ature herself is
beautiful or strange until man tampers with her.

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: _Booildooholly_ (Black fold of the wood), _Douglas_
(Black stream), _Soderick_ (South creek), _Trollaby_ (Troll's farm),
_Gansy_ (Magic isle), _Cronk-y-Clagh Bane_ (Hill of the white stone),
_Cronk-ny-hey_ (Hill of the grave), _Cronk-ny-arrey-lhaa_ (Hill of the
day watch).

MANX IMAGINATION

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.

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 letter