1.  “When the sun was jus’ puttin’ on his shoes” (morning),

for which I instantly seemed to discover a parallel—­to wit: 

    “Sthreelin’ oft his golden stockings” (the sun again, evening).

    2.  “Jus’ rags tore off the Divil’s ould shirt” (=witches’ charms, or
    spells).

There will be a very good witch in this poem, I promise you:  look out! ——­[2] are sounding me about “The Doctor";...  They would try to make it a popular book.  The others tried to make it a drawing-room book, with the result that the few purchasers thereof hid it somewhere behind their book-shelves, and even there trembled for the morals of the housemaids....

* * * * *

We went into the church, and sat at a long service.  The curate preached on Judas Iscariot; the vicar conducted a service in the churchyard.  “Judas did this, Judas thought that”; then from the churchyard, in stentorian chorus, “Crown Him! crown Him! crown Him! crown Him Lord of all.”  Thus, you see, there was an element of the comic; but how, how sad it was to me, how incomprehensible!  Verily, I am left behind; I can’t, after all these years, adjust myself to the dimensions of such a change.  The people behaved better than they used to do in our time; but the numbers! the systematisation! the total absence of the native population! the show atmosphere! the “Walk up, gentlemen” style of thing!  Over all this Vanity Fair the dear old bells rang out precisely as of old....

* * * * *

Yesterday, at the Kerroo-Kiel, I met a delightfully bright and witty man.  He soon got to know who I was, and we had the most glorious talk.  The mischief of it is that these worthies are only too glad to get into a coosh with you, and they would talk all day, leaving a spade, or forsaking plough and horses to lean over a hedge, leaning on something at any rate, and talking away.  Their talk is bright, aimless, rambling, not without dives into the depths, and pokes into your personality, above all, engouement the most absolute, and desire of intercommunication the most insatiable.  And you are up on the mountain-side at the farther limit of plough-range, and the wind whistles just the right sort of accompaniment to such talk.

I think I must have a sail here.  But, do you know? the Manx seamen and fishermen tend to become self-conscious:  the “strangers” are spoiling them.  Not so the farmer; of course no one can make him understand that the visitors do him any good by raising the prices of his produce, so he cares very little about them, and in no way guides himself according to them or their fashions.  So far as the outer world comes to him, it is by the channel of the newspapers.  He has all the boundless curiosity, the thirst for knowledge miscellaneous, pulpy, and piquant, which characterise those that dwell remote.  When he gets hold of you he flies