Chambers's journal of popular literature, science, and art, fifth series, no. 119, vol. III, April 4, 1886

Speaking with us of the changeable weather, an old Irishman suddenly
exclaimed: ‘May the blessed Son of the Holy Virgin have mercy on our
sowls! but we’re never continted. When it is wit, we wish it dry;
and when it is dry, we wish it wit.’ On entering their cabins, it is
considered good ‘form’ to say: ‘God preserve all in this house;’ and
the response is: ‘Thank ye kindly, sir (or lady); may God preserve ye
long!’

Life with the Irish crofter is reduced to its very simplest elements.
In summer he dawdles through a few months’ work; and in winter he chews
the cud of his summer’s exertions. Sundays and saints’ days alone vary
the monotony of his year. He is a most devout and regular attender
of all religious ordinances; and no state of the weather will keep
him from eight o’clock mass of a Sunday morning. When second mass is
over, he gives himself up to secular enjoyment with a freedom unknown
across the Channel. Sunday afternoon, indeed, is the period when his
spirits are at their best, and according as his humour is for drinking,
or sport, or argument, allows them their fullest scope. In the part
of Ireland of which we are speaking, drunkenness is certainly rarer
than in most parts of England and Scotland. This may be partly due to
greater moderation, but it may also be attributed to the drink most
largely patronised. This beverage is known as ‘Clonakilty porter,’ a
drink famous throughout all this part of the country. It is the very
cheapest of all spirituous liquors, and probably the most innocuous.
It would overtax ordinary powers of credence to specify the quantity
disposed of at one bout by an ordinary man or woman—for the women have
a pronounced liking for this particular beverage. The potato diet,
though one would not think it, is said to account for this abnormal
drinking capacity; and some explanation is certainly needed.

The parish priest is, of course, the central figure of every
neighbourhood. As far as an outsider may judge, the relations of
priest and parishioner would appear to be of the most cordial nature.
The kindly feeling is doubtless fostered by the fact that the priests
as a class come of the small farmers of the country. Their own early
training, therefore, expressly fits them for dealing with their people.
It cannot be gainsaid that the priests as a body look exceedingly good
fellows, and invariably have that prosperous appearance that betokens
happy relations with ourselves and others. During our stay in Leap,
we witnessed a very pleasing proof of this mutual good understanding
between the priest and his people. The priest of the village was
returning from a holiday in England, and his parishioners took the
opportunity of showing their esteem and affection for him. The houses
of the village were all decked with flowers, and flags suspended across
the streets bearing various inscriptions in English and Irish, such
as, ‘Welcome home, our worthy priest,’ &c. As the reverend gentleman
approached, he was met by a large body of his people on foot, on
donkeys, on horses, and in cars. His horse was taken out of the traces,
and his vehicle drawn into the village by a number of young men amid
immense enthusiasm of the entire population. At night, the village was
brilliantly illuminated, a candle being set in every pane, and paper
lanterns suspended at various corners of the street. Later, a burning
tar-barrel was borne through the street, the priest himself heading the
procession; and the proceedings closed by his addressing his assembled
flock from his own doorstep. Judged by the frequent and obstreperous
applause of his hearers, his address would seem to have met their
fervent approval. It is only in political demonstrations that Scotsmen
exhibit similar unanimity; and the entire proceedings seemed in our
Scottish eyes a pleasant novelty in things religious.

Few of the people in the district have been beyond their native parish,
and the priest is for the majority of them the reservoir of all secular
as well as spiritual knowledge. He conveys instruction to them on all
subjects, and on Sundays often closes his ministrations with hints of
practical bearing on their temporal concerns. During one of the weeks
of our stay in the neighbourhood, a mad dog got at large, and wrought
considerable mischief on man and beast. Indeed, the achievements of
this dog would furnish material for a history of some length. On
Sunday, after the celebration of mass, the priest made reference to
the wonderful doings of this dog. He began by saying that if any one
had a dog that should go mad, his best plan was at once to shoot it;
and he proceeded to explain minutely the various methods of treating a
bitten person. This reference to the event of the week was evidently
taken quite as a matter of course; and one could easily gather that the
importance of local events is measured by the style of the priest’s
reference to them on Sundays.

The old Irish style of conducting funerals is still in vogue in this
district, though among the more respectable classes it is falling into
disuse. During our stay, we saw one of these old-fashioned funerals.
Heading the procession was a dogcart with the driver and the priest—the
priest, of course, intricately enwrapt in white linen, of which, by
the way, he usually receives a fresh suit from the relatives of the
deceased. Then followed a common cart strewn with straw, containing the
coffin and the chief mourner, who on this occasion was a woman. She was
clad in the ordinary dress of her class; and with hood drawn closely
over her face and chin resting on her knees, she _keened_ in the most
dismal manner. Immediately behind the cart came a crowd of women
similarly attired, and all _keening_, though in rather a mechanical and
half-hearted fashion. Then followed a straggling concourse of men, all
on foot, in their workaday garb, and with faces unwashed. These made
no demonstration whatsoever. The rear was brought up by a number of
young men, sons, perhaps, of well-to-do farmers, also in their ordinary
dress. They lounged on in the easiest fashion, with hands in pockets,
their waistcoats open—the day was hot—and certain of them actually
smoking. The Celtic races have the reputation for natural delicacy of
feeling. In such exhibitions as the above, this delicacy certainly does
not show itself.




PEAT AS A MANURE.


The advice has been given to those who wish to make something out of
their peat-mosses, that their best course is just to let them alone, as
the more they are interfered with, the greater the loss will be; but
this Lord Melbourne ‘Why-can’t-you-let-it-alone’ way of treating every
subject may be occasionally overdone. The writer having of late years
been utilising the peat on his farm, and being greatly satisfied with
the result, now ventures to give a short sketch of his operations.

He has a small hill-farm, where, in byres[1] and covered closes, he
winters a breeding-stock of about fifty cattle, of different ages, and
having only, on an average, about forty acres in white-crop; and as
straw in the neighbourhood is difficult to buy, he was occasionally
pinched both for fodder and bedding. For reasons which need not here
be stated, he does not wish to diminish the number of the cattle so
wintered. This being the state of matters, and being exercised how to
make his fodder and bedding last through the winter, it occurred to
the writer that he might greatly economise his bedding, and so the
more easily get over the winter, were he to use a quantity of peat in
the closes and byres. He happens to be favourably situated, having an
abundant supply of peat of a fine grain within a short distance of
the steading. The cost of cutting and bringing a fair cartload—about
fifteen hundredweight—to the steading he calculates at about sixpence.
Thus, by putting on three carts, three men, and a boy—two of these
cutting and filling, and two going with the carts—he can deliver at the
peat-shed about forty-five carts per day, or about thirty-five tons.
As the bog grows good grass, the turf is lifted, and is relaid on the
lower level. In this way the carts can in dry weather be backed up to
the face of the peat.

The peat-harvest is commenced after the turnips are in, as not only
the horses have then little work to do, but especially as at that time
of the year the bog and its approaches are dry. He has then fully two
hundred and fifty loads taken from the bog. A portion is heaped up at
the back of a wall near the steading, for use in autumn and early
winter; but the greater part is stored in sheds. Being thus stored
and kept dry, and exposed as much as possible to the summer sun and
winds, it forms, when put into the closes, a dry comfortable bed for
the cattle, and acts as a sponge, absorbing the liquid manure, and
thus storing away the ammonia. Further, as in some places the bog is
too soft for carts to go into, the writer, each summer and autumn,
has some two hundred tons harrowed out on to hard ground, piled into
as high a heap as possible, and allowed to remain until the following
summer, when it is found to be dry, and easily carted. The cost of such
wheeling-out is about fivepence per ton.

In autumn, after the manure which has lain in the closes all the
summer has been carted out, the floor of the closes is covered with
some twelve or fifteen inches of moss, sprinkled over with straw or
bracken. The cattle, when first put in, appear to dread putting foot on
the peat; but in a short time become quite accustomed to it. In about
ten days, the closes get another dressing of some five inches of peat,
covering slightly with straw, as before. It might be supposed that with
so much moss and so little straw, the cattle would _lair_; but this is
not so, unless on the first day or two. On the contrary, the manure-bed
is firm and elastic under foot. The above dressings are continued all
through the winter and spring, the consequence being that the ammonia
and other chemicals, instead of being evaporated detrimentally to
the health of the cattle, are stored away and preserved. The air in
the closes is sweet and wholesome. Pigs do not crinkle in their legs
by boring in over-heated manure—a very common complaint in covered
closes—the feet of the cattle are kept cool, a necessary condition, if
one looks for perfect health, and which can only be imperfectly got in
a straw-bedded covered close by frequent removals of the manure. The
water-supply to the closes—should the pipe lie below the manure—is kept
perfectly cool, instead of being tepid, as the writer has seen it.

When the writer began to use peat, he rather thought that there would
not be a perfect amalgamation—that, when the closes came to be emptied,
he should find several distinct layers of peat, possibly difficult
of removal. As a matter of fact, the peat placed in the floor of the
close alone retains its identity; _it_ certainly comes out peat the
same as when it was put in, but apparently _plus_ a large percentage of
ammonia, of which it smells strongly. As to the other peat put on in
layers, it almost totally disappears; but the whole manure is black and
compact. Last autumn, peat taken from the floor of the closes was put
on a piece of stiff, poor clay-ground, part of a lea-field which was
being ploughed for a crop of oats. The result is very satisfactory, the
corn on such part being very healthy and strong.

The result of such peat operations is, that a good supply of bedding
is provided, the cattle are kept in a more healthy state, and there is
a large extra quantity of excellent manure obtained at a cost of under
one shilling per ton. The turnip crops grown with such manure and a
little phosphate have been perfectly satisfactory. The writer’s byres
are under the same roof as the closes, and drain into them. Peat is
freely used in them, especially behind the cows—the result being that
much of the liquid manure is sucked into the peat, and thus not only
the atmosphere of the byres is sweetened, but the drainage is more
easily managed.

Any farmer having a peat-bog on his farm, can with very little trouble
prove the truth of what is here stated.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] Cow-houses.




ABSENCE OF MIND.


In his _Voyage autour de ma Chambre_, De Maistre discusses the very
curious phenomenon of the independence of the mind and the body. He
tells us how, in a fit of absent-mindedness, he often drew on his
stockings wrong side out, and had to be reminded by his invaluable
servant Joannetti of his mistake. Many readers will call to mind
experiences of their own of a similar nature. It seems quite common to
put one’s watch-key to one’s ear to ascertain if it is going; and many
people are in the habit of winding their watches, and three minutes
after, pausing to wonder whether they have done so or not.

Who has not heard of the philosopher who boiled his watch while he
calmly held the egg in his hand to note the time! Or of the equally
erudite man of science, who, having peeled the apple, threw the apple
itself over a cliff, and then discovered that the rind alone remained!

Another individual had the habit—not such a very uncommon one—of
forgetting his own name at awkward moments. One day he presented
himself at the post-office for letters, when, much to his disgust, he
could not think of his name. He turned sadly homewards, racking his
brains in the vain endeavour to discover who he was. Suddenly a friend
accosted him: ‘How are you, Mr Brown?’—‘Brown, Brown, I have it!’ cried
the absent-minded one; and leaving his astonished friend, he rushed
back to the post-office to get his letters.

Sometimes absence of mind produces very ludicrous effects. Harry
Lorrequer’s appearance on parade in the character of Othello is well
known. A somewhat similar occurrence in real life happened not long
ago. A student on leaving his rooms one afternoon to take a stroll in
the fashionable street in a university town, suddenly remembered that
his fire needed coals, and returned to replenish it. On issuing from
his lodging the second time, he was surprised to see people looking
at him with an amused smile. Presently, some ragamuffins at a street
corner began to make audible remarks. On looking down, he discovered,
to his horror, that he was serenely carrying the fire-tongs in place of
his umbrella!

One day an English savant wrote two letters, one to a business house
in London, the other to a friend in Paris. In stamping them at the
post-office, he placed the penny stamp on the letter for Paris, and the
other on the business letter. Remarking to the post-office clerk that
he would correct the error, he changed the addresses! It was not till
after he had posted the letters that he understood why the clerk had
not been more impressed with his brilliant idea.




THE RETURN.


All day the land in golden sunlight lay,
All day a happy people to and fro
Moved through the quiet summer ways; all day
I wandered with bowed head and footstep slow,
A stranger in the well-remembered place,
Where Time has left not one familiar face
I knew long years ago.

By marsh-lands golden with bog asphodel,
I saw the fitful plover wheel and scream;
The soft winds swayed the foxglove’s purple bell;
The iris trembled by the whispering stream;
Gazing on these blue hills which know not change,
All the dead years seemed fallen dim and strange,
Unreal as a dream.

Unchanged as in my dreams lay the fair land,
The laughter-loving lips, the eager feet,
The hands that struck warm welcome to my hand,
The hearts that at my coming higher beat,
Have long been cold in death; no glad surprise
Wakens for me in any living eyes,
That once made life so sweet.

Slowly the day drew down the golden west;
The purple shadows lengthened on the plain,
Yet I unresting through a world at rest,
Went silent with my memory and my pain;
Then, for a little space, across the years
To me, bowed down with time and worn with tears,
My friends came back again.

By many a spot where summer could not last,
In other days, for all our joy too long,
They came about me from the shadowy past,
As last I saw them, young and gay and strong;
And she, my heart, came fair as in the days
When at her coming all the radiant ways
Thrilled into happy song.

Ah me! once here, on such a summer night,
In silent bliss together, she and I
Stood watching the pale lingering fringe of light
Go slowly creeping round the northern sky.
Ah, love, if all the weary years could give
But one sweet hour of that sweet night to live
With thee—and then to die!

The old sweet fragrance fills the summer air,
The same light lingers on the northern sea,
Still, as of old, the silent land lies fair
Beneath the silent stars, the melody
Of moving waters still is on the shore,
And I am here again—but nevermore
Will she come back to me.

D. J. ROBERTSON.

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