e Manxman commits himself to nothing.
When Nelson was shot down at Trafalgar, Cowle, a one-armed Manx
quartermaster, caught him in his remaining arm. This was Cowle's story:
"He fell right into my arms, sir. 'Mr. Cowle,' he says, 'do you think I
shall recover?' 'I think, my lord,' I says, 'we had better wait for the
opinion of the medical man.'" Dear old Cowle, that cautious word showed
you were no Irishman, but a downright middling Manxman.

I have one more story to tell, and that is of Manx pride, which is a
wondrous thing, usually-very ludicrous. A young farming girl who will go
about barefoot throughout the workdays of the week would rather perish
than not dress in grand attire, after her own sort, on Sunday afternoon.
But Manx pride in dress can be very touching and human. When the
lighthouse was built on the Chickens Rock, the men who were to live in
it were transferred from two old lighthouses on the little islet
called the Calf of Man, but their families were left in the disused
lighthouses. Thus the men were parted from their wives and children, but
each could see the house of the other, and on Sunday mornings the wives
in their old lighthouses always washed and dressed the children and made
them "nice" and paraded them to and fro on the platforms in front of
the doors, and the men in their new lighthouse always looked across the
Sound at their little ones through their powerful telescopes.

MANX TYPES

Surely that is a lovely story, full of real sweetness and pathos.
It reminds me that amid many half-types of dubious quality, selfish,
covetous, quarrelsome, litigious, there are at least two types of Manx
character entirely charming and delightful. The one is the best type of
Manx seaman, a true son of the sea, full of wise saws and proverbs, full
of long yarns and wondrous adventures, up to anything, down to anything,
pragmatical, a mighty moralist in his way, but none the less equal to
a round ringing oath; a sapient adviser putting on the airs of a
philosopher, but as simple as the baby of a girl--in a word, dear old
Tom Baynes of "Fo'c's'le Yarns," old salt, old friend, old rip. The
other type is that of the Manx parish patriarch. This good soul it
would be hard to beat among all the peoples of earth. He unites the best
qualities of both sexes; he is as soft and gentle as a dear old woman,
and as firm of purpose as a strong man. Garrulous, full of platitudes,
easily moved to tears by a story of sorrow a