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56 pages

English

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Many of Hall Caine's most popular novels are set on or near the Isle of Man, and he was fiercely proud of his Manx cultural heritage. This volume collects the texts of a series of lectures Caine gave at the Royal Institution in Liverpool about the history and culture of the Isle of Man and its inhabitants.

Sujets

Histoire

History

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 avril 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776598052
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE LITTLE MANX NATION
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HALL CAINE

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The Little Manx Nation First published in 1891 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-805-2 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-806-9 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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The Story of the Manx Kings The Story of the Manx Bishops The Story of the Manx People Endnotes
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To the REVEREND T. S. BROWN, M.A.
You see what I send you—my lectures at the Royal Institution in theSpring. In making a little book of them I have thought it best toleave them as they were delivered, with all the colloquialisms that arenatural to spoken words frankly exposed to cold print. This does nothelp them to any particular distinction as literature, but perhaps itlends them an ease and familiarity which may partly atone to you and toall good souls for their plentiful lack of dignity. I have said so oftenthat I am not an historian, that I ought to add that whatever historylies hidden here belongs to Train, our only accredited chronicler,and, even at the risk of bowing too low, I must needs protest, in ournorth-country homespun, that he shall have the pudding if he willalso take the pudding-bag. You know what I mean. At some points ourhistory—especially our early history—is still so vague, so dubious,so full of mystery. It is all the fault of little Mannanan, our ancientManx magician, who enshrouded our island in mist. Or should I say itis to his credit, for has he not left us through all time some shadowyfigures to fight about, like "rael, thrue, reg'lar" Manxmen. As for thestories, the "yarns" that lie like flies—like blue-bottles, like bees,I trust not like wasps—in the amber of the history, you will see thatthey are mainly my own. On second thought it occurs to me that maybethey are mainly yours. Let us say that they are both yours and mine,or perhaps, if the world finds anything good in them, any humour, anypathos, any racy touches of our rugged people, you will permit me todetermine their ownership in the way of this paraphrase of Coleridge'sdoggerel version of the two Latin hexameters—
"They're mine and they are likewise yours, But an if that will not do, Let them be mine, good friend! for I Am the poorer of the two."
Hawthorns, Keswick, June 1891.
The Story of the Manx Kings
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There are just two ideas which are associated in the popular imaginationwith the first thought of the Isle of Man. The one is that Manxmen havethree legs, and the other that Manx cats have no tails. But whateverthe popular conception, or misconception, of Man and its people, I shallassume that what you ask from me is that simple knowledge of simplethings which has come to me by the accident of my parentage. I mustconfess to you at the outset that I am not much of a hand at gravehistory. Facts and figures I cannot expound with authority. But I knowthe history of the Isle of Man, can see it clear, can see it whole, andperhaps it will content you if I can show you the soul of it and makeit to live before you. In attempting to traverse the history I feel likeone who carries a dark lantern through ten dark centuries. I turn thebull's eye on this incident and that, take a peep here and there, awhite light now, and then a blank darkness. Those ten centuries arefull of lusty fights, victories, vanquishments, quarrels, peacemaking,shindies big and little, rumpus solemn and ridiculous, clouds of dust,regal dust, political dust, and religious dust—you know the way of it.But beneath it all and behind it all lies the real, true, living humanheart of Manxland. I want to show it to you, if you will allow me tospare the needful time from facts and figures. It will get you close toMan and its people, and it is not to be found in the history books.
ISLANDERS
And now, first, we Manxmen are islanders. It is not everybody who liveson an island that is an islander. You know what I mean. I mean by anislander one whose daily life is affected by the constant presence ofthe sea. This is possible in a big island if it is far enough away fromthe rest of the world, Iceland, for example, but it is inevitable in alittle one. The sea is always present with Manxmen. Everything they do,everything they say, gets the colour and shimmer of the sea. The seagoes into their bones, it comes out at their skin. Their talk is full ofit. They buy by it, they sell by it, they quarrel by it, they fight byit, they swear by it, they pray by it. Of course they are not consciousof this. Only their degenerate son, myself to wit, a chiel among themtakin' notes, knows how the sea exudes from the Manxmen. Say you ask ifthe Governor is at home. If he is not, what is the answer? "He's not onthe island, sir." You inquire for the best hotel. "So-and-so is thebest hotel on the island, sir." You go to a Manx fair and hear a farmerselling a cow. "Aw," says he, "she's a ter'ble gran' craythuer formilkin', sir, and for butter maybe there isn' the lek of her on theisland, sir." Coming out of church you listen to the talk of two oldManxwomen discussing the preacher. "Well, well, ma'am, well, well! Aw,the voice at him! and the prayers! and the beautiful texes! There isn'the lek of him on the island at all, at all!" Always the island, theisland, the island, or else the boats, and going out to the herrings.The sea is always present. You feel it, you hear it, you see it, you cannever forget it. It dominates you. Manxmen are all sea-folk.
You will think this implies that Manxmen stick close to their island.They do more than that. I will tell you a story. Five years ago I wentup into the mountains to seek an old Manx bard, last of a race of whom Ishall have something to tell you in their turn. All his life he had beena poet. I did not gather that he had read any poetry except his own. Upto seventy he had been a bachelor. Then this good Boaz had lit on hisRuth and married, and had many children. I found him in a lonely glen,peopled only in story, and then by fairies. A bare hill side, not a bushin sight, a dead stretch of sea in front, rarely brightened by a sail. Ihad come through a blinding hail-storm. The old man was sitting in thechimney nook, a little red shawl round his head and knotted under hischin. Within this aureole his face was as strong as Savonarola's, longand gaunt, and with skin stretched over it like parchment. He was nohermit, but a farmer, and had lived on that land, man and boy, nearlyninety years. He had never been off the island, and had strange notionsof the rest of the world. Talked of England, London, theatres, palaces,king's entertainments, evening parties. He saw them all through themists of rumour, and by the light of his Bible. He had strange notions,some of them bad shots for the truth, some of them startlingly true. Idare not tell you what they were. A Royal Institution audience wouldbe aghast. They had, as a whole, a strong smell of sulphur. But the oldbard was not merely an islander, he belonged to his land more than hisland belonged to him. The fishing town nearest to his farm was Peel, thegreat fishing centre on the west coast. It was only five miles away.I asked how long it was since he had been there? "Fifteen years," heanswered. The next nearest town was the old capital, on the east coast,Castletown, the home of the Governor, of the last of the Manx lords, theplace of the Castle, the Court, the prison, the garrison, the College.It was just six miles away. How long was it since he had been there?"Twenty years." The new capital, Douglas, the heart of the island, itspoint of touch with the world, was nine miles away. How long since hehad been in Douglas? "Sixty years," said the old bard. God bless him,the sweet, dear old soul! Untaught, narrow, self-centred, bred on hisbyre like his bullocks, but keeping his soul alive for all that, caringnot a ha'porth for the things of the world, he was a true Manxman, andI'm proud of him. One thing I have to thank him for. But for him, andthe like of him, we should not be here to-day. It is not the culturedManxman, the Manxman that goes to the ends of the earth, that makes theManx nation valuable to study. Our race is what it is by virtue ofthe Manxman who has had no life outside Man, and so has kept alive ourlanguage, our customs, our laws and our patriarchal Constitution.
OUR ISLAND
It lies in the middle of the Irish Sea, at about equal distances fromEngland, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Seen from the sea it is a lovelything to look upon. It never fails to bring me a thrill of the heart asit comes out of the distance. It lies like a bird on the waters. Yousee it from end to end, and from water's edge to topmost peak, oftenenshrouded in mists, a dim ghost on a grey sea; sometimes purple againstthe setting sun. Then as you sail up to it, a rugged rocky coast, grandin its beetling heights on the south and west, and broken into thesweetest bays everywhere. The water clear as crystal and blue as the skyin summer. You can see the shingle and the moss through many fathoms.Then mountains within, not in peaks, but round foreheads. The colour ofthe island is green and gold; its flavour is that of a nut. Both colourand flavour come of the gorse. This covers the mountains and moorlands,for, except on the north, the island has next to no trees. But O, thebeauty and delight of it in the Spring! Long, broad stretches glitteringunder the sun with the gold of the gorse, and all the air full of thenutty perfume. There is nothing like it in the world. Then the glens,su