thousand years
before, not far from that same place, Orry the Viking came ashore from
Denmark or Norway. And now his Manx sons, still bearing his very name,
Orry, save from the sea the sons of the brethren he left behind, and
down the milky way, whence Orry himself once came, come now to the
Manxmen the thanks and the blessings of their kinsmen, Orry's father's
children.

Such a story as this thrills one to the heart. It links Manxmen to the
great past. What are a thousand years before it? Time sinks away, and
the old sea-warrior seems to speak to us still through the surf of that
storm at Peel.

THE STORY OF THE MANX BISHOPS

Some years ago, in going down the valley of Foxdale, towards the mouth
of Glen Rushen, I lost my way on a rough and unbeaten path under the
mountain called Slieu Whallin. There I was met by a typical old Manx
farmer, who climbed the hillside some distance to serve as my guide.
"Aw, man," said he, "many a Sunday I've crossed these mountains in
snow and hail together." I asked why on Sunday. "You see," said the old
fellow, "I'm one of those men that have been guilty of what St. Paul
calls the foolishness of preaching." It turned out that he was a local
preacher to the Wesleyans, and that for two score years or more, in all
seasons, in all weathers, every Sunday, year in, year out, he had made
the journey from his farm in Foxdale to the western villages of Kirk
Patrick, where his voluntary duty lay. He left me with a laugh and
a cheery word. "Ask again at the cottage at the top of the brew," he
shouted. "An ould widda lives there with her gel." At the summit of the
hill, just under South Barrule, with Cronk-ny-arrey-Lhaa to the west, I
came upon a disused lead mine, called the old Cross Vein, its shaft open
save for a plank or two thrown across it, and filled with water almost
to the surface of the ground. And there, under the lee of the roofless
walls of the ruined engine-house, stood the tiny one-story cottage where
I had been directed to inquire my way again. I knocked, and then saw the
outer conditions of an existence about as miserable as the mind of man
can conceive. The door was opened by a youngish woman, having a thin,
white face, and within the little house an elderly woman was breaking
scraps of vegetables into a pot that swung from a hook above a handful
of turf fire, which burned on the ground. They were the widow and
daughter. Their house consisted of two rooms, a living room