The curate who has charge of the middle and south islands has a wearisome and dangerous task.  He comes to this island or Inishere on Saturday night—­whenever the sea is calm enough—­and has Mass the first thing on Sunday morning.  Then he goes down fasting and is rowed across to the other island and has Mass again, so that it is about midday when he gets a hurried breakfast before he sets off again for Aranmore, meeting often on both passages a rough and perilous sea.

A couple of Sundays ago I was lying outside the cottage in the sunshine smoking my pipe, when the curate, a man of the greatest kindliness and humour, came up, wet and worn out, to have his first meal.  He looked at me for a moment and then shook his head.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you read your Bible this morning?’

I answered that I had not done so.

‘Well, begod, Mr. Synge,’ he went on, ’if you ever go to Heaven, you’ll have a great laugh at us.’

Although these people are kindly towards each other and to their children, they have no feeling for the sufferings of animals, and little sympathy for pain when the person who feels it is not in danger.  I have sometimes seen a girl writhing and howling with toothache while her mother sat at the other side of the fireplace pointing at her and laughing at her as if amused by the sight.

A few days ago, when we had been talking of the death of President McKinley, I explained the American way of killing murderers, and a man asked me how long the man who killed the President would be dying.

‘While you’d be snapping your fingers,’ I said.

‘Well,’ said the man, ’they might as well hang him so, and not be bothering themselves with all them wires.  A man who would kill a King or a President knows he has to die for it, and it’s only giving him the thing he bargained for if he dies easy.  It would be right he should be three weeks dying, and there’d be fewer of those things done in the world.’

If two dogs fight at the slip when we are waiting for the steamer, the men are delighted and do all they can to keep up the fury of the battle.

They tie down donkeys’ heads to their hoofs to keep them from straying, in a way that must cause horrible pain, and sometimes when I go into a cottage I find all the women of the place down on their knees plucking the feathers from live ducks and geese.

When the people are in pain themselves they make no attempt to hide or control their feelings.  An old man who was ill in the winter took me out the other day to show me how far down the road they could hear him yelling ‘the time he had a pain in his head.’

There was a great storm this morning, and I went up on the cliff to sit in the shanty they have made there for the men who watch for wrack.  Soon afterwards a boy, who was out minding sheep, came up from the west, and we had a long talk.

He began by giving me the first connected account I have had of the accident that happened some time ago, when the young man was drowned on his way to the south island.