a little maiden + of seven crossed his path. She was like sunshine, rosy-cheeked, + bright-eyed, bare-footed and bare-headed, and for love of her sweetness + the grey old Bishop patted her head and blest her. “God bless you, my + child; God bless you,” he said. The child curtseyed and answered, “God + bless you, too, sir.” “Thank you, child, thank you,” the Bishop said + again; “I dare say your blessing will be as good as mine.” + </p> + <p> + It was customary in those days, and indeed down to my own time, when a + suit of clothes was wanted, to have the journeyman tailor at home to make + it. One, Danny of that ilk, was once at Bishop’s Court making a long + walking coat for the Bishop. In trying it on in its nebulous condition, + that leprosy of open white seams and stitches, Danny made numerous chalk + marks to indicate the places of the buttons. “No, no, Danny,” said the + Bishop, “no more buttons than enough to fasten it—only one, that + will do. It would ill become a poor priest like me to go a-glitter with + things like those.” Now, Danny had already bought his buttons, and had + them at that moment in his pocket. So, pulling a woful face, he said, + “Mercy me, my lord, what would happen to the poor button-makers, if + everybody was of your opinion?” “Button it all over, Danny,” said the + Bishop. A coat of Bishop Wilson’s still exists. Would that we had that one + of the numerous buttons, and could get a few more made of the same + pattern! It would be out of fashion—Danny’s progeny have taken care + of that. There are not many of us that it would fit—we have few men + of Bishop Wilson’s build nowadays. But human kindliness is never + old-fashioned, and there are none of us that the garment of sweet grace + would not suit. + </p> + <p> + QUARRELS OF CHURCH AND STATE + </p> + <p> + So far from “flattering princes in the temple of God,” Bishop Wilson was + even morbidly jealous of the authority of the Church, and he resisted that + of the State when the civil powers seemed to encroach upon it. More than + once he came into collision with the State’s highest functionary, the + Lieutenant-Governor, representative of the Lord of Man himself. One day + the Governor’s wife falsely defamed a lady, and the lady appealed to the + Bishop. Thereupon the Bishop interdicted the Governor’s wife from + receiving the communion. But the Governor’s chaplain admitted her. + Straightway the Bishop suspended the Governor’s chaplain. Then the + Governor fined the Bishop in the sum of fifty pounds. The Bishop refused + to pay, and was committed to Castle Rushen, and lay there two months. They + show us his cell, a poor, dingy little box, so damp in his day that he + lost the use of some of his fingers. After that the Bishop appealed to the + Lord, who declared the imprisonment illegal. The Bishop was liberated, and + half the island went to the prison gate to fetch him forth in triumph. The + only result was that the Bishop lost £500, whereof £300 were subscribed by + the people. One hardly knows whether to laugh or cry at it all. It is a + sorry and silly farce. Of course it made a tremendous hurly-burly in its + day, but it is gone now, and doesn’t matter a ha’porth to anybody. + Nevertheless because Gessler’s cap goes up so often nowadays, and so many + of us are kneeling to it, it is good and wholesome to hear of a poor + Bishop who was brave enough to take a shot at it instead. + </p> + <p> + SOME OLD ORDEALS + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding Bishop Wilson’s severity, his tyranny, his undue pride in + the authority of the Church, and his morbid jealousy of the powers of the + State, his rule was a wise and just one, and he was a spiritual statesman, + who needed not to be ashamed. He raised the tone of life in the Isle of + Man, made it possible to accept a man’s <i>yea</i> and <i>nay</i>, even in + those perilous issues of life where the weakness and meanness of poor + humanity reveals itself in lies and subterfuges. This he did by making + false swearing a terror. One ancient ordeal of swearing he set his face + against, but another he encouraged, and often practised, let me describe + both. + </p> + <p> + In the old days, when a man died intestate, leaving no record of his + debts, a creditor might establish a claim by going with the Bishop to the + grave of the dead man at midnight, stretching himself on it with face + towards heaven and a Bible on his breast, and then saying solemnly, “I + swear that So-and-so, who lies buried here, died in my debt by so much.” + After that the debt was allowed. What warning the Bishop first pronounced + I do not know, but the scene is a vivid one, even if we think of the + creditor as swearing truly, and a startling and terrible one if we think + of him as about to swear to what is false. The dark night, the dark + figures moving in it, the churchyard, the debtor’s grave, the sham + creditor, who had been loud in his protests under the light of the inn of + the village, now quaking and trembling as the Bishop’s warning comes out + of the gloom, then stammering, and breaking down, and finally, with + ghostly visions of a dead hand clutching at him from the grave, starting + up, shrieking, and flying away. It is a nightmare. Let us not remember it + when the candles are put out. + </p> + <p> + This ordeal was in force until the seventeenth century, but Bishop Wilson + judged it un-Christian, and never practised it. The old Roman canon law of + Purgation, a similar ordeal, he used not rarely. It was designed to meet + cases of slander in which there was no direct and positive evidence. If a + good woman had been accused of unchastity in that vague way of rumour + which is always more damaging and devilish than open accusation, she might + of her own free choice, or by compulsion of the Bishop, put to silence her + false accusers by appearing in church, with witnesses ready to take oath + that they believed her, and there swearing at the altar that common fame + and suspicion had wronged her. If a man doubted her word he had to + challenge it, or keep silence for ever after. The severest censures of the + Church were passed upon those who dared to repeat an unproved accusation + after the oaths of Purgation and Compurgation had been taken unchallenged. + It is a fine, honest ordeal, very old, good for the right, only bad for + the wrong, giving strength to the weak and humbling the mighty. But it + would be folly and mummery in our day. The Church has lost its powers over + life and limb, and no one capable of defaming a pure woman would care a + brass penny about the Church’s excommunication. Yet a woman’s good name is + the silver thread that runs through the pearl chain of her virtues. Pity + that nowadays it can be so easily snapped. Conversation at five o’clock + tea is enough to do that. The ordeal of compulsory Purgation was abolished + in Man as late as 1737. + </p> + <p> + THE HERRING FISHERY + </p> + <p> + Bishop Wilson began, or revived, a form of service which was so beautiful, + so picturesque, and withal so Manx that I regret the loss of scarce any + custom so much as the discontinuance of this one. It was the fishermen’s + service on the shore at the beginning of the herring-season. But in order + to appreciate it you must first know something of the herring fishing + itself. It is the chief industry of the island. Half the population is + connected with it in some way. A great proportion of the men of the + humbler classes are half seamen, half landsmen, tilling their little + crofts in the spring and autumn, and going out with the herring boats in + summer. The herring is the national fish. The Manxman swears by its + flavour. The deemsters, as we have seen, literally swear by its backbone. + Potatoes and herrings constitute a common dish of the country people. They + are ready for it at any hour of the day or night. I have had it for + dinner, I have taken it for supper, I have seen it for tea, and even known + it for breakfast. It is served without ceremony. In the middle of the + table two great crocks, one of potatoes boiled in their jackets, the other + of herrings fresh or salted; a plate and a bowl of new milk at every seat, + and lumps of salt here and there. To be a Manxman you must eat Manx + herrings; there is a story that to transform himself into a Manxman one of + the Dukes of Athol ate twenty-four of them at breakfast, a herring for + every member of his House of Keys. + </p> + <p> + The Manx herring fishery is interesting and very picturesque. You know + that the herrings come from northern latitudes, Towards mid-winter a vast + colony of them set out from the arctic seas, closely pursued by + innumerable sea-fowl, which deal death among the little emigrants. They + move in two divisions, one westward towards the coasts of America, the + other eastward in the direction of Europe. They reach the Shetlands in + April and the Isle of Man about June. The herring is fished at night. To + be out with the herring boats is a glorious experience on a calm night. + You have set sail with the fleet of herring boats about sun-down, and you + are running before a light breeze through the dusk. The sea-gulls are + skimming about the brown sails of your boat. They know what you are going + to do, and have come to help you, Presently you come upon a flight of them + wheeling and diving in the gathering darkness. Then you know that you have + lit on the herring shoal. The boat is brought head to the wind and left to + drift. By this time the stars are out, perhaps the moon also—though + too much moon is not good for the fishing—and you can just descry + the dim outline of the land against the dark blue of the sky. + </p> + <p> + Luminous patches of phosphorescent light begin to move in the water, “The + mar-fire’s rising,” say the fishermen, the herring are stirring. “Let’s + make a shot; up with the gear,” cries the skipper, and nets are hauled + from below, passed over the bank-board, and paid out into the sea—a + solid wall of meshes, floating upright, nine feet deep and a quarter of a + mile long. It is a calm, clear night, just light enough to see the buoys + on the back of the first net. The lamp is fixed on the mitch-board. All is + silence, only the steady plash, plash, plash of the slow waters on the + boat’s side; no singing among the men, no chaff, no laughter, all quiet + aboard, for the fishermen believe that the fish can hear; all quiet + around, where the deep black of the watery pavement is brightened by the + reflection of stars. Then out of the white phosphorescent patches come + minute points of silver and countless faint popping sounds, The herrings + are at play about the nets. You see them in numbers exceeding imagination, + shoals on shoals. “Pull up now, there’s a heavy strike,” cries the + skipper, and the nets are hauled up, and come in white and moving—a + solid block of fish, cheep, cheep, cheeping like birds in the early + morning. At the grey of dawn the boats begin to run for home, and the sun + is shining as the fleet makes the harbour. Men and women are waiting there + to buy the night’s catch. The quay is full of them, bustling, shouting, + laughing, quarrelling, counting the herrings, and so forth. + </p> + <p> + THE FISHERMEN’S SERVICE + </p> + <p> + Such is the herring fishery of Man. Bishop Wilson knew how bitter a thing + it could be if this industry failed the island even for a single season. + So, with absolute belief in the Divine government of the world, he wrote a + Service to be held on the first day of the herring season, asking for + God’s blessing on the harvest of the sea. The scene of that service must + have been wondrously beautiful and impressive. Why does not some great + painter paint it? Let me, by the less effectual vehicle of words, attempt + to realise what it must have been. + </p> + <p> + The place of it was Peel bay, a wide stretch of beach, with a gentle slope + to the left, dotted over with grey houses; the little town farther on, + with its nooks and corners, its blind alleys and dark lanes, its narrow, + crabbed, crooked streets. Behind this the old pier and the herring boats + rocking in the harbour, with their brown sails half set, waiting for the + top of the tide. In the distance the broad breast of Contrary Head, and, a + musket-shot outside of it, the little rocky islet whereon stand the + stately ruins of the noble old Peel Castle. The beach is dotted over with + people—old men, in their curranes and undyed stockings, leaning on + their sticks; children playing on the shingle; young women in groups, + dressed in sickle-shaped white sun-bonnets, and with petticoats tucked up; + old women in long blue homespun cloaks. But these are only the background + of the human picture. In the centre of it is a wide circle of fishermen, + men and boys, of all sizes and sorts, from the old Admiral of the herring + fleet to the lad that helps the cook—rude figures in blue and with + great sea-boots. They are on their knees on the sand, with their knitted + caps at their rusty faces, and in the middle of them, standing in an old + broken boat, is the Bishop himself, bareheaded, white-headed, with + upturned face praying for the fishing season that is about to begin. The + June day is sweet and beautiful, and the sun is going down behind the + castle. Some sea-gulls are disporting on the rock outside, and, save for + their jabbering cries, and the boom of the sea from the red horizon, and + the gentle plash of the wavelets on the pebbles of the shore, nothing is + heard but the slow tones of the Bishop and the fishermen’s deep <i>Amen</i>. + Such was Bishop Wilson’s fishermen’s service. It is gone; more’s the pity. + </p> + <p> + SOME OLD LAWS + </p> + <p> + The spiritual laws of Man were no dead letters when Bishop Wilson presided + over its spiritual courts. He was good to illegitimate children, making + them legitimate if their parents married within two years of their birth, + and often putting them on the same level with their less injured brothers + and sisters where inheritance was in question. But he was unmerciful to + the parents themselves. There is one story of his treatment of a woman + which passes all others in its tyranny. It is, perhaps, the only deep + stain on his character. I thank God that it can never have come to the + ears of Victor Hugo. Told as Hugo would have told it, surely it must have + blasted for ever the name of a good man. It is the dark story of Katherine + Kinrade. + </p> + <p> + KATHERINE KINRADE + </p> + <p> + She was a poor ruin of a woman, belonging to Kirk Christ, but wandering + like a vagrant over the island. The fact of first consequence is, that she + was only half sane. In the language of the clergy of the time, she “had a + degree of unsettledness and defect of understanding.” Thus she was the + sort of human wreck that the world finds it easy to fling away. Katherine + fell victim to the sin that was not her own. A child was born. The Church + censured her. She did penance in a white sheet at the church doors. But + her poor, dull brain had no power to restrain her. A second child was + born. Then the Bishop committed her for twenty-one days to his prison at + the Peel. Let me tell you what the place is like. It is a crypt of the + cathedral church. You enter it by a little door in the choir, leading to a + tortuous flight of steep steps going down. It is a chamber cut out of the + rock of the little island, dark, damp, and noisome. A small aperture lets + in the light, as well as the sound of the sea beating on the rocks below. + The roof, if you could see it in the gloom, is groined and ribbed, and + above it is the mould of many graves, for in the old days bodies were + buried in the choir. Can you imagine a prison more terrible for any + prisoner, the strongest man or the bravest soldier? Think of it on a + tempestuous night in winter. The lonely islet rock, with the swift seas + rushing around it; the castle half a ruin, its guard-room empty, its + banqueting hall roofless, its sally port silent; then the cathedral church + falling to decay; and under the floor of its choir, where lie the graves + of dead men, this black, grim, cold cell, silent as the graves themselves, + save for the roar of the sea as it beats in the darkness on the rocks + outside! But that is not enough. We have to think of this gloomy pile as + inhabited on such a night of terrors by only one human soul—this + poor, bedraggled, sin-laden woman with “the defect of understanding.” Can + anything be more awful? Yet there is worse to follow. The records tell us + that Katherine Kinrade submitted to her punishment “with as much + discretion as could be expected of the like of her.” But such punishments + do not cleanse the soul that is “drenched with unhallowed fire.” Perhaps + Katherine did not know that she was wronged; nevertheless God’s image was + being trodden out of her. She went from bad to worse, became a notorious + strumpet, strolled about the island, and led “a scandalous life on other + accounts.” A third child was born. Then the Bishop concluded that for the + honour of the Christian name, “to prevent her own utter destruction, and + for the example of others,” a timely and thorough reformation must be made + by a further and severer punishment. It was the 15th day of March, and he + ordered that on the 17th day, being the fair of St. Patrick, at the height + of the market, the said Katherine Kinrade should be taken to Peel Town in + charge of the general sumner, and the constables and soldiers of the + garrison, and there dragged after a boat in the sea! Think of it! On a + bitter day in March this wretched woman with the “defect of understanding” + was to be dragged through the sea by a rope tied to the tail of a boat! + And if any owner, master, and crew of any boat proved refractory by + refusing to perform this service for the restraining of vice, they were to + be subject to fine and imprisonment! When St. Patrick’s Day came the + weather was so stormy that no boat could live in the bay, but on St. + Germain’s Day, about the height of the market, the censure was performed. + After undergoing the punishment the miserable soul was apparently + penitent, “according to her capacity,” took the communion, and was + “received into the peace of the Church.” Poor human ruin, defaced image of + a woman, begrimed and buried soul, unchaste, misshapen, incorrigible, no + “juice of God’s distilling” ever “dropped into the core of her life,” to + such punishment she was doomed by the tribunal of that saintly man, Bishop + Thomas Wilson! She has met him at another tribunal since then; not where + she has crouched before him, but where she has stood by his side. She has + carried her great account against him, to Him before whom the proudest are + as chaff. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + None spake when Wilson stood before + The Throne; + And He that sat thereon + Spake not; and all the presence-floor + Burnt deep with blushes, and the angels cast + Their faces downwards.—Then, at last, + Awe-stricken, he was ware + How on the emerald stair + A woman sat divinely clothed in white, + And at her knees four cherubs bright + That laid + Their heads within her lap. Then, trembling, he essayed + To speak—“Christ’s mother, pity me!” + Then answered she, + “Sir, I am Katherine Kinrade.” {*} + + * Unpublished poem by the author of ‘’Fo’c’s’le Yarns.” + </pre> + <p> + BISHOP WILSON’S LAST DAYS + </p> + <p> + Have I dashed your faith in my hero? Was he indeed the bitterest of + tyrants as well as the serenest of saints? Yet bethink you of the other + good men who have done evil deeds? King David and the wife of Uriah, + Mahomet and his adopted son; the gallery of memory is hung round with many + such portraits. Poor humanity, weak at the strongest, impure at the + purest; best take it as it is, and be content. Remember that a good man’s + vices are generally the excess of his virtues. It was so with Bishop + Wilson. Remember, too, that it is not for what a man does, but for what he + means to do, that we love him or hate him in the end. And in the end the + Manx people loved Bishop Wilson, and still they bless his memory. + </p> + <p> + We have a glimpse of his last days, and it is full of tender beauty. True + to his lights, simple and frugal of life, God-fearing and strong of heart, + he lived to be old. Very feeble, his beautiful face grown mellower even as + his heart was softer for his many years, tottering on his staff, drooping + like a white flower, he went in and out among his people, laying his + trembling hands on the children’s heads and blessing them, remembering + their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. Beloved by the young, reverenced + by the old, honoured by the great, worshipped by the poor, living in sweet + patience, ready to die in hope. His day was done, his night was near, and + the weary toiler was willing to go to his rest. Thus passed some peaceful + years. He died in 1755, and was followed to his grave by the whole Manx + nation. His tomb is our most sacred shrine. We know his faults, but we do + not speak of them there. Call a truce over the place of the old man’s + rest. There he lies, who was once the saviour of our people. God bless + him! He was our fathers’ bishop, and his saintly face still shines on our + fathers’ children. + </p> + <p> + THE ATHOL BISHOPS + </p> + <p> + Let me in a last clause attempt a sketch of the history of the Manx Church + in the century or more that has followed Bishop Wilson’s death. The last + fifty years of it are featureless, save for an attempt to abolish the + Bishopric. This foolish effort first succeeded and then failed, and was a + poor bit of mummery altogether, ending in nothing but waste of money and + time, and breath and temper. The fifty years immediately succeeding Bishop + Wilson were full of activity. But so far as the Church was concerned, the + activity was not always wholesome. If religion was kept alive in Man in + those evil days, and the soul hunger of the poor Manx people was + satisfied, it was not by the masters of the Manx Church, the Pharisees who + gave alms in the streets to the sound of a trumpet going before them, or + by the Levites who passed by on the other side when a man had fallen among + thieves. It was partly by dissent, which was begun by Wesley in 1775 + (after Quakerism had been suppressed), and partly by a small minority of + the Manx clergy, who kept going the early evangelicalism of Newton and + Cowper and Cecil—dear, sunny, simple-hearted old Manx vicars, who + took sweet counsel together in their old-fashioned homes, where you found + grace in all senses of the word, purity of soul, the life of the mind, and + gentle courtliness of manners. + </p> + <p> + Bishop Wilson’s successor was Doctor Mark Hildlesley, in all respects a + worthy man. He completed the translation of the Scriptures into Manx, + which had been begun by his predecessor, and established Sunday-schools in + Man before they had been commenced in any other country. But after him + came a line of worthless prelates, Dr. Richmond, remembered for his + unbending haughtiness; Dr. Mason, disgraced by his debts; and Claudius + Cregan, a bishop unfit to be a curate. Do you not read between the broad + lines of such facts? The Athol dynasty was now some thirty years + established in Man, and the swashbuckler Court of fine gentlemen was in + full swing. In that costume drama of soiled lace and uproarious pleasures, + what part did the Church play? Was it that of the man clad in camel’s + skin, living on locusts and wild honey, and calling on the generation of + revellers to flee from the wrath to come? No; but that of the lover of + cakes and ale. The records of this period are few and scanty, but they are + full enough to show that some of the clergy of the Athols knew more of + backgammon than of theology. While they pandered to the dissolute Court + they lived under, going the errands of their masters in the State, + fetching and carrying for them, and licking their shoes, they tyrannised + over the poor ignorant Manx people and fleeced them unmercifully. Perhaps + this was in a way only natural. Corruption was in the air throughout + Europe. Dr. Youngs were grovelling for preferments at the feet of kings’ + mistresses, and Dr. Warners were kissing the shoebuckles of great ladies + for sheer love of their faces, plastered red and white, The parasites of + the Manx clergy were not far behind some of their English brethren. There + is a story told of their life among themselves which casts lurid light on + their character and ways of life. It is said that two of the + Vicars-general summoned a large number of the Manx people to Bishop’s + Court on some business of the spiritual court, Many of the people had come + long distances, chiefly a-foot, without food, and probably without money. + After a short sitting the court was adjourned for dinner. The people had + no dinner, and they starved. The Vicars-general went into the palace to + dine with the Bishop. Some hours passed. The night was gathering. Then a + message came out to say that no more business could be done that day. Some + of the poor people were old, and had to travel fifteen miles to their + homes. The record tells us that the Bishop gave his guests “most excellent + wine.” What of a scene like that? Outside, a sharp day in Spring, two + score famished folks tramping the glen and the gravel-path, the + gravel-path and the glen, to and fro, to and fro, minute after minute, + hour after hour. Inside, my lord Bishop, drenched in debt, dining with his + clergy, drinking “most excellent wine” with them, unbending his mighty + mind with them, exchanging boisterous stories with them, jesting with + them, laughing with them, until his face grows as red as the glowing turf + on his hearth. Presently a footfall on the gravel, and outside the window + a hungry, pinched, anxious face looking nervously into the room. Then this + colloquy: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the court, plague on’t, I’d forgotten it.” + </p> + <p> + “Adjourn it, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + “Wine like yours, my lord, would make a man forget Paradise.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down again, gentlemen. Juan, go out and tell the people to come back + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Your right good health, my lord!” + </p> + <p> + “And yours, gentlemen both!” + </p> + <p> + Oh, if there is any truth in religion, if this world is God’s, if a day is + coming when the weak shall be exalted and the mighty laid low, what a + reckoning they have gone to whose people cried for bread and they gave + them a stone! And if there is not, if the hope is vain, if it is all a + sham and a mockery, still the justice of this world is sure. Where are + they now, these parasites? Their game is played out. They are bones and + ashes; they are in their forgotten graves. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF THE MANX PEOPLE + </h2> + <p> + THE MANX LANGUAGE + </p> + <p> + A friend asked me the other day if there was any reason why I should not + deliver these lectures in Manx. I answered that there were just forty good + and sufficient reasons. The first was that I did not speak Manx. Like the + wise queen in the story of the bells, he then spared me the recital of the + remaining nine-and-thirty. But there is at least one of the number that + will appeal strongly to most of my hearers. What that is you shall judge + for yourselves after I have braved the pitfalls of pronunciation in a + tongue I do not know, and given you some clauses of the Lord’s Prayer in + Manx. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ayr ain t’ayns niait, + (Father our who art in heaven.) + + Caskerick dy row dty ennym. + (Holy be Thy name.) + + Dy jig dty reeriaght. + (Come Thy kingdom.) + + Dty aigney dy row jeant er y thalloo mry te ayns niau. + (Thy will be done on the earth even as in heaven.) +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Son dy bragh, as dy bragh, Amen. + (For ever and ever. Amen.) +</pre> + <p> + I asked a friend—it was Mr. Wilson Barrett—if in its fulness, + its fine chest-notes, its force and music, this old language did not sound + like Italian. + </p> + <p> + “Well, no,” he answered, “it sounds more like hard swearing.” + </p> + <p> + I think you must now understand why the greater part of these lectures + should be delivered in English. + </p> + <p> + Manx is a dialect mainly Celtic, and differing only slightly from the + ancient Scottish Gaelic. I have heard my father say that when he was a boy + in Ramsey, sixty years ago, a Scotch ship came ashore on the Carrick, and + next morning after the wreck a long, lank, bony creature, with bare legs, + and in short petticoats, came into the marketplace and played a tune on a + little shrieking pair of smithy bellows, and then sang a song. It was a + Highland piper, and he sang in his Gaelic, but the Manx boys and girls who + gathered round him understood almost every word of his song, though they + thought his pronunciation bad. Perhaps they took him for a poor old + Manxman, somehow strayed and lost, a sort of Manx Rip Van Winkle who had + slept a century in Scotland, and thereby lost part of his clothes. + </p> + <p> + You will wonder that there is not more Norse in our language, remembering + how much of the Norse is in our blood. But the predominance of the Celtic + is quite natural. Our mothers were Celts, speaking Celtic, before our + Norse-fathers came. Was it likely that our Celtic mothers should learn + much of the tongue of their Norse husbands? Then, is it not our mother, + rather than our father, who teaches us to speak when we are children? So + our Celtic mothers taught us Celtic, and thus Celtic became the dominant + language of our race. + </p> + <p> + MANX NAMES + </p> + <p> + But though our Norse fathers could not impose their Norse tongue on their + children, they gave them Norse names, and to the island they gave Norse + place-names. Hence we find that though Manx names show a preponderance of + the Celtic, yet that the Norse are numerous and important. Thus we have + many <i>dales, fells, garths</i>, and <i>ghylls</i>. Indeed, we have many + pure Scandinavian surnames and place-names. When I was in Iceland I + sometimes found myself face to face with names which almost persuaded me + that I was at home in our little island of the Irish Sea. There is, for + example, a Snaefell in Man as well as in Iceland. Then, our Norwegian + surnames often took Celtic prefixes, such as <i>Mac</i>, and thus became + Scandio-Gaelic. But this is a subject on which I have no right to speak + with authority. You will find it written down with learning and judgment + in the good book of my friend Mr. A. W. Moore, of Cronkbourne. What + concerns me more than the scientific aspect of the language is its + literary character. I seem to realise that it was the language of a poetic + race. The early generations of a people are often poetic. They are + child-like, and to be like a child is the best half of being like a poet. + They name their places by help of their observatory powers. These are + fresh and full of wonder, and Nature herself is beautiful or strange until + man tampers with her. + </p> + <p> + So when an untaught and uncorrupted mind looks upon a new scene and + bethinks itself of a name to fit it, the name is almost certainly full of + charm or rugged power. Thus we find in Man such mixed Norse and Celtic + names as: <i>Booildooholly</i> (Black fold of the wood), <i>Douglas</i> + (Black stream), <i>Soderick</i> (South creek), <i>Trollaby</i> (Troll’s + farm), <i>Gansy</i> (Magic isle), <i>Cronk-y-Clagh Bane</i> (Hill of the + white stone), <i>Cronk-ny-hey</i> (Hill of the grave), <i>Cronk-ny-arrey-lhaa</i> + (Hill of the day watch). + </p> + <p> + MANX IMAGINATION + </p> + <p> + This poetic character of the place-names of the island is a standing + reproach to us as a race. We have degenerated in poetic spirit since such + names were the natural expression of our feelings. I tremble to think what + our place-names would be if we had to make them now. Our few modern + Christenings set my teeth on edge. We are not a race of poets. We are the + prosiest of the prosy. I have never in my life met with any race, except + Icelanders and Norwegians, who are so completely the slave of hard fact. + It is astounding how difficult the average Manxman finds it to put himself + into the mood of the poet. That anything could come out of nothing, that + there is such a thing as imagination, that any human brother of an honest + man could say that a thing had been, which had not been, and yet not lie—these + are bewildering difficulties to the modern Manxman. That a novel can be + false and yet true—that, well that’s foolishness. I wrote a Manx + romance called “The Deemster;” and I did not expect my fellow-countrymen + of the primitive kind to tolerate it for a moment. It was merely a + fiction, and the true Manxman of the old sort only believes in what is + true. He does not read very much, and when he does read it is not novels. + But he could not keep his hands off this novel, and on the whole, and in + the long run, he liked it—that is, as he would say, “middling,” you + know! But there was only one condition on which he could take it to his + bosom—it must be true. There was the rub, for clearly it + transgressed certain poor little facts that were patent to everybody. + </p> + <p> + Never mind, Hall Caine did not know poor Man, or somebody had told him + wrong. But the story itself! The Bishop, Dan, Ewan, Mona, the body coming + ashore at the Mooragh, the poor boy under the curse by the Calf, + lord-a-massy, that was thrue as gospel! What do you think happened? I have + got the letters by me, and can show them to anybody. A good Manxman wrote + to remonstrate with me for calling the book a “romance.” How dare I do so? + It was all true. Another wrote saying that maybe I would like to know that + in his youth he knew my poor hero, Dan Mylrea, well. They often drank + together. In fact, they were the same as brothers. For his part he had + often warned poor Dan the way he was going. After the murder, Dan came to + him and gave him the knife with which he had killed Ewan. He had got it + still! + </p> + <p> + Later than the “Deemster,” I published another Manx romance, “The + Bondman.” In that book I mentioned, without thought of mischief, certain + names that must have been lying at the back of my head since my boyhood. + One of them becomes in the book the name of an old hypocrite who in the + end cheats everybody and yet prays loudly in public. Now it seems that + there is a man up in the mountains who owns that name. When he first + encountered it in the newspapers, where the story was being published as a + serial, he went about saying he was in the “Bondman,” that it was all + thrue as gospel, so it was, that he knew me when I was a boy, over Ramsey + way, and used to give me rides on his donkey, so he did. This was before + the hypocrite was unmasked; and when that catastrophe occurred, and his + villany stood naked before all the island, his anger knew no limits. I am + told that he goes about the mountains now like a thunder-cloud, and that + he wants to meet me. I had never heard of the man before in all my life. + </p> + <p> + What I say is true only of the typical Manxman, the natural-man among + Manxmen, not of the Manxman who is Manxman plus man of the world, the + educated Manxman, who finds it as easy as anybody else to put himself into + a position of sympathy with works of pure imagination. But you must go + down to the turf if you want the true smell of the earth. Education levels + all human types, as love is said to level all ranks; and to preserve your + individuality and yet be educated seems to want a strain of genius, or + else a touch of madness. + </p> + <p> + The Manx must have been the language of a people with few thoughts to + express, but such thoughts as they had were beautiful in their simplicity + and charm, sometimes wise and shrewd, and not rarely full of feeling. Thus + <i>laa-noo</i> is old Manx for child, and it means literally half saint—a + sweet conception, which says the best of all that is contained in + Wordsworth’s wondrous “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality.” <i>Laa-bee</i> + is old Manx for bed, literally half-meat, a profound commentary on the + value of rest. The old salutation at the door of a Manx cottage before the + visitor entered was this word spoken from the porch: <i>Vel peccaghs thie?</i> + Literally: Any sinner within? All humanity being sinners in the common + speech of the Manx people. + </p> + <p> + MANX PROVERBS + </p> + <p> + Nearly akin to the language of a race are its proverbs, and some of the + Manx proverbs are wise, witty, and racy of the soil. Many of them are the + common possession of all peoples. Of such kind is “There’s many a slip + ‘twixt the cup and the lip.” Here is one which sounds like an Eastern + saying: “Learning is fine clothes for the rich man, and riches for the + poor man.” But I know of no foreign parentage for a proverb like this: “A + green hill when far away; bare, bare when it is near.” + </p> + <p> + That may be Eastern also. It hints of a long weary desert; no grass, no + water, and then the cruel mirage that breaks down the heart of the + wayfarer at last. On the other hand, it is not out of harmony with the + landscape of Man, where the mountains look green sometimes from a distance + when they are really bare and stark, and so typify that waste of heart + when life is dry of the moisture of hope, and all the world is as a + parched wilderness. However, there is one proverb which is so Manx in + spirit that I could almost take oath on its paternity, so exactly does it + fit the religious temper of our people, though it contains a word that + must strike an English ear as irreverent: “When one poor man helps another + poor man, God himself laughs.” + </p> + <p> + MANX BALLADS + </p> + <p> + Next to the proverbs of a race its songs are the best expression of its + spirit, and though Manx songs are few, some of them are full of Manx + character. Always their best part is the air. A man called Barrow compiled + the Manx tunes about the beginning of the century, but his book is scarce. + In my ignorance of musical science I can only tell you how the little that + is left of Manx music lives in the ear of a man who does not know one note + from another. Much of it is like a wail of the wind in a lonely place near + to the sea, sometimes like the soughing of the long grass, sometimes like + the rain whipping the panes of a window as with rods. Nearly always + long-drawn like a moan rarely various, never martial, never inspiriting, + often sad and plaintive, as of a people kept under, but loving liberty, + poor and low down, but with souls alive, looking for something, and hoping + on,—full of the brine, the salt foam, the sad story of the sea. + Nothing would give you a more vivid sense of the Manx people than some of + our old airs. They would seem to take you into a little whitewashed + cottage with sooty rafters and earthen floor, where an old man who looks + half like a sailor and half like a landsman is dozing before a peat fire + that is slumbering out. Have I in my musical benightedness conveyed an + idea of anything musical? If not, let me, by the only vehicle natural to + me, give you the rough-shod words of one or two of our old ballads. There + is a ballad, much in favour, called <i>Ny kirree fo niaghey</i>, the Sheep + under the Snow. Another, yet better known, is called <i>Myle Charaine</i>. + This has sometimes been called the Manx National Air, but that is a + fiction. The song has nothing to do with the Manx as a nation. Perhaps it + is merely a story of a miser and his daughter’s dowry. Or perhaps it tells + of pillage, probably of wrecking, basely done, and of how the people cut + the guilty one off from all intercourse with them. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, Myle Charaine, where got you your gold? + Lone, lone, you have left me here, + O, not in the curragh, deep under the mould, + Lone, lone, and void of cheer. +</pre> + <p> + This sounds poor enough, but it would be hard to say how deeply this + ballad, wedded to its wailing music, touches and moves a Manxman. Even to + my ear as I have heard it in Manx, it has seemed to be one of the weirdest + things in old ballad literature, only to be matched by some of the old + Irish songs, and by the gruesome ditty which tells how “the sun shines + fair on Carlisle wa’.” + </p> + <p> + MANX CAROLS + </p> + <p> + The paraphrase I have given you was done by George Borrow, who once + visited the island. My friend the Rev. T. E. Brown met him and showed him + several collections of Manx carols, and he pronounced them all + translations from the English, not excepting our famous <i>Drogh Vraane</i>, + or carol of every bad woman whose story is told in the Bible, beginning + with the story of mother Eve herself. And, indeed, you will not be + surprised that to the shores of our little island have drifted all kinds + of miscellaneous rubbish, and that the Manxmen, from their very simplicity + and ignorance of other literatures, have had no means of sifting the + flotsam and assigning value to the constituents. Besides this, they are so + irresponsible, have no literary conscience, and accordingly have + appropriated anything and everything. This is true of some Manx ballads, + and perhaps also of many Manx carols. The carols, called Carvals in Manx, + serve in Man, as in other countries, the purpose of celebrating the birth + of Jesus, but we have one ancient custom attached to them which we can + certainly claim for our own, so Manx is it, so quaint, so grimly serious, + and withal so howlingly ludicrous. + </p> + <p> + It is called the service of Oiel Verree, probably a corruption of <i>Feaill + Vorrey</i>, literally the Feast of Mary, and it is held in the parish + church near to midnight on Christmas Eve. Scott describes it in “Peveril + of the Peak,” but without personal knowledge. + </p> + <p> + Services are still held in many churches on Christmas Eve; and I think + they are called Oiel Verree, but the true Oiel Verree, the real, pure, + savage, ridiculous, sacrilegious old Oiel Verree, is gone. I myself just + came in time for it; I saw the last of it, nevertheless I saw it at its + prime, for I saw it when it was so strong that it could not live any + longer. Let me tell you what it was. + </p> + <p> + The story carries me back to early boyish years, when, from the lonely + school-house on the bleak top of Maughold Head, I was taken in secret, one + Christmas Eve, between nine and ten o’clock, to the old church of Kirk + Maughold, a parish which longer than any other upheld the rougher + traditions. My companion was what is called an original. His name was + Billy Corkill. We were great chums. I would be thirteen, he was about + sixty. Billy lived alone in a little cottage on the high-road, and worked + in the fields. He had only one coat all the years I knew him. It seemed to + have been blue to begin with, but when it had got torn Billy had patched + it with anything that was handy, from green cloth to red flannel. He + called it his Joseph’s coat of many colours. Billy was a poet and a + musical composer. He could not read a word, but he would rather have died + than confess his ignorance. He kept books and newspapers always about him, + and when he read out of them, he usually held them upside down. If any one + remarked on that, he said he could read them any way up—that was + where his scholarship came in. Billy was a great carol singer. He did not + know a note, but he never sang except from music. His tunes were wild + harmonies that no human ear ever heard before. It will be clear to you + that old Billy was a man of genius. + </p> + <p> + Such was my comrade on that Christmas Eve long ago. It had been a bitter + winter in the Isle of Man, and the ground was covered with snow. But the + church bells rang merrily over the dark moorland, for Oiel Verree was + peculiarly the people’s service, and the ringers were ringing in the one + service of the year at which the parishioners supplanted the Vicar, and + appropriated the old parish church. In spite of the weather, the church + was crowded with a motley throng, chiefly of young folks, the young men + being in the nave, and the girls (if I remember rightly) in the little + loft at the west end. Most of the men carried tallow dips, tied about with + bits of ribbon in the shape of rosettes, duly lighted, and guttering + grease at intervals on to the book-ledge or the tawny fingers of them that + held them. It appeared that there had been an ordinary service before we + arrived, and the Vicar was still within the rails of the communion. From + there he addressed some parting words of solemn warning to the noisy + throng of candle-carriers. As nearly as I can remember, the address was + this: “My good people, you are about to celebrate an old custom. For my + part, I have no sympathy with such customs, but since the hearts of my + parishioners seem to be set on this one, I have no wish to suppress it. + But tumultuous and disgraceful scenes have occurred on similar occasions + in previous years, and I beg you to remember that you are in God’s house,” + &c. &c. The grave injunction was listened to in silence, and when + it ended, the Vicar, a worthy but not very popular man, walked towards the + vestry. To do so, he passed the pew where I sat under the left arm of my + companion, and he stopped before him, for Billy had long been a notorious + transgressor at Oiel Verree. + </p> + <p> + “See that you do not disgrace my church to-night,” said the Vicar. But + Billy had a biting tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, well,” said he, “I’m thinking the church is the people’s.” + </p> + <p> + “The people are as ignorant as goats,” said the Vicar. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, then,” said Billy, “you are the shepherd, so just make sheeps of + them.” + </p> + <p> + At that the Vicar gave us the light of his countenance no more. The last + glimpse of his robe going through the vestry door was the signal for a + buzz of low gossip, and straightway the business of Oiel Verree began. + </p> + <p> + It must have been now approaching eleven o’clock, and two old greybeards + with tousled heads placed themselves abreast at the door of the west + porch. There they struck up a carol in a somewhat lofty key. It was a most + doleful ditty. Certainly I have never since heard the like of it. I + remember that it told the story of the Crucifixion in startling language, + full of realism that must have been horribly ghastly, if it had not been + so comic. At the end of each verse the singers made one stride towards the + communion. There were some thirty verses, and every mortal verse did these + zealous carollers give us. They came to an end at length, and then another + old fellow rose in his pew and sang a ditty in Manx. It told of the loss + of the herring-fleet in Douglas Bay in the last century. After that there + was yet another and another carol—some that might be called sacred, + others that would not be badly wronged with the name of profane. As I + recall them now, they were full of a burning earnestness, and pictured the + dangers of the sinner and the punishment of the damned. They said nothing + about the joys of heaven, or the pleasures of life. Wherever these old + songs came from they must have dated from some period of religious + revival. The Manxman may have appropriated them, but if he did so he was + in a deadly earnest mood. It must have been like stealing a hat-band. + </p> + <p> + My comrade had been silent all this time, but in response to various + winks, nods, and nudges, he rose to his feet. Now, in prospect of Oiel + Verree I had written the old man a brand new carol. It was a mighty + achievement in the sentimental vein. I can remember only one of its + couplets: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hold your souls in still communion, + Blend them in a holy union. +</pre> + <p> + I am not very sure what this may mean, and Billy must have been in the + same uncertainty. Shall I ever forget what happened? Billy standing in the + pew with my paper in his hand the wrong way up. Myself by his side holding + a candle to him. Then he began to sing. It was an awful tune—I think + he called it sevens—but he made common-sense of my doggerel by one + alarming emendation. When he came to the couplet I have given you, what do + you think he sang? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hold your souls in still communion, + Blend them in—a hollow onion!” + </pre> + <p> + Billy must have been a humorist. He is long dead, poor old Billy. God rest + him! + </p> + <p> + DECAY OF THE MANX LANGUAGE + </p> + <p> + If in this unscientific way I have conveyed my idea of Manx carvals, Manx + ballads, or Manx proverbs, you will not be surprised to hear me say that I + do not think that any of these, can live long apart from the Manx + language. We may have stolen most of them; they may have been wrecked on + our coast, and we may have smuggled them; but as long as they wear our + native homespun clothes they are ours, and as soon as they put it off they + cease to belong to us. A Manx proverb is no longer a Manx proverb when it + is in English. The same is true of a Manx ballad translated, and of a Manx + carval turned into an English carol. What belongs to us, our way of saying + things, in a word, our style, is gone. The spirit is departed, and that + which remains is only an English ghost flitting about in Manx + grave-clothes. + </p> + <p> + Now this is a sad fact, for it implies that little as we have got of Manx + literature, whether written or oral, we shall soon have none at all. Our + Manx language is fast dying out. If we had any great work in the Manx + tongue, that work alone would serve to give our language a literary life + at least. But we have no such great work, no fine Manx poem, no good novel + in Manx, not even a Manx sermon of high mark. Thus far our Manx language + has kept alive our pigmies of Manx literature; but both are going down + together. The Manx is not much spoken now. In the remoter villages, like + Cregnesh, Ballaugh, Kirk Michael, and Kirk Andreas, it may still be heard. + Moreover, the Manxman may hear Manx a hundred times for every time an + Englishman hears it. But the younger generation of Manx folk do not speak + Manx, and very often do not understand it. This is a rapid change on the + condition of things in my own boyhood. Manx is to me, for all practical + uses, an unknown tongue. I cannot speak it, I cannot follow it when + spoken, I have only a sort of nodding acquaintance with it out of door, + and yet among my earliest recollections is that of a household where + nothing but Manx was ever spoken except to me. A very old woman, almost + bent double over a spinning wheel, and calling me Hommy-Veg, and <i>baugh-millish</i>, + and so forth. This will suggest that the Manx people are themselves + responsible for the death of the Manx language. That is partly true. The + Manx tongue was felt to be an impediment to intercourse with the English + people. Then the great English immigration set in, and the Isle of Man + became a holiday resort. That was the doomster of the Manx language. In + another five-and-twenty years the Manx language will be as dead as a Manx + herring. + </p> + <p> + One cannot but regret this certain fate. I dare not say that the language + itself is so good that it ought to live. Those who know it better say that + “it’s a fine old tongue, rich and musical, full of meaning and + expression.” {*} I know that it is at least forcible, and loud and deep in + sound. I will engage two Manxmen quarrelling in Manx to make more noise in + a given time than any other two human brethren in Christendom, not + excepting two Irishmen. Also I think the Manx must be capable of notes of + sweet feeling, and I observe that a certain higher lilt in a Manx woman’s + voice, suggesting the effort to speak about the sound of the sea, and the + whistle of the wind in the gorse, is lost in the voices of the younger + women who speak English only. But apart from tangible loss, I regret the + death of the Manx tongue on grounds of sentiment. In this old tongue our + fathers played as children, bought and sold as men, prayed, preached, + gossiped, quarrelled, and made love. It was their language at Tynwald; + they sang their grim carvals in it, and their wailing, woful ballads. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * The Rev. T. E. Brown. +</pre> + <p> + When it is dead more than half of all that makes us Manxmen will be gone. + Our individuality will be lost, the greater barrier that separates us from + other peoples will be broken down. Perhaps this may have its advantages, + but surely it is not altogether a base desire not to be submerged into all + the races of the earth. The tower of Babel is built, the tongues of the + builders are confounded, and we are not all anxious to go back and join + the happy family that lived in one ark. + </p> + <p> + But aside from all lighter thoughts there is something very moving and + pathetic in the death of an old language. Permit me to tell you, not as a + philologist, a character to which I have no claim, but as an imaginative + writer, how the death of an ancient tongue affects me. It is unlike any + other form of death, for an unwritten language is even as a breath of air + which when it is spent leaves no trace behind. A nation may die, yet its + history remains, and that is the tangible part of its past. A city may + fall to decay and lie a thousand years under the sands of the desert, yet + its relics revivify its life. But a language that is dead, a tongue that + has no life in its literature, is a breath of wind that is gone. A little + while and it went from lip to lip, from lip to ear; it came we know not + whence; it has passed we know not where. It was an embodied spirit of all + man’s joys and sorrows, and like a spirit it has vanished away. + </p> + <p> + Then if this old language has been that of our own people its death is a + loss to our affections. Indeed, language gets so close to our heart that + we can hardly separate it from our emotions. If you do not speak the + Italian language, ask yourself whether Dante comes as close to you as + Shakespeare, all questions of genius and temperament apart. And if Dante + seems a thousand miles away, and Shakespeare enters into your closest + chamber, is it not first of all because the language of Shakespeare is + your own language, alive with the life that is in your own tongue, vital + with your own ways of thought and even tricks and whims of speech? Let + English die, and Shakespeare goes out of your closet, and passes away from + you, and is then your brother-Englishman only in name. So close is the + bond of language, so sweet and so mysterious. + </p> + <p> + But there is yet a more sacred bond with the language of our fathers when + it can have no posthumous life in books. This is the bond of love. Think + what it is that you miss first and longest when death robs you of a + friend. Is it not the living voice? The living face you can bring back in + memory, and in your dark hours it will shine on you still; the good deed + can never die; the noble thought lives for ever. Death is not conqueror + over such as these, but the human voice, the strange and beautiful part of + us that is half spirit in life, is lost in death. For a while it startles + us as an echo in an empty chamber, and then it is gone, and not all the + world’s wealth could bring one note of it back. And such as the vanishing + away of the voice of the friend we loved is the death of the old tongue + which our fathers spoke. <i>It is the death of the dead</i>. + </p> + <p> + MANX SUPERSTITIONS + </p> + <p> + When the Manx tongue is dead there will remain, however, just one badge of + our race—our superstition. I am proud to tell you that we are the + most superstitious people now left among the civilised nations of the + world. This is a distinction in these days when that poetry of life, as + Goethe names it, is all but gone from the face of the earth. Manxmen have + not yet taken the poetry out of the moon and the stars, and the mist of + the mountains and the wail of the sea. Of course we are ashamed of the + survival of our old beliefs and try to hide them, but let nobody say that + as a people we believe no longer in charms, and the evil eye, and good + spirits and bad. I know we do. It would be easy to give you a hundred + illustrations. I remember an ill-tempered old body living on the Curragh, + who was supposed to possess the evil eye. If a cow died at calving, she + had witched it. If a baby cried suddenly in its sleep, the old witch must + have been going by on the road. If the potatoes were blighted, she had + looked over the hedge at them. There was a charm doctor in Kirk Andreas, + named Teare-Ballawhane. He was before my time, but I recall many stories + of him. When a cow was sick of the witching of the woman of the Curragh, + the farmer fled over to Kirk Andreas for the charm of the charm-doctor. + From the moment Teare-Ballawhane began to boil his herbs the cow + recovered. If the cow died after all, there was some fault in the farmer. + I remember a child, a girl, who twenty years ago had a birth-mark on her + face—a broad red stain like a hand on her cheek. Not long since, I + saw her as a young woman, and the stain was either gone entirely or hidden + by her florid complexion. When I asked what had been done for her, I heard + that a good woman had charmed her. “Aw, yes,” said the girl’s mother, “a + few good words do no harm anyway.” Not long ago I met an old fellow in + Onchan village who believed in the Nightman, an evil spirit who haunts the + mountains at night predicting tempests and the doom of ships, the <i>dooinney-oie</i> + of the Manx, akin to the <i>banshee</i> of the Irish. “Aw, man,” said he, + “it was up Snaefell way, and I was coming from Kirk Michael over, and it + was black dark, and I heard the Nightman after me, shoutin’ and wailin’ + morthal, <i>how-la-a, how-a-a</i>. But I didn’t do nothin’, no, and he + came up to me lek a besom, and went past me same as a flood, <i>who-o-o!</i> + And I lerr him! Aw, yes, man, yes!” + </p> + <p> + I remember many a story of fairies, some recited half in humour, others in + grim earnest. One old body told me that on the night of her wedding-day, + coming home from the Curragh, whither she had stolen away in pursuit of a + belated calf, she was chased in the moonlight by a troop of fairies. They + held on to her gown, and climbed on her back, and perched on her + shoulders, and clung to her hair. There were “hundreds and tons” of them; + they were about as tall as a wooden broth-ladle, and all wore cocked-hats + and velvet jackets. + </p> + <p> + A good fairy long inhabited the Isle of Man. He was called in Manx the + Phynnodderee. It would appear that he had two brothers of like features + with himself, one in Scotland called the Brownie, the other in Scandinavia + called the Swart-alfar. + </p> + <p> + I have often heard how on a bad night the Manx folk would go off to bed + early so that the Phynnodderee might come in out of the cold. Before going + upstairs they built up the fire, and set the kitchen table with crocks of + milk and pecks of oaten cake for the entertainment of their guest. Then + while they slept the Phynnodderee feasted, yet he always left the table + exactly as he found it, eating the cake and drinking the milk, but filling + up the peck and the crock afresh. Nobody ever intruded upon him, so nobody + ever saw him, save the Manx Peeping Tom. I remember hearing an old Manxman + say that his curiosity overcame his reverence, and he “leff the wife,” + stepped out of bed, crept to the head of the stairs, and peeped over the + banisters into the kitchen. There he saw the Phynnodderee sitting in his + own arm-chair, with a great company of brother and sister fairies about + him, baking bread on the griddle, and chattering together like linnets in + spring. But he could not understand a word they were saying. + </p> + <p> + I have told you that the Manxman is not built by nature for a gallant. He + has one bad fairy, and she is the embodied spirit of a beautiful woman. + Manx folk-lore, like Manx carvals, Manx ballads, and Manx proverbs, takes + it for a bad sign of a woman’s character that she has personal beauty. If + she is beautiful, ten to one she is a witch. That is how it happens that + there are so many witches in the Isle of Man. + </p> + <p> + The story goes that a beautiful wicked witch entrapped the men of the + island. They would follow her anywhere. So she led them into the sea, and + they were all drowned. Then the women of the island went forth to punish + her, and, to escape from them, she took the form of a wren and flew away. + That is how it comes about that the poor little wren is hunted and killed + on St. Stephen’s Day. The Manx lads do it, though surely it ought to be + the Manx maidens. At midnight they sally forth in great companies, armed + with sticks and carrying torches. They beat the hedges until they light on + a wren’s nest, and, having started the wren and slaughtered it, they + suspend the tiny mite to the middle of a long pole, which is borne by two + lads from shoulder to shoulder. They then sing a rollicking native ditty, + of which one version runs:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We’ll hunt the wren, says Robbin the Bobbin; + We’ll hunt the wren, says Richard the Robbin; + We’ll hunt the wren, says Jack of the Lan’; + We’ll hunt the wren, says every one. +</pre> + <p> + But Robbin the Bobbin and Richard the Robbin are not the only creatures + who have disappeared into the sea. The fairies themselves have also gone + there. They inhabit Man no more. A Wesleyan preacher declared some years + ago that he witnessed the departure of all the Manx fairies from the Bay + of Douglas. They went away in empty rum puncheons, and scudded before the + wind as far as the eye could reach, in the direction of Jamaica. So we + have done with them, both good and bad. + </p> + <p> + However, among the witches whom we have left to us in remote corners of + the island is the very harmless one called the Queen of the Mheillia. Her + rural Majesty is a sort of first cousin of the Queen of the May. The + Mheillia is the harvest-home. It is a picturesque ceremonial, observed + differently in different parts. Women and girls follow the reapers to + gather and bind the corn after it has fallen to the swish of the sickles. + A handful of the standing corn of the last of the farmer’s fields is tied + about with ribbon. Nobody but the farmer knows where that handful is, and + the girl who comes upon it by chance is made the Queen of the Mheillia. + She takes it to the highest eminence near, and waves it, and her + fellow-reapers and gleaners shout huzzas. Their voices are heard through + the valley, where other farmers and other reapers and gleaners stop in + their work and say, “So-and-so’s Mheillia!” “Ballamona’s Mheillia’s took!” + That night the farmer gives a feast in his barn to celebrate the getting + in of his harvest, and the close of the work of the women at the + harvesting. Sheep’s heads for a change on Manx herrings, English ale for a + change on Manx jough; then dancing led by the mistress, to the tune of a + fiddle, played faster and wilder as the night advances, reel and jig, jig + and reel. This pretty rural festival is still observed, though it has lost + much of its quaintness. I think I can just remember to have heard the + shouts of the Mheillia from the breasts of the mountains. + </p> + <p> + You will have gathered that in no part of the world could you find a more + reckless and ill-conditioned breeding-ground of suppositions, legends, + traditions, and superstitions than in the Isle of Man. The custom of + hunting the wren is widely spread throughout Ireland; and if I were to + tell you of Manx wedding customs, Manx burial customs, Manx birth customs, + May day, Lammas, Good Friday, New Year, and Christmas customs, you would + recognise in the Manxman the same irresponsible tendency to appropriate + whatever flotsam drifts to his shore. What I have told you has come mainly + of my own observation, but for a complete picture of Manx manners and + customs, beliefs and superstitions, I will refer you to William Kennish’s + “Mona’s Isle, and other Poems,” a rare book, with next to no poetic + quality, and containing much that is worthless, but having a good body of + real native stuff in it, such as cannot be found elsewhere. A still better + anthology is likely to be soon forthcoming from the pen of Mr. A. W. Moore + (the excellent editor of “Manx Names”) and the press of Mr. Nutt. + </p> + <p> + It is easy to laugh at these old superstitions, so childish do they seem, + so foolish, so ignorant. But shall we therefore set ourselves so much + above our fathers because they were slaves to them, and we believe them + not? Bethink you. Are we so much wiser, after all? How much farther have + we got? We know the mists of Mannanan. They are only the vapours from the + south, creeping along the ridge of our mountains, going north. Is that + enough to know? We know the cold eye of the evil man, whose mere presence + hurts us, and the warm eye of the born physician, whose mere presence + heals us. Does that tell us everything? We hear the moans which the sea + sends up to the mountains, when storms are coming, and ships are to be + wrecked, and we do not call them the voices of the Nightman, but only the + voices of the wind. We have changed the name; but we have taken none of + the mystery and marvel out of the thing itself. It is the Wind for us; it + was the Nightman for our fathers. That is nearly all. The wind bloweth + where it listeth. We are as far off as ever. Our superstitions remain, + only we call them Science, and try not to be afraid of them. But we are as + little children after all, and the best of us are those that, being + wisest, see plainest that, before the wonders and terrors of the great + world we live in, we are children, walking hand-in-hand in fear. + </p> + <p> + MANX STORIES + </p> + <p> + You will say that there ought to be many good stories of a people like the + Manx; and here again I have to confess to you that the absence of all + literary conscience, all perception of keeping and relation, all sense of + harmony and congruity in the Manxman has so demoralised our anecdotal <i>ana</i> + that I hesitate to offer you certain of the best of our Manx yarns from + fear that they may be venerable English, Irish, and Scotch familiars. I + will content myself with a few that bear undoubted Manx lineaments. As an + instance of Manx hospitality, simple and rude, but real and hearty, I + think you would go the world over to match this. The late Rev. Hugh + Stowell Brown, a Manxman, brother of the most famous of living Manxmen, + and himself our North-country Spurgeon, with his wife, his sister, and his + mother, were belated one evening up Baldwin Glen, and stopped at a + farm-house to inquire their way. But the farmer would not hear of their + going a step further. “Aw, nonsense!” he said. “What’s the use of talkin’, + man? You’ll be stoppin’ with us to-night. Aw ‘deed ye will, though. The + women can get along together aisy, and <i>you’re a clane lookin’ sort o’ + chap; you’ll be sleepin’ with me!</i>” + </p> + <p> + In the old days of, say, two steamboats a week to England the old Manx + captains of the Steamboat Company were notorious soakers. There is a story + of one of them who had the Archdeacon of the island aboard in a storm. It + was night. The reverend Archdeacon was in an agony of pain and terror. He + inquired anxiously of the weather. The captain, very drunk, answered, “If + it doesn’t mend we’ll all be in heaven before morning, Archdeacon!” “Oh, + God forbid, captain,” cried the Archdeacon. + </p> + <p> + I have said what true work for religion Nonconformity must have done in + those evil days when the clergy of the Athols were more busy with + backgammon than with theology. But the religion of the old type of Manx + Methodist was often an amusing mixture of puritanism and its opposite, a + sort of grim, white-faced sanctity, that was never altogether free of the + suspicion of a big boisterous laugh behind it. The Methodist local + preachers have been the real guardians and repositories of one side of the + Manx genius, a curious, hybrid thing, deadly earnest, often howlingly + ludicrous, simple, generally sincere, here and there audaciously + hypocritical. Among local preachers I remember some of the sweetest, + purest, truest men that ever walked this world of God; but I also remember + a > man who was brought home from market on Saturday night, dead drunk, + across the bottom of his cart drawn by his faithful horse, and I saw him + in the pulpit next morning, and heard his sermon on the evils of + backsliding. There is a story of the jealousy of two local preachers. The + one went to hear the other preach. The preacher laid out his subject under + a great many heads, firstly, secondly, thirdly, up to tenthly. His rival + down below in the pew spat and <i>haw’d</i> and <i>tchut’d</i> a good + deal, and at last, quite impatient of getting no solid religious food, + cried aloud, “Give us mate, man, give us mate!” Whereupon the preacher + leaned over the pulpit cushion, and said, “Hould on, man, till I’ve done + with the carving.” + </p> + <p> + But to tell of Happy Dan, and his wondrous sermon on the Prodigal Son at + the Clover Stones, Lonan, and his discourse on the swine possessed of + devils who went “triddle-traddle, triddle-traddle down the brews and were + clane drownded;” and of the marvellous account of how King David + remonstrated in broadest Manx <i>patois</i> with the “pozzle-tree,” for + being blown down; and then of the grim earnestness of a good man who could + never preach on a certain text without getting wet through to the + waistcoat with perspiration—to open the flood-gates of this kind of + Manx story would be to liberate a reservoir that would hardly know an end, + so I must spare you. + </p> + <p> + MANX “CHARACTERS” + </p> + <p> + At various points of my narrative I have touched on certain of our + eccentric Manx “characters.” But perhaps more interesting than any such + whom I have myself met with are some whom I have known only by repute. + These children of Nature are after all the truest touchstones of a + nation’s genius. Crooked, distorted, deformed, they nevertheless, and + perhaps therefore, show clearly the bent of their race. If you are without + brake or curb you may be blind, but you must know when you are going down + hill. The curb of education, and the brake of common-sense are the surest + checks on a people’s individuality. And these poor halfwits of the Manx + race, wiser withal than many of the Malvolios who smile on them so + demurely, exhibit the two great racial qualities of the Manx people—the + Celtic and the Norse—in vivid companionship and contrast. It is an + amusing fact that in some wild way the bardic spirit breaks out in all of + them. They are all singers, either of their own songs, or the songs of + others. That surely is the Celtic strain in them. But their songs are + never of the joys of earth or of love, or yet of war; never, like the + rustic poetry of the Scotch, full of pawky humour; never cynical, never + sarcastic; only concerned with the terrors of judgment and damnation and + the place of torment. That, also, may be a fierce and dark development of + the Celtic strain, but I see more of the Norse spirit in it. When my + ancient bard in Glen Rushen took down his thumb-marked, greasy, + discoloured poems from the “lath” against the open-timbered ceiling, and + read them aloud to me in his broad Manx dialect, with a sing-song of voice + and a swinging motion of body, while the loud hailstorm pelted the window + pane and the wind whistled round the house, I found they were all + startling and almost ghastly appeals to the sinner to shun his evil + courses. One of them ran like this: + </p> + <p> + HELL IS HOT. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O sinner, see your dangerous state, + And think of hell ere ‘tis too late; + When worldly cares would drown each thought, + Pray call to mind that hell is hot. + Still to increase your godly fears, + Let this be sounding in your ears, + Still bear in mind that hell is hot, + Remember and forget it not. +</pre> + <p> + There was another poem about a congregation of the dead in the region of + the damned: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I found a reverend parson there, + A congregation too, + Bowed on their bended knees at prayer, + As they were wont to do. + But soon my heart was struck with pain, + I thought it truly odd, + The parson’s prayer did not contain + A word concerning God. +</pre> + <p> + You will remember the Danish book called “Letters from Hell,” containing + exactly the same idea, and conclude that the Manx bard was poking fun at + some fashionable yet worldly-minded preacher. But no; he was too much a + child of Nature for that. + </p> + <p> + There is not much satire in the Manx character, and next to no cynicism at + all. The true Manxman is white-hot. I have heard of one, John Gale, called + the Manx Burns, who lampooned the upstarts about him, and also of one, Tom + the Dipper, an itinerant Manx bard, who sang at fairs; but in a general + way the Manx bard has been a deadly earnest person, most at home in + churchyards. There was one such, akin in character to my old friend Billy + of Maughold, but of more universal popularity, a quite privileged pet of + everybody, a sort of sacred being, though as crazy as man may be, called + Chalse-a-Killey. Chaise was scarcely a bard, but a singer of the songs of + bards. He was a religious monomaniac, who lived before his time, poor + fellow; his madness would not be seen in him now. The idol of his crazed + heart was Bishop Wilson. He called him <i>dear</i> and <i>sweet</i>, vowed + he longed to die, just that he might meet him in heaven; then Wilson would + take him by the hand, and he would tell him all his mind, and together + they would set up a printing press, with the types of diamonds, and print + hymns, and send them back to the Isle of Man. Poor, ‘wildered brain, + haunted by “half-born thoughts,” not all delusions, but quaint and + grotesque. Full of valiant fury, Chaise was always ready to fight for his + distorted phantom of the right. When an uncle of my own died, whose name I + bear, Chaise shocked all the proprieties by announcing his intention of + walking in front of the funeral procession through the streets and singing + his terrible hymns. He would yield to no persuasion, no appeals, and no + threats. He had promised the dead man that he would do this, and he would + not break his oath to save his life. It was agony to the mourners, but + they had to submit. Chaise fulfilled his vow, walked ten yards in front, + sang his fierce music with the tears streaming from his wild eyes down his + quivering face. But the spectacle let loose no unseemly mirth. Nobody + laughed, and surely if the heaven that Chaise feared was listening and + looking down, his crazy voice was not the last to pierce the dome of it. + My friend the Rev. T. E. Brown has written a touching and beautiful poem, + “To Chaise in Heaven”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So you are gone, dear Chaise! + Ah well; it was enough— + The ways were cold, the ways were rough, + O Heaven! O home! + No more to roam, + Chaise, poor Chaise! + And now it’s all so plain, dear Chaise! + So plain— + The ‘wildered brain, + The joy, the pain + The phantom shapes that haunted, + The half-born thoughts that daunted: + All, all is plain, + Dear Chaise! + All is plain. +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah now, dear Chaise! of all the radiant host, + Who loves you most? + I think I know him, kneeling on his knees; + Is it Saint Francis of Assise? + Chaise, poor Chaise. +</pre> + <p> + MANX CHARACTERISTICS + </p> + <p> + I have rambled on too long about my eccentric Manx characters, and left + myself little space for a summary of the soberer Manx characteristics. + These are independence, modesty, a degree of sloth, a non-sanguine + temperament, pride, and some covetousness. This uncanny combination of + characteristics is perhaps due to our mixed Celtic and Norse blood. Our + independence is pure Norse. I have never met the like of it, except in + Norway, where a Bergen policeman who had hunted all the morning for my + lost umbrella would not take anything for his pains; and in Iceland, where + a poor old woman in a ragged woollen dress, a torn hufa on her head, torn + skin shoes on her feet, and with rheumatism playing visible havoc all over + her body, refused a kroner with the dignity, grave look, stiffened lips, + and proud head that would have become a duchess. But the Manxman’s + independence almost reaches a vice. He is so unwilling to owe anything to + any man that he is apt to become self-centred and cold, and to lose one of + the sweetest joys of life—that of receiving great favours from those + we greatly love, between whom and ourselves there is no such thing as an + obligation, and no such thing as a debt. There is something in the + Manxman’s blood that makes him hate rank; and though he has a vast respect + for wealth, it must be his own, for he will take off his hat to nobody + else’s. + </p> + <p> + The modesty of the Manxman reaches shyness, and his shyness is capable of + making him downright rude. One of my friends tells a charming story, very + characteristic of our people, of a conversation with the men of the + herring-fleet. “We were comin’ home from the Shetland fishing, ten boats + of us; and we come to an anchor in a bay. And there was a tremenjis fine + castle there, and a ter’ble great lady. Aw, she was a ter’ble kind lady; + she axed the lot of us (eighty men and boys, eight to each boat) to come + up and have dinner with her. So the day come—well, none of us went! + That shy!” My friend reproved them soundly, and said he wished he knew who + the lady was that he might write to her and apologise. Then followed a + long story of how a breeze sprung up and eight of the boats sailed. After + that the crew of the remaining two boats, sixteen men and boys, went up to + the tremenjis great castle, and the ter’ble great lady, and had tea. If + any lady here present knows a lady on the north-west coast of Scotland who + a year or two back invited eighty Manx men and boys to dinner, and + received sixteen to tea, she will redeem the character of our race if she + will explain that it was not because her hospitality was not appreciated + that it was not accepted by our foolish countrymen. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing that more broadly indicates the Norse strain in the Manx + character than the non-sanguine temperament of the Manxmen. Where the pure + Celt will hope anything and promise everything, the Manxman will hope not + at all and promise nothing. “Middling” is the commonest word in a + Manxman’s mouth. Hardly anything is entirely good, or wholly bad, but + nearly everything is middling. It’s a middling fine day, or a middling + stormy one; the sea is middling smooth or middling rough; the herring + harvest is middling big or middling little; a man is never much more, than + middling tired, or middling well, or middling hungry, or middling thirsty, + and the place you are travelling to is alwaya middling near or middling + far. The true Manxman commits himself to nothing. When Nelson was shot + down at Trafalgar, Cowle, a one-armed Manx quartermaster, caught him in + his remaining arm. This was Cowle’s story: “He fell right into my arms, + sir. ‘Mr. Cowle,’ he says, ‘do you think I shall recover?’ ‘I think, my + lord,’ I says, ‘we had better wait for the opinion of the medical man.’” + Dear old Cowle, that cautious word showed you were no Irishman, but a + downright middling Manxman. + </p> + <p> + I have one more story to tell, and that is of Manx pride, which is a + wondrous thing, usually-very ludicrous. A young farming girl who will go + about barefoot throughout the workdays of the week would rather perish + than not dress in grand attire, after her own sort, on Sunday afternoon. + But Manx pride in dress can be very touching and human. When the + lighthouse was built on the Chickens Rock, the men who were to live in it + were transferred from two old lighthouses on the little islet called the + Calf of Man, but their families were left in the disused lighthouses. Thus + the men were parted from their wives and children, but each could see the + house of the other, and on Sunday mornings the wives in their old + lighthouses always washed and dressed the children and made them “nice” + and paraded them to and fro on the platforms in front of the doors, and + the men in their new lighthouse always looked across the Sound at their + little ones through their powerful telescopes. + </p> + <p> + MANX TYPES + </p> + <p> + Surely that is a lovely story, full of real sweetness and pathos. It + reminds me that amid many half-types of dubious quality, selfish, + covetous, quarrelsome, litigious, there are at least two types of Manx + character entirely charming and delightful. The one is the best type of + Manx seaman, a true son of the sea, full of wise saws and proverbs, full + of long yarns and wondrous adventures, up to anything, down to anything, + pragmatical, a mighty moralist in his way, but none the less equal to a + round ringing oath; a sapient adviser putting on the airs of a + philosopher, but as simple as the baby of a girl—in a word, dear old + Tom Baynes of “Fo’c’s’le Yarns,” old salt, old friend, old rip. The other + type is that of the Manx parish patriarch. This good soul it would be hard + to beat among all the peoples of earth. He unites the best qualities of + both sexes; he is as soft and gentle as a dear old woman, and as firm of + purpose as a strong man. Garrulous, full of platitudes, easily moved to + tears by a story of sorrow and as easily taken in, but beloved and trusted + and reverenced by all the little world about him. I have known him as a + farmer, and seen him sitting at the head of his table in the farm kitchen, + with his sons and daughters and men-servants and women-servants about him, + and, save for ribald gossip, no one of whatever condition abridged the + flow of talk for his presence. I have known him as a parson, when he has + been the father of his parish, the patriarch of his people, the “ould + angel” of all the hillside round about. Such sweetness in his home life, + such nobility, such gentle, old-fashioned ceremoniousness, such delightful + simplicity of manners. Then when two of these “ould angels” met, two of + these Parson Adamses, living in content on seventy pounds a year, such + high talk on great themes, long hour after long hour in the little + low-ceiled Vicarage study, with no light but the wood fire, which + glistened on the diamond window-pane! And when midnight came seeing each + other home, spending half the night walking to and fro from Vicarage to + Vicarage, or turning out to saddle the horse in the field, but (far away + “in wandering mazes lost”) going blandly up to the old cow and putting on + the blinkers and saying, “Here he is, sir.” Have we anything like all this + in England? Their type is nearly extinct even in the Isle of Man, where + they have longest survived. And indeed they are not the only good things + that are dying out there. + </p> + <p> + LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS + </p> + <p> + The island has next to no literary associations, but it would be + unpardonable in a man of letters if he were to forget the few it can + boast. Joseph Train, our historian, made the acquaintance of Scott in + 1814, and during the eighteen years following he rendered important + services to “The Great Unknown” as a collector of some of the legendary + stories used as foundations for what were then called the Scotch Novels. + But it is a common error that Train found the groundwork of the Manx part + of “Peveril of the Peak.” It was Scott who directed Train to the Isle of + Man as a fine subject for study. Scott’s brother Thomas lived there, and + no doubt this was the origin of Scott’s interest in the island. Scott + himself never set foot on it. Wordsworth visited the island about 1823, + and he recorded his impressions in various sonnets, and also in the + magnificent lines on Peel Castle—“I was thy neighbour once, thou + rugged pile.” He also had a relative living there—Miss Hutchinson, + his sister-in-law. A brother of this lady, a mariner, lies buried in + Braddan churchyard, and his tombstone bears an epitaph which Wordsworth + indited. The poet spent a summer at Peel, pitching his tent above what is + now called Peveril Terrace. One of my friends tried long ago to pump up + from this sapless soil some memory of Wordsworth, but no one could + remember anything about him. Shelley is another poet of whom there remains + no trace in the Isle of Man. He visited the island early in 1812, being + driven into Douglas harbour by contrary winds on his voyage from + Cumberland to Ireland. He was then almost unknown; Harriet was still with + him, and his head was full of political reforms. The island was in a state + of some turmoil, owing to the unpopularity of the Athols, who still held + manorial rights and the patronage of the Bishopric. The old Norse + Constitution was intact, and the House of Keys was then a self-elected + chamber. It is not wonderful that Shelley made no impression on Man in + 1812, but it is surprising that Man seems to have made no impression on + Shelley. It made a very sensible impression on Hawthorne, who left his + record in the “English Note Book.” + </p> + <p> + MANX PROGRESS + </p> + <p> + I am partly conscious that throughout these lectures I have kept my face + towards the past. That has been because I have been loth to look at the + present, and almost afraid to peep into the future. The Isle of Man is not + now what it was even five-and-twenty years ago. It has become too English + of late. The change has been sudden. Quite within my own recollection + England seemed so far away that there was something beyond conception + moving and impressive in the effect of it and its people upon the + imagination of the Manx. There were only about two steamers a week between + England and the Isle of Man at that time. Now there are about two a day. + There are lines of railway on this little plot of land, which you might + cross on foot between breakfast and lunch, and cover from end to end in a + good day’s walk. This is, of course, a necessity of the altered + conditions, as also, no doubt, are the parades, and esplanades, and + promenades, and iron piers, and marine carriage drives, and Eiffel Tower, + and old castles turned into Vauxhall Gardens, and fairy glens into “happy + day” Roshervilles. God forbid that I should grudge the factory hand his + breath of the sea and glimpse of the gorse-bushes; but I know what price + we are paying that we may entertain him. + </p> + <p> + Our young Manxman is already feeling the English immigration on his + character. He is not as good a man as his father was before him. I dare + say that in his desire to make everything English that is Manx, he may + some day try to abolish the House of Keys, or at least dig up the Tynwald + Hill. In one fit of intermittent mania, he has already attempted to + “restore” the grand ruins of Peel Castle, getting stones from Whitehaven, + filling up loop-holes, and doing other indecencies with the great works of + the dead. All this could be understood if the young Manxman were likely to + be much the richer for the changes he is bringing about. But he is not; + the money that comes from England is largely taken by English people, and + comes back to England. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONCLUSION + </h2> + <p> + From these ungracious thoughts let me turn again, in a last word, to the + old island itself, the true Mannin-veg-Veen of the real Manxman. In these + lectures you have seen it only as in flashes from a dark lantern. I am + conscious that an historian would have told you so much more of solid fact + that you might have carried away tangible ideas. Fact is not my domain, + and I shall have to be content if in default of it I have got you close to + that less palpable thing, the living heart of Manx-land, shown you our + island, helped you to see its blue waters and to scent its golden gorse, + and to know the Manxman from other men. Sometimes I have been half ashamed + to ask you to look at our countrymen, so rude are they and so primitive—russet-coated, + currane-shod men and women, untaught, superstitious, fishing the sea, + tilling their stony land, playing next to no part in the world, and only + gazing out on it as a mystery far away, whereof the rumour comes over the + great waters. No great man among us, no great event in our history, + nothing to make us memorable. But I have been re-assured when I have + remembered that, after all, to look on a life so simple and natural might + even be a tonic. Here we are in the heart of the mighty world, which the + true Manxman knows only by vague report; millions on millions huddled + together, enough to make five hundred Isles of Man, more than all the + Manxmen that have lived since the days of Orry, more than all that now + walk on the island, added to all that rest under it; streets on streets of + us, parks on parks, living a life that has no touch of Nature in the ways + of it; save only in our own breasts, which often rebel against our + surroundings, struggling with weariness under their artificiality, and the + wild travesty of what we are made for. Do what we will, and be what we + may, sometimes we feel the falseness of our ways of life, and surely it is + then a good and wholesome thing to go back in thought to such children of + Nature as my homespun Manx people, and see them where Nature placed them, + breathing the free air of God’s proper world, and living the right lives + of His servants, though so simple, poor, and rude. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Little Manx Nation - 1891, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE MANX NATION - 1891 *** + +***** This file should be named 25571-h.htm or 25571-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/5/7/25571/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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