But the subject is too much for her, and we land to have a chat with the natives. A deal we get out of them, as we wander, something like the river of the poet—
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.”
They seem to me suspicious and reserved, as the Irishman when at home. We meet one of the natives—an ancient mariner, with a long, grey beard, and glistening eye. He can tell us all about the legends connected with the Well of St. Mary, we are told.
“You have lived here all your life?
“Oh, yes,” replies he, thoughtfully, picking the lower set of left grinders in his mouth.
“And you know the place well?”
“Oh, yes,” says he, commencing picking on the other side of his mouth.
“And you can tell us all about it?”
“Oh, yes, sure,” says he, as he calmly proceeds to pick the remainder of his teeth individually and collectively.
“What about the well—you know that?”