Chapter II: Part 2

It was at once clear that Charley knew, or pretty closely guessed, what was afoot. The captain looked anxiously at me. By a sudden inspiration I saw how to make a benefit of this new danger. ‘Charley,’ I exclaimed, ‘this is Captain Laurenston, who thrashed the major. You know all about him, I am certain, for we have often talked about the affair.’

Charley nodded.

‘If he does not get away to-night,’ I continued, ‘he will be caught, for there are spies about him everywhere.’

‘Well, what is the captain going to do?’

‘You can help him, Charley,’ I said. ‘Your brother goes down with the night-goods, and I know his wife’s brother is steward aboard the French packet. Get the captain down with the goods and smuggle him aboard.—Here! this will make it worth your while.’ As I said this, I drew out the watch and chain from my desk and pushed them towards Charley. His eyes sparkled, and I saw the business was as good as done.

Charley made a feeble objection to taking such valuables; but there was no time for fencing of this kind, so he picked the treasures up, and left, telling the captain to go outside and wait under the signal, as dangerous eyes might be upon the box.

The captain took his advice, after shaking my hand, and saying: ‘But what are you going to have for yourself, Waltress?—Well, never mind, I will see to that; you know I will do so, I hope.’

‘One thing is quite certain,’ I replied, ‘that I would not rob Miss Cleabyrn of her valuables, if they were a hundredfold as valuable.—Now, don’t argue, captain; but go and wait where Charley tells you.’

With another clasp of my hand, he went; and I was more nervous than I ever remember to have been before in my life, until the engine came and commenced ‘shunting;’ and then it was actually worse. Every moment I fancied I could hear a struggle, and I thought the engine had never been half so long over its work. But it went away at last; and its puffing was still faintly heard in the distance, when, without the slightest warning, the door of my hut was thrown open and there were the strange men again.

The leader exclaimed fiercely: ‘Now you, sir! where is the man who was here just now? We are up to your tricks. Where is he?’

‘Hush!’ said one of his companions, and whispered to him.

‘No proof!’ he exclaimed; ‘the scoundrels are all in league together. A woman with a man was seen coming towards this box, and where are they? We will have them; and you too, Mr Signalman, if you attempt any tricks upon us.’

I could see that half-measures or timid words would not do, so I boldly—in appearance at anyrate, although I was a good deal frightened—defied him. I told him point-blank that if I did know, or could know, where the persons he wanted were, I should not tell him.

This conduct was the best I could have adopted; the party were convinced I knew nothing of the fugitive, and so went away. But after they were gone, I felt horribly nervous; it had been so near a thing, that I would not have passed through the same excitement again for any money.

Charley and his friends were true to their trust. This was greatly to their credit, as there was a large reward out, which they could have earned by a few words; and _they_ had not been in love with the captain’s sweetheart, as I had been. Charley brought me a note on the next day, written by the captain on board the French boat, and on the day following I got another from France; so Laurenston was safe.

I took an early opportunity of seeing Miss Cleabyrn as she was walking near her home, when I told her how I had disposed of the watch and chain. She looked at me with her old smile, which I remembered so well—remembered then!—why, I have not forgotten it now!—and said I must have my own way; but she would try to find a mode of conciliating even my disinterestedness; and she did so.

I heard nothing for some few weeks of any of the parties in the affair which had been so exciting to me; indeed, Miss Cleabyrn must have left home directly after the interview I have just spoken of, for I never saw her again—not for years, at anyrate. But I had a letter from her, a thing I had never dreamed would happen to me. It was dated from Boulogne, where she had arrived, she said, the previous day; and after thanking me for my services, and saying that Messrs Primer, her solicitors, had instructions to write to me, the letter was signed—I could hardly believe my eyes!—Oswald Laurenston and Beatrice Laurenston! So the secret was out!—they were married.

When I recalled the little scene in my hut, her passionate, unrestrained farewell, I felt that I ought to have known it then; but, if I may indulge in a philosophical reflection, I would say that all through life you are always looking back and blaming yourself for not having seen more plainly the things which were passing before your eyes.

Well, this was nearly the end of my adventure with Captain Laurenston; yet one or two incidents which remain to be told were perhaps as important to me as any that had gone before. There was at the end of our lane a cottage, somewhat larger than its neighbours, with quite a nice piece of ground attached, a great deal superior, indeed, to the others. To my amazement, Messrs Primer, of Lincoln’s Inn, sent down a clerk with the title-deeds of this house and land, which were actually presented to me as from Captain Laurenston.

It made my fortune, I may say. I was married to Patty within six months, and with her I have been thoroughly happy. But it was many a long day before I told her as much as I have written here. The captain and his wife must have had excellent information from some one in the neighbourhood of what went on—which was easy enough, as they were on friendly terms with old Mr Cleabyrn—for they sent Patty a beautiful silk dress and an amethyst brooch as wedding presents.

After a good many years, they returned to England, when Major Starley—who had been forced to resign—was dead, and the affair had blown over. They lived a long way off, however, and I only saw them once or twice. When I met Mrs Laurenston, leaning on her husband’s arm, or saw her riding in the pony carriage with some of her six pretty children, why, I laughed. But once I could not have laughed.

ROWING AT OXFORD.

Great interest is generally shown throughout the country about the month of March in the preparations that are made at our two chief English universities for the annual boatrace; but few of those that read the newspaper accounts of the daily practice of the two crews know how much energy and time have been devoted by their individual members to acquiring the skill which will qualify them for a seat in the ‘’varsity eight.’ Hence we propose here to give a short account of rowing at Oxford, and the different college races that a man has almost invariably taken part in before he is even tried for ‘the ’varsity.’

The academical year commences with the October term, and it is in that term that the majority of freshmen come into residence; accordingly, this is the time chosen by the captains of the various college boat-clubs for testing the rowing capabilities of the freshmen of their college, and ‘coaching’ all those who wish to go in for boating. Every afternoon during the greater part of this term, the captain and other members of the college eight may be seen standing up in the stern of ‘tub-pair’ or four, instructing and exhorting their crews, as they paddle swiftly down to Ifley lock, or toil up again against the swollen stream. Towards the end of the term, the men who have been coached in this way are formed into regular crews; and after one or two weeks’ practice together, these crews row against each other in ‘tub-fours’ for the Silver Challenge Oars, or some prize given by the college boat-club.

Passing over to the next, that is the Lent term, we come to the first eight-oared college races, which at Oxford are better known as the Torpids. In these races, the colleges compete against one another for the honour of first place or ‘head of the river.’ No man who has rowed in his college ‘eight’ in the previous year is eligible to row in his Torpid; the majority of the crew consist of men who have received coaching in the October term, and have taken part in the four-oared races described above.

The first week or two of this term is occupied by the captain in selecting and arranging his crew; when that is made up, regular practice is the order of the day, for the most part on the stretch of water between Oxford and Ifley, but occasionally varied by a ‘long course’ to Abingdon, a distance of seven miles. Coaching is done by members of the ‘eight,’ who run with the boat along the towpath, shouting at the top of their voices to the different members of the crew, and sometimes, when the floods are out and the towpath is covered, splashing through water nearly up to their knees. Practice of this kind is continued daily, no matter what the weather is, until the races take place, which is usually about the middle of the term. Each college is represented by one boat, and in some cases by two boats, so that there are generally from twenty to twenty-five boats entered, and these are divided into two divisions. The races occupy six days, each division rowing once each day, the second division always commencing. The boats are placed one behind the other in the order in which they left off the year before, with a clear space of about two boat-lengths between each. The object aimed at by each boat is to overtake the boat in front and bump it. If successful in doing this, these two boats at once draw out of the way, and leave room for those following to pass; and on the next day they change places. The head boat of the second division is called the ‘Sandwich’ boat, and rows again the same afternoon at the bottom of the first division, in this way forming a link by which a boat may pass from one division to the other.

Having paddled down to their respective positions, the boats are turned, and preparations are made for the race. A line attached to the bank is held by the cockswain, and this, with the assistance of a waterman with a long pole, helps to keep the boat in position and prevents it drifting out of its place. Meanwhile, the first signal-gun has been fired, and the crews are divesting themselves of jackets and mufflers. Soon the second gun is heard, and there is now one minute before the signal to start is given. What an anxious minute that is, so much depends upon getting off well, especially with a crew in which many of the men are rowing in one of these bumping races for the first time. A bad start causes flurry and unsteadiness in the boat, and then there is sometimes a risk of being bumped before the men settle down together to a long and even stroke. Bang! The starting gun has fired, and off go the dozen or more boats in a long line; the towpath is crowded with men, running with their respective college crews, shouting, blowing horns, and making use of every conceivable instrument of noise to urge on and encourage their representatives. By the time the barges, which are crowded with spectators, are reached, great gaps will have appeared in the line, as most of the bumps take place below; though here too, sometimes, a most exciting race is witnessed, when some boat, almost overlapped by its rival, is seen struggling to reach the winning-post without being bumped. Nor is this bumping so easy as it might at first seem; but a good deal of skill is required on the part of the cockswain to effect it. In the first place, there is always the danger of making the shot too soon, in which case the boat, missing the stern of the one in front, shoots half-way across the river, and thereby loses a good deal of ground. Again, when one boat is overlapping another, the cockswain of the first, by pulling his rudder towards the bow of his rival, can cause such a wave of water to wash against the latter as to ward off for a time the actual bump; then, by a judicious spurt on the part of his ‘stroke,’ when the rudder is again straightened, he may be enabled to draw away and steer his boat in safety past the winning-post.

These races conclude the rowing for this term, though sometimes the last few days are spent in coaching the best men from the Torpid on ‘sliding seats,’ by way of preparation for the next term’s practice for the ‘eight.’

We now come to the summer or May term, the pleasantest term of all, as far as boating is concerned. The most important races during this term are those in which the college eights compete. They are carried out in exactly the same manner as the Torpids described above, the only difference being in the kind of boat used. The Torpids row in what are called clinker-built or gig-boats, which have a small keel, and of which the seats are fixed; whereas the ‘eights’ are rowed in smooth, keelless boats—the bottom somewhat resembling that of a small canoe—and fitted with sliding seats, by which the stroke can be lengthened and more use made of the legs. The extremities of the boat are covered with canvas, to prevent the water washing in over the side. The crew of a college eight is composed of the best men the college can muster, all of course being members of the college.

The races, as we mentioned before, are arranged in the same way as those in which the Torpids compete, though perhaps more interest is shown in the eights; and as they come off at a pleasanter time of the year, and are undoubtedly one of the sights of the university, the spectators include many more strangers. The ’varsity ‘sculls’ and the ’varsity ‘pairs’—the former open to any member, and the latter to any two members of the ’varsity boat-club—conclude the rowing at Oxford for this term; though it should here be mentioned that two or three of the boats that have shown themselves above the average in the eight-oared races, often keep in practice for Henley regatta, which takes place soon after the close of this term.

We have now given a brief description of a year’s college rowing at Oxford, that is, rowing in which a college crew competes with members of its own or other colleges. Starting again with the October term, we propose saying something about rowing for the ’varsity, the chief event in which is the annual race with Cambridge. There is, however, one college race not yet mentioned, which takes place in the October term—namely, the ’varsity ‘Fours,’ open to all the colleges. For this event there are not generally more than from six to eight boats entered, as considerably more skill and watermanship are required than for the college eight. The boats used, though of much the same construction as the latter, are of course smaller, and therefore more difficult to sit; moreover, they do not carry a cockswain, the steering being done by one of the crew with his feet, by means of wires connecting the rudder with a lever attached to his stretcher, so that, by moving this lever with his foot to one side or the other, a corresponding motion is given to the rudder. This race takes place in the first half of the term, and immediately afterwards the work of selecting a crew for the inter-university boatrace is commenced.

With this object in view, the names of two or three of the best men from each college are received by the President; and the remaining weeks of this term are spent in testing on the river these fifty or sixty men and selecting from them the best sixteen; these, again, are divided into two regular crews, which are known by the name of the ‘Trial Eights.’ A race takes place at the end of the term between these crews; they are coached by the President, and their rowing is carefully watched by him and his advisers. Those who have displayed the greatest ‘staying-powers’ and the most perfect style, or are likely to develop into the best ‘oars,’ are picked out, and, along with any members of the last year’s crew that may be available, form the material out of which the ‘’Varsity eight’ is composed.

The process of selecting the actual crew out of these men that have been chosen from the ‘Trial Eights,’ and arranging them in the places they are best fitted to occupy, takes up the first few weeks of the next or Lent term. Their strength and ‘staying-powers’ are tested by long rows to Abingdon and back, and at the same time they are coached by the President, or by some ‘old-blue’ who has come up to help him.

By the middle of the term, the crew is generally settled upon, and on Ash-Wednesday they go into strict training. The old theories of training on raw meat, &c., have quite died out; a plentiful supply of plain, well-cooked food is allowed, but only a very moderate amount of liquor, and smoking must be entirely knocked off. For breakfast and dinner the crew meet together in each other’s rooms, each man entertaining the rest for one day in turn while they are still at Oxford. Lunch is only a light meal. The rowing is almost entirely done during the afternoon. Ten days or a fortnight before the time fixed for the race, the crew go up to Putney to complete their practice on the tidal water and the course over which the race is to be rowed. Their doings here and the race itself need no description in this paper. Their daily practice on the London water, the time they occupy in rowing over the course, even their very movements are watched and recorded by the daily press. Suffice it to say that this notoriety is not at all desired by the members of the crews, and that, owing to the inconvenience and obstruction it sometimes causes to their practice, the proposal to hold the race on other and quieter waters has been more than once discussed.

A HOLIDAY IN COUNTY CORK.

Leap is not a name suggestive of things Irish, yet the place so called is as pure a specimen of the primitive Irish village as one might wish to find. There it was our happiness to spend a holiday in the summer of 1885. During our few weeks’ stay we made the acquaintance of a people whose character and modes of life have the flavour of an age innocent of the civilities of the nineteenth century. The village of Leap is in County Cork, at the extreme south-west corner of Ireland, about eighteen miles to the east of Cape Clear, and about forty to the west of the city of Cork. It stands at the head of Glandore Bay, one of the numberless inlets that are so striking a feature of this part of the Irish coast.

Glandore Bay is itself worth a lengthened pilgrimage. In Scotland or England it would have been famous, and would long since have been a fashionable seaside resort. The transatlantic steamers cross its mouth at no great distance; and it is an impressive spectacle to see them flash across in the darkness, with all their portholes lit, and at what appears to be something like railway speed. The village of Leap is cut in two by a streamlet, over which a bridge has now been thrown. Across this stream, we are told, a deer, hard pressed by the hunters, once took a desperate leap; hence the name of the village. In former times, this same stream was the limit of English law in Ireland. ‘Beyond the Leap,’ it used to be said, ‘beyond the law.’ And indeed, the country beyond the Leap is a perfect paradise for outlaws. The very sight of it is sufficient to deter the further progress of the most hot-headed officer of justice. This corner of County Cork, therefore, was the haunt of pirates, smugglers, and various outlawed persons. There is no part of the British isles richer in tales of blood and adventure. The district retained its lawless character down to comparatively recent times; but in modern days, the private manufacture of a little poteen is the extent of its misdemeanours.

The country surrounding Leap consists of a hopeless confusion of hills, none of which, however, have either the shape or the size to give them any dignity. These hills are in their turn covered with excrescences in the shape of huge knolls of all possible contours and sizes. As the natural vegetation is of a rankness quite unknown on the other side of the Channel, it will be imagined that the general aspect of the country is singularly harsh and wild. Yet this unpromising region is made to yield surprising crops of potatoes, and even of grain. From base to summit, every hill that the spade can scratch is cultivated. In many cases, indeed, it is but picking the bones of nature. It is pathetic to watch the desperate struggles of some poor soul to ‘bring in’ a piece of new ground. To see him with his spade and pickaxe, a stranger might fancy he was rather about to open a quarry than lay out a field, where he proposes to rear crops of turnips or potatoes. The crofts are also of miserable dimensions. Three or four acres must in the majority of cases suffice to maintain an entire family. Where, however, there is any depth of soil, we were told on the best authority, it has a productiveness unsurpassed by the best land across the Channel. But the whole district is vastly over-populated; and it is extremely difficult to see how any possible legislation could make the land yield a comfortable subsistence to the present numbers of its people. Some years since, an active emigration went on from the neighbourhood; but it has now almost ceased. As illustrative of the tenacity with which the Irishman clings to his wretched allotment, a land-steward told us an experience of his employer. This gentleman was desirous of acquiring a small croft adjoining his own estate. The rental may have been equal to about thirty shillings; and fifty pounds were offered as a liberal price for the land. The owner thereupon declared that to no other person would he part with his ground but to this particular gentleman, and that to him he would give it for five hundred pounds! The croft is still in the possession of its hereditary owner.

It does not seem that the formidable distance of America keeps them at home, since, judging by their way of talking, one is led to believe that they think of New York as nearer than London or Liverpool. They also more readily think of strangers as Americans than Britons. It may be mentioned in this connection that the most earnest counsel given to young Irishmen who do emigrate from this part of the country is to give O’Donovan Rossa and his associates as wide a berth as possible. That redoubtable personage was born in Rosscarberry, a village some five miles to the south-east of Leap. It was in Skibbereen, a place also in the immediate neighbourhood, that he attracted the attention of Head-centre Stephens by his outspoken and bitter hostility to all things English. We met several persons who knew Rossa well in his young manhood, and it is but just to say that they all spoke of him as an upright and generous fellow. His subsequent career, however, is spoken of in the neighbourhood in language anything but complimentary.

At first sight, one would be inclined to say that the district should at least be well stocked with game; but the truth is that game of all kinds is exceedingly scarce. During our stay, we did not see a single ‘head.’ The extinction of hares, indeed, can be traced to a very recent date and a very efficient cause. When the Land League agitation was at its height a few years ago, bands of the people, often three or four hundred strong, mustered every Sunday after second mass, and scouring the country with dog and gun, made indiscriminate butchery of everything in the shape of game that came in their way. Gamekeeper and policeman, as may be imagined, kept well out of sight while they did their work. Next morning, the booty was on its way to the suspects in Kilmainham jail, who, during the whole term of their detention, were regularly catered for.

The cabins of these Cork crofters present externally a more respectable appearance than the cabins of the same class in many parts of the Highlands and islands of Scotland. These Irish cabins are mostly built of stone, which in this part of the country is easily obtainable. Their interior, however, would scarcely satisfy an exacting sanitary officer. It consists of two apartments, the upper and the lower. The upper is the sleeping apartment of the family, and the lower is the common room of the household and all the live-stock. There is usually, indeed, a shed adjoining the house for the special accommodation of the latter; but there is a constant intercourse between the two domiciles, and donkeys, pigs, geese, cocks and hens, sheep, and goats enjoy quite undefined household privileges. Passing a cabin one day shortly after our arrival in the place, we heard an appalling sound, and immediately afterwards a voice exclaiming: ‘Be quoite, sir!’ It was a donkey sharing the hearthstone with his master. The donkey, in truth, though his master’s dearest possession, would also seem to be his peculiar torment.

The sanitary officer has found his way even to this corner of the empire, and objects to the domestic privileges of donkeys. Like most despised races, however, donkeys have ineradicable opinions, and one of these appears to be their prescriptive right to their master’s domicile. As the Irishman, however, would seem to incline rather to the opinion of his donkey than to that of the sanitary officer, it will be seen that misunderstandings are apt to arise. The donkey is a still further source of mischief in that he utterly refuses to make any distinction between his owner’s ground and other people’s. He breaks in utter unconcern through neighbouring fences, and browses at large at his own caprice. Altogether, the donkey, as he is found in Ireland, cannot fail to excite the admiration of the stranger. On the other side of the Channel he is abroad, and has the exile’s numbness of feeling. But in Ireland he is at home; he has the inspiriting sense of a numerous brotherhood, and one may easily see that he has a vivid consciousness of his social importance.

The diet of the Irishman in this part of the country is, of course, potatoes and milk. As he himself puts it, he has potatoes twenty-one times a week. In the event of a blight, such as the historic one, the result in certain parts of Ireland could scarcely be less disastrous than at any former period. If one may judge by the physique of its consumers, the diet requires no recommendation of the medical faculty, for a more stalwart race it would be difficult to find. In this corner of the country so long ‘preserved,’ we should expect to find the natural Irishman, and we certainly found him. The native Irish is almost universally spoken; but at the same time, the majority of the younger generation speak English with a brogue of the most exquisite flavour. Here, also, we have the Irishman in the typical attire to which caricaturists have accustomed us. To the visitor from the other island, it is a ludicrous picture to see him in tall hat, blue tailed coat, and knee-breeches, at work in his wretched plot, like a philosopher out for a little recreation. It is not so much the style of his garments, however, that makes their picturesqueness; it is their positively miraculous raggedness. We feel that this raggedness has quite passed the stage of disreputability, and has actually become ornamentation. But it is above all the hat that fixes the attention. We have often closely inspected it; and our wonder never ceased how, in the course of a single life, any hat, however weather-beaten and however brutally used, could attain that pre-Adamite look.

It is the great charm of travel in Ireland that one can become acquainted with its people in so short a time and on such easy terms. The Irishman is the most approachable of human beings, and as the very Irishman the stranger wishes to know is in most cases his own lord and master, intercourse is thus made doubly easy. If in the course of a solitary walk you should desire the solace of a little conversation, you have but to take your seat on one of the turf walls that form the fences in these parts of the country. If you are a smoker and produce your pipe, you will present an additional inducement. Before you are well seated, you will be saluted with: ‘A fine day, sir, God be praised!’ and a careless figure will be seen approaching with spade or pickaxe over his shoulder. Sharing your tobacco with him, it will remain with yourself to conclude the interview. Before ten minutes have passed, you will have had the outlines of his family history, and his views on things in general, not even excepting his priest. At the end of as many hours’ conversation as you please, he will speed you on your way with a fervent ‘God preserve you long!’ and part with you as if you had been his lifelong friend.

The peasant women of Cork and Kerry bear a name for good looks; but their style of dress certainly does not display their charms to advantage. The married women of the west of Ireland wear a long, coarse, black cloak, descending to their feet, and furnished with a commodious hood which partially envelops their features. A more ungraceful garment than this cloak it would be difficult to imagine; and in bright summer weather it strikes one as the most perversely unreasonable of all human adornings. The unmarried women, though disallowed the use of the cloak, yet contrive to disfigure themselves with equal success by means of a shawl, in which they invariably envelop their heads as well as their shoulders. But in native sweetness and gracefulness of speech, the Irish countrywoman leaves her English and Scottish sister far behind. It is worth the trouble of a hundred greetings to hear her ‘It is a fine day, thank God!’ By the way, these greetings sound very oddly at first in Scottish ears. ‘It is a fine day, sir, thank God;’ or, ‘It is a fine day, your honour, the Lord be praised!’ are the ordinary salutations of the Irish country-people in this district. Their pious ejaculations occasionally go beyond this. 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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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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