heard from a party of Orientals I was travelling with
in a third-class carriage from Paris to Dieppe, but the islander ran
his voice over a much wider range.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wind was in our favour, so the sail was put up and Michael sat
in the