In Wicklow and West Kerry — John Stuart Mill — John Shaqi
In Wicklow and West Kerry
John Stuart Mill · en
For I do not know how long we sat glaring at each other, and gasping
painfully. Then by degrees I began to upbraid him in a whisper for
coming over a person's wall to steal his apples, when he was such a
fine, well-dressed, grownup young man. I could see that he was in
mortal dread that I might have him up in the police courts, which I
had no intention of doing, and when I finally asked him his name and
address he invented a long story of how he lived six miles away, and
had come over to this neighbourhood for Mass and to see a friend,
and then how he had got a drought upon him, and thought an apple
would put him in spirits for his walk home. Then he swore he would
never come over the wall again if I would let him off, and that he
would pray God to have mercy on me when my last hour was come. I
felt sure his whole story was a tissue of lies, and I did not want
him to have the crow of having taken me in. 'There is a woman
belonging to the place,' I said, 'inside in the house helping the
girl to cook the dinner. Walk in now with me, and we'll see if
you're such a stranger as you'd have me think.' He looked infinitely
troubled, but I took him by the neck and wrist and we set off for
the gate. When we had gone a pace or two he stopped. 'I beg your
pardon,' he said, 'my cap's after falling down on the over side of
the wall. May I cross over and get it?' That was too much for me.
'Well, go on,' I said, 'and if ever I catch you again woe betide
you.' I let him go then, and he rushed madly over the wall and
disappeared. A few days later I discovered, not at all to my
surprise, that he lived half a mile away, and was intimately related
to a small boy who came to the house every morning to run messages
and clean the boots. Yet it must not be thought that this young man
was dishonest; I would have been quite ready the next day to trust
him with a ten-pound note.
Glencree
THIS morning the air is clear, and there is a trace of summer again.
I am sitting in a nook beside the stream from the Upper Lake, close
down among the heather and bracken and rushes. I have seen the
people going up to Mass in the Reformatory, and the valley seems
empty of life.