When I arrived at the Clarence Basin, Liverpool, (the dock Clarence Mangan had his first name from) on my way to Sligo for my holidays I was among Sligo people.  When I was a little boy, an old woman who had come to Liverpool with crates of fowl, made me miserable by throwing her arms around me the moment I had alighted from my cab and telling the sailor who carried my luggage that she had held me in her arms when I was a baby.  The sailor may have known me almost as well, for I was often at Sligo quay to sail my boat; and I came and went once or twice in every year upon the ss. Sligo or the ss. Liverpool which belonged to a company that had for directors my grandfather and his partner William Middleton.  I was always pleased if it was the Liverpool, for she had been built to run the blockade during the war of North and South.

I waited for this voyage always with excitement and boasted to other boys about it, and when I was a little boy had walked with my feet apart as I had seen sailors walk.  I used to be sea-sick, but I must have hidden this from the other boys and partly even from myself; for, as I look back, I remember very little about it, while I remember stories I was told by the captain or by his first mate, and the look of the great cliffs of Donegal & Tory Island men coming alongside with lobsters, talking Irish and, if it was night, blowing on a burning sod to draw our attention.  The captain, an old man with square shoulders and a fringe of grey hair round his face, would tell his first mate, a very admiring man, of fights he had had on shore at Liverpool; and perhaps it was of him I was thinking when I was very small and asked my grandmother if God was as strong as sailors.  Once, at any rate, he had been nearly wrecked; the Liverpool had been all but blown upon the Mull of Galloway with her shaft broken, and the captain had said to his mate, “mind and jump when she strikes, for we don’t want to be killed by the falling spars;” and when the mate answered, “my God, I cannot swim,” he had said, “who could keep afloat for five minutes in a sea like that?” He would often say his mate was the most timid of men and that “a girl along the quays could laugh him out of anything.”  My grandfather had more than once given the mate a ship of his own, but he had always thrown up his berth to sail with his old captain where he felt safe.  Once he had been put in charge of a ship in a dry dock in Liverpool, but a boy was drowned in Sligo, and before the news could reach him he wired to his wife, “ghost, come at once, or I will throw up berth.”  He had been wrecked a number of times and maybe that had broken his nerve or maybe he had a sensitiveness that would in another class have given him taste & culture.  I once forgot a copy of “Count Robert of Paris” on a deck-seat, and when I found it again, it was all covered with the prints of his dirty thumb.  He had once seen the coach-a-baur or death coach.  It came along the road, he said, till it was hidden by a cottage and it never came out on the other side of the cottage.  Once I smelled new-mown hay when we were quite a long way from land, and once when I was watching the sea-parrots (as the sailors call the puffin) I noticed they had different ways of tucking their heads under their wings, or I fancied it and said to the captain “they have different characters.”  Sometimes my father came too, and the sailors when they saw him coming would say “there is John Yeats and we shall have a storm,” for he was considered unlucky.

I no longer cared for little shut-in-places, for a coppice against the stable-yard at Merville where my grandfather lived or against the gable at Seaview where Aunt Micky lived, and I began to climb the mountains, sometimes with the stable-boy for companion, and to look up their stories in the county history.  I fished for trout with a worm in the mountain streams and went out herring-fishing at night:  and because my grandfather had said the English were in the right to eat skates, I carried a large skate all the six miles or so from Rosses Point, but my grandfather did not eat it.

One night just as the equinoctial gales were coming when I was sailing home in the coastguard’s boat a boy told me a beetle of solid gold, strayed maybe from Poe’s “gold bug,” had been seen by somebody in Scotland and I do not think that either of us doubted his news.  Indeed, so many stories did I hear from sailors along the wharf, or round the fo’castle fire of the little steamer that ran between Sligo and Rosses, or from boys out fishing that the world was full of monsters and marvels.  The foreign sailors wearing ear-rings did not tell me stories, but like the fishing boys, I gazed at them in wonder and admiration.  When I look at my brother’s picture, “Memory Harbour,” houses and anchored ship and distant lighthouse all set close together as in some old map, I recognize in the blue-coated man with the mass of white shirt the pilot I went fishing with, and I am full of disquiet and of excitement, and I am melancholy because I have not made more and better verses.  I have walked on Sinbad’s yellow shore and never shall another hit my fancy.

I had still my red pony, and once my father came with me riding too, and was very exacting.  He was indignant and threatening because he did not think I rode well.  “You must do everything well,” he said, “that the Pollexfens respect, though you must do other things also.”  He used to say the same about my lessons, and tell me to be good at mathematics.  I can see now that he had a sense of inferiority among those energetic, successful people.  He himself, some Pollexfen told me, though he rode very badly, would go hunting upon anything and take any ditch.  His father, the County Down Rector, though a courtly man and a scholar, had been so dandified a horseman that I had heard of his splitting three riding breeches before he had settled into his saddle for a day’s hunting, and of his first rector exclaiming, “I had hoped for a curate but they have sent me a jockey.”

Left to myself, I rode without ambition though getting many falls, and more often to Rathbroughan where my great-uncle Mat lived, than to any place else.  His children and I used to sail our toy-boats in the river before his house, arming them with toy-cannon, touch-paper at all the touch-holes, always hoping but always in vain that they would not twist about in the eddies but fire their cannon at one another.  I must have gone to Sligo sometimes in the Christmas holidays, for I can remember riding my red pony to a hunt.  He balked at the first jump, to my relief, and when a crowd of boys began to beat him, I would not allow it.  They all jeered at me for being afraid.  I found a gap and when I was alone in a field tried another ditch, but the pony would not jump that either; so I tied him to a tree and lay down among the ferns and looked up into the sky.  On my way home I met the hunt again and noticed that everybody avoided the dogs, and because I wanted to find out why they did so I rode to where the dogs had gathered in the middle of the lane and stood my pony amongst them, and everybody began to shout at me.

Sometimes I would ride to Castle Dargan, where lived a brawling squireen, married to one of my Middleton cousins, and once I went thither on a visit with my cousin George Middleton.  It was, I dare say, the last household where I could have found the reckless Ireland of a hundred years ago in final degradation.  But I liked the place for the romance of its two ruined castles facing one another across a little lake, Castle Dargan and Castle Fury.  The squireen lived in a small house whither his family had moved from their castle some time in the 18th century, and two old Miss Furys, who let lodgings in Sligo, were the last remnants of the breed of the other ruin.  Once in every year he drove to Sligo for the two old women, that they might look upon the ancestral stones and remember their gentility, and he would put his wildest horses into the shafts to enjoy their terror.

He himself, with a reeling imagination, knew not what he could be at to find a spur for the heavy hours.  The first day I came there, he gave my cousin a revolver, (we were upon the high road,) and to show it off, or his own shooting, he shot a passing chicken; and half an hour later, when he had brought us to the lake’s edge under his castle, now but the broken corner of a tower with a winding stair, he fired at or over an old countryman who was walking on the far edge of the lake.  The next day I heard him settling the matter with the old countryman over a bottle of whiskey, and both were in good humour.  Once he had asked a timid aunt of mine if she would like to see his last new pet, and thereupon had marched a race-horse in through the hall door and round the dining-room table.  And once she came down to a bare table because he had thought it a good joke to open the window and let his harriers eat the breakfast.  There was a current story, too, of his shooting, in the pride of his marksmanship, at his own door with a Martini-Henry rifle till he had shot the knocker off.  At last he quarrelled with my great-uncle William Middleton, and to avenge himself gathered a rabble of wild country-lads and mounted them and himself upon the most broken-down rascally horses he could lay hands on and marched them through Sligo under a land-league banner.  After that, having neither friends nor money, he made off to Australia or to Canada.  I fished for pike at Castle Dargan and shot at birds with a muzzle-loading pistol until somebody shot a rabbit and I heard it squeal.  From that on I would kill nothing but the dumb fish.