he clergy. Again, they
put members of their family into the bishopric, and one of them sold his
tithes to a factor who tried to extort them by strong measures, which
led to green crop riots. In the end, their gross selfishness, which
thought of their own losses but forgot the losses of the people, raised
such open marks of aversion in the island that they finally signified to
the king their desire to sell all their remaining rights, their land
and manorial rights. This they did in 1829, receiving altogether, for
custom, revenue, tithes, patronage of the bishopric, and quit rents,
the sum of L416,000. Such was the value to the last of the Athols of the
Manx dynasty, of that little hungry island of the Irish Sea, which Henry
IV. gave to the Stanleys, and Sir John de Stanley did not think worth
while to look at. So there was an end of the House of Athol. Exit the
House of Athol! The play goes on without them.

HOME RULE

It might be said that with the final sale of 1829 the history of the
Isle of Man came to a close. Since then we have been in the happy
condition of the nation without a history. Man is now a dependency of
the English crown. The crown is represented by a Lieutenant-Governor.
Our old Norse Constitution remains. We have Home Rule, and it works
well. The Manx people are attached to the throne of England, and her
Majesty has not more loyal subjects in her dominions. We are deeply
interested in Imperial affairs, but we have no voice in them. I do not
think we have ever dreamt of a day when we should send representatives
to Westminster. Our sympathies as a nation are not altogether, I think,
with the party of progress. We are devoted to old institutions, and
hold fast to such of them as are our own. All this is, perhaps, what you
would expect of a race of islanders with our antecedents.

Our social history has not been brilliant. I do not gather that the Isle
of Man was ever Merry Man. Not even in its gayest days do we catch any
note of merriment amid the rumpus of its revelries. It is an odd thing
that woman plays next to no part whatever in the history of the island.
Surely ours is the only national pie in which woman has not had a
finger. In this respect the island justifies the ungallant reading of
its name--it is distinctly the Isle of Man. Not even amid the glitter
and gewgaws of our Captain Macheaths do you catch the glint of the gown
of a Polly. No bevy of ladies, no merry parties, no pageants worthy