Some ten or fifteen years ago there lived, in the neighbourhood of Bannow, a long, lean, solitary man, known by no other appellation, that ever I heard of, than that of “Jack the Shrimp.” He was a wild, desolate looking creature; black, lank hair fell over his face and shoulders, and either rested in straight lines on his pale, hollow cheeks, or waved gloomily in the passing breeze; his eyes were deep-set and dark; and there was something almost mysterious in his deportment. Some persons imagined him to be an idiot; but others, who knew Jack better, asserted that his intellects were of a superior order; however, as few enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance, the former opinion prevailed. Jack could be found everywhere, except in a dwelling-house; he had a singular antipathy to dry or sheltered abodes, and never appeared at home except when on the rocky seashore, scrambling up the cliffs, or, in clear weather, looking out for the scattered vessels that passed into Waterford harbour. Nobody seemed to know how he came to our isolated neighbourhood; his first appearance had created a good deal of village gossip, but that had gone by, and his gentle and kindly manner endeared him to the peasantry: the affectionate greeting of “God save ye!” – “God save ye kindly!” was frequently exchanged between the solitary shrimp-gatherer (for such was Jack's ostensible employment), and the merry “boys and girls,” who, at all seasons, collect sea-weed, and burn it into kelp, on the sea-shore. Often have I seen him in the early morning, at low water, his bare, lank legs tramping over the moist sand, or midway in the rippling wave; his pole, some six feet long – the net full of shrimps at one end, and the heavy hook at the other, balancing it over one shoulder – while from the opposite were suspended two wicker-baskets, frequently filled with lobsters, or smaller shell fish, which he contrived to hook out of their holes with extraordinary dexterity.