Now I hear the clatter of horses' feet upon the road behind me, and a car comes up to the door of the hotel, laden with a company of young men, who are evidently "in great spirits." They have, very likely, come across the island from Douglas, making a call or two on the way. If one may measure their enjoyment by the noise they make, they certainly ought to be very happy. They alight and enter the hotel, whilst the car is taken round to the stable yard; and, in a few minutes, I hear a good deal more bell-ringing in the Falcon's Nest.
But who is this strange, gaunt fellow, that comes paddling barefoot up the slope, from the low part of the village, muttering to himself as he gazes vaguely around. It is poor Johnny Daly, the affectionate, lunatic youth, who wanders over hill and dale, in all weathers, harmless and happy in his unconscious helplessness. He is a tall, strong, young man; but quite a child in affectionate simplicity. Poor Johnny! He is only "mad nor-nor-west," after all. If he knows you, he either likes you well, or he doesn't like you at all. If he takes to you, he comes quietly up, and flutters about you like a pet dove with a broken wing; croodling all sorts of inarticulate kindnesses in a touching and not very demonstrative way; except that, now and then, as he listens to your talk—no matter what you are talking of, nor how badly—he suddenly clasps his hands and laughs boisterously; as if he had just discovered a great joke in the matter. If he likes you, he will sit down upon the grass beside you, quietly crooning some wild fragment of old Manx song, and looking slyly up into your face from time to time; unless he chances to spy the landlord of the hotel, or the owner of the one mansion at Port Erin. If he sees either of these anywhere about, it is a thousand to one that he will immediately leave you to your own devices and desires, for the poor fellow knows who is kind to him a great deal better than some of us do who think that we have all our wits about us. Poor Johnny! He is fond of a penny, like most of the world; and he needs it more than some people do; although He "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" has scattered a few kind hearts about the wanderer's way that will not see him want for any needful thing. But I have seen people that Johnny would not accept a penny from; and I have many a time wondered at the curious principle of selection which seemed to lurk in some corner of his disordered mind. I remember a little excursion we made, one fine summer's day, over the mountain on the south side of Port Erin, and among the wild cliffs, near the Sound, which divides the Isle of Man from The Calf. It was a company of six; and amongst them was the landlord of the hotel—a kind-hearted and intelligent Englishman. Johnny followed him, barefoot, all the rugged way, with the affectionate instinct of a faithful dog. As we returned homeward, by wandering, and sometimes dangerous tracks, along the edge of the precipices, on the south side of the bay—where the sea roared and dashed majestically among lonely creeks two or three hundred feet below, and the cormorant and seagull wheeled about the dark crags, and screamed with delight in the breeze, half-way down between us and the water—our host disappeared from the company for a little while, in search of something among the rocks, whilst Johnny was picking his way carefully up the prickly path ahead. Turning round, Johnny missed his friend; and after he had looked for him again and again through the company, and all over the scene, he sat himself down amongst the heather, and gazing quietly at the blue sea, he murmured, in a plaintive tone, "Now, he is gone! He is gone!" ... In a minute or two, he kneeled down among the heather, and, clasping his hands, like a child at its mother's knee, he muttered a few broken sentences of the Lord's prayer, and then he sat down and gazed silently at the sea again. And we could not get him to rise, until his friend reappeared from behind a rock; when he instantly rose and clapped his great brown hands, and trotted after us, with painful steps, through the prickly bush, stopping, now and then, to laugh aloud.... Poor Johnny! As he comes paddling up the road from the village, he hears the voice of the landlord, who is talking to the ostler at the house end; and away he goes, in full trot, towards his friend, with whom he is a great favourite.
And now, mild evening begins to draw her delicate curtains over the drowsy world. All things below the sky are softening into shade; and the pensive spell deepens the charm that pervades this sleepy seaside nook of "Mona the lone, where the silver mist gathers." The quiet life of the village is sinking to repose. Barefooted lasses are fetching water from the ancient well of Saint Catherine,—a beautiful spring, at the foot of the sandy slope at the head of the bay; and an object of great veneration to the inhabitants of the island. Lovers are stealing off to quiet nooks outside the village; where they can whisper unseen. Boats are coming in from the Sound, and from the blue sea beyond. The fishermen haul them ashore in a sheltered shingly nook, under the craggy southern cliffs; and then they saunter homeward along the smooth beach, laden with fish and fishing tackle; some of them singing drowsily, as they saunter along. The murmurs of the sea become more distinct, filling all the air with a slumbrous influence.... Now the fisher's wife beets up her cottage fire, sweeps the hearth, and puts the kettle on, to cheer her sea-beaten mate on his return from the wild waters; and, here and there, fresh smoke is rising again from cottage chimneys; bluer and more briskly than in the glowing afternoon.... The old fisherman and his village companions are mustering upon the grass at the end of the terrace again. He has long since finished the story about his adventure with the fairies among the mountains; and he has been carousing with his comrades in the taproom of the Falcon's Nest. They have brought another pitcher of "jough" out with them. And, listen! They are beginning to sing, in chorus, the plaintive old Manx song, called "Molly Charrane!" The strange melody floats up, weird and sweet, blending beautifully with the murmurs of the rising tide, and waking up remembrances of the wild history and wilder legends of "Mona's fairy isle." The broad glare of day is gone. The air is clearer; the green fields look greener; and the hues of the landscape are richer and more distinct than before. The sun has "steeped his glowing axle" in the sea. The gorgeous hues which linger over his track still glow upon the wide waters; but "the line of light that plays along the smooth wave toward the burning west," is slowly retiring in the wake of the sunken sun. Let me look out, while there is yet light, for the eye has glorious scope to roam in, from the place where I am sitting.... At the head of the bay—the scattered village; and the green land—green all along the slopes of the hills, and all over the fertile undulant plain between, stretching away inland, towards Castletown. It is a pleasant nook of seaside life, at the head of the bay. But, as I look seaward, the flanking headlands grow wilder as they recede, ending in scenes of savage grandeur among the storm-worn crags which front the open sea.
The cliffs and promontories there,
Front to front, and broad and bare,
Each beyond each, with giant feet
Advancing, as in haste to meet.
The shattered fortress, whence the Dane
Blew his loud blast, and rushed in vain,
Tyrant of the drear domain.
Those grim sentinels have seen strange scenes of storm, and battle, and shipwreck, during their long watch over the entrance to Port Erin. Oft has the ancient Dane steered his "nailed bark," laden with sea-robbers, into that little bay; and he has oft been wrecked upon that craggy coast. Spanish Head overfrowned the destruction of part of the great Armada. One of the guns of that armament now lies upon the terrace in front of the hotel at Port Erin; thickly encrusted with rust. Many a noble ship has gone down in the Sound between the Island and the Calf of Man.... As twilight deepens down, the breeze freshens, and the blue waves begin to heave with life. Great white-winged ships glide majestically by—some near, some far off; and some almost lost to sight in the distance. Far away, in the west, the outlines of the mountains of Morne and Wicklow are fading away from view. It is a bewitching hour! It is a bewitching scene! But now the Irish mountains have disappeared in the shade; and the distant sea grows dim to the eye. The village about me is sinking to rest; and candle-lights begin to glimmer through cottage windows. The old fisherman and his companions have gone back into the taproom of the Falcon's Nest. The wind is rising still; and the air grows cold. I, too, will retire until the world has donned its night-dress; and so good-by to this fairy scene for a while! The moon rises at ten! Perhaps I may come forth to look around me once more, when the world lies sleeping beneath her quiet smile. If not, then farewell to thee, Port Erin!
When scenes less beautiful attract my gaze,
I shall recall thy quiet loveliness;
When harsher tones are round me, I shall dream
Of those mysterious notes, whose thrilling sounds
Peopled the solitude
