Unless he is under the influence of a
passion which is as irresponsible as a storm on the sea. If a man
has killed his father, and is already sick and broken with remorse,
they can see no reason why he should be dragged away and killed by
the law.
Such a man, they say, will be quiet all the rest of his life, and if
you suggest that punishment is needed as an example, they ask,
'Would any one kill his father if he was able to help it?'
Some time ago, before the introduction of police, all the people of
the islands were as innocent as the people here remain to this day.
I have heard that at that time the ruling proprietor and magistrate
of the north island used to give any man who had done wrong a letter
to a jailer in Galway, and send him off by himself to serve a term
of imprisonment.
As there was no steamer, the ill-doer was given a passage in some
chance hooker to the nearest point on the mainland. Then he walked
for many miles along a desolate shore till he reached the town. When
his time had been put through he crawled back along the same route,
feeble and emaciated, and had often to wait many weeks before he
could regain the island. Such at least is the story.
It seems absurd to apply the same laws to these people and to the
criminal classes of a city. The most intelligent man on Inishmaan
has often spoken to me of his contempt of the law, and of the
increase of crime the police have brought to Aranmor. On this
island, he says, if men have a little difference, or a little fight,
their friends take care it does not go too far, and in a little time
it is forgotten. In Kilronan there is a band of men paid to make out
cases for themselves; the moment a blow is struck they come down and
arrest the man who gave it. The other man he quarreled with has to
give evidence against him; whole families come down to the court and
swear against each other till they become bitter enemies. If there
is a conviction the man who is convicted never forgives. He waits
his time, and before the year is out there is a cross summons, which
the other man in turn never forgives. The feud continues to grow,
till a dispute about the colour of a man's hair may end in a murder,
after a year's forcing by the law. The mere fact that it is
impossible to get reliable evidence in the island - not because the
people are dishonest, but because they think the claim of kinship
more sacred than the claims of abstract truth - turns the whole
system of sworn evidence into a demoralising farce, and it is easy
to believe that law dealings on this false basis must lead to every
sort of injustice.
While I am discussing these questions with the old men the curaghs
begin to come in with cargoes of salt, and flour, and porter.
To-day a stir was made by the return of a native who had spent five
years in New York. He came on shore with half a dozen people who had
been shopping on the mainland, and walked up and down on the slip in
his neat suit, looking strangely foreign to his birthplace, while
his old mother of eighty-five ran about on the slippery seaweed,
half crazy with delight, telling every one the news.
When the curaghs were in their places the men crowded round him to
bid him welcome. He shook hands with them readily enough, but with
no smile of recognition.
He is said to be dying.
Yesterday - a Sunday - three young men rowed me over to Inisheer, the
south island of the group.
The stern of the curagh was occupied, so I was put in the bow with
my head on a level with the gunnel. A considerable sea was running
in the sound, and when we came out from the shelter of this island,
the curagh rolled and vaulted in a way not easy to describe.
At one moment, as we went down into the furrow, green waves curled
and arched themselves above me; then in an instant I was flung up
into the air and could look down on the heads of the rowers, as if
we were sitting on a ladder, or out across a forest of white crests
to the black cliff of Inishmaan.
The men seemed excited and uneasy, and I thought for a moment that
we were likely to be swamped. In a little while, however I realised
the capacity of the curagh to raise its head among the waves, and
the motion became strangely exhilarating. Even, I thought, if we
were dropped into the blue chasm of the waves, this death, with the
fresh sea saltness in one's teeth, would be better than most deaths
one is likely to meet.
When we reached the other island, it was raining heavily, so that we
could not see anything of the antiquities or people.
For the greater part of the afternoon we sat on the tops of empty
barrels in the public-house, talking of the destiny of Gaelic. We
were admitted as travellers, and the shutters of the shop were
closed behind us, letting in only a glimmer of grey light, and the
tumult of the storm. Towards evening it cleared a little and we came
home in a calmer sea, but with a dead head-wind that gave the rowers
all they could do to make the passage.
On calm days I often go out fishing with Michael.
