I have come out of an hotel full of tourists and commercial travelers, to stroll along the edge of Galway bay, and look out in the direction of the islands.  The sort of yearning I feel towards those lonely rocks is indescribably acute.  This town, that is usually so full of wild human interest, seems in my present mood a tawdry medley of all that is crudest in modern life.  The nullity of the rich and the squalor of the poor give me the same pang of wondering disgust; yet the islands are fading already and I can hardly realise that the smell of the seaweed and the drone of the Atlantic are still moving round them.

One of my island friends has written to me:—­

Dear John Synge,—­I am for a long time expecting a letter from you and I think you are forgetting this island altogether.

Mr.—­died a long time ago on the big island and his boat was on anchor in the harbour and the wind blew her to Black Head and broke her up after his death.

Tell me are you learning Irish since you went.  We have a branch of the Gaelic League here now and the people is going on well with the Irish and reading.

I will write the next letter in Irish to you.  Tell me will you come to see us next year and if you will you’ll write a letter before you.  All your loving friends is well in health.—­Mise do chara go huan.

Another boy I sent some baits to has written to me also, beginning his letter in Irish and ending it in English:—­

Dear John,—­I got your letter four days ago, and there was pride and joy on me because it was written in Irish, and a fine, good, pleasant letter it was.  The baits you sent are very good, but I lost two of them and half my line.  A big fish came and caught the bait, and the line was bad and half of the line and the baits went away.  My sister has come back from America, but I’m thinking it won’t be long till she goes away again, for it is lonesome and poor she finds the island now.—­I am your friend. ...

Write soon and let you write in Irish, if you don’t I won’t look on it.

Part II

The evening before I returned to the west I wrote to Michael—­who had left the islands to earn his living on the mainland—­to tell him that I would call at the house where he lodged the next morning, which was a Sunday.

A young girl with fine western features, and little English, came out when I knocked at the door.  She seemed to have heard all about me, and was so filled with the importance of her message that she could hardly speak it intelligibly.

‘She got your letter,’ she said, confusing the pronouns, as is often done in the west, ’she is gone to Mass, and she’ll be in the square after that.  Let your honour go now and sit in the square, and Michael will find you.’

As I was returning up the main street I met Michael wandering down to meet me, as he had got tired of waiting.