Thunderstorm—Potato Field in Bloom—The Hazel Tree—Hazel
Nuts—Potato Shaws for Cattle—Ferns for Bedding Cattle—Marmion —Scott.
With an
occasional fine day [August 1871], the
past fortnight must, we fear, he characterised as having been upon the
whole wet -—very wet,
a stranger would say—and not a little stormy withal. We had a tremendous
thunderstorm early on Sunday morning, with the most magnificent display
of forked lightning that we have ever seen, while the very earth seemed
to quake and tremble under the crash of peal upon peal of thunder, so
near and loud at times as to he absolutely terrible. It is no wonder
that the soundest sleepers were awakened from their midnight slumbers by
the hurly-burly. We ourselves got up for a time, and sat at our window,
watching the lightning that darted incessantly among the mountain
summits with startling vividness, revealing their serrated peaks at
times through the very heart of the thunder-cloud as distinctly as if it
were clearest noonday. Rain, too, fell the while in torrents, that
instantly filled river and mountain stream to overflowing; and as the
storm passed away, and we retired to rest in the grey, uncertain
twilight of the early dawn, we were lulled into a sleep, that lasted
well nigh until noon, by the weird and wild music of "the noise of many
waters." We thought, as we sat alone in the midst of that magnificent
storm, of him (was it John Foster?) who, on a similar occasion, turned
round to his companion and remarked, in a tone of deep solemnity, "It is
a fine night; the
Lord is abroad!" Crops,
though generally further from maturity than is usual at this date,
continue to grow rapidly, and everywhere present a strong and1 healthy
appearance,—"a guarantee," as newspaper editors say, "of their good
faith " and honest intentions in the direction of a bounteous yield when
cometh the season of ingathering. Potatoes are now in full flower; and a
very pretty sight, if you deign to look at it with an unprejudiced eye,
is a potato field in blossom at this season. If the incomparable
esculent were not cultivated for its utility and value as an article of
food, it would still deserve a place in our gardens for its elegance and
beauty simply as a flower. Nothing but its commonness causes its beauty
as a flowering plant to be so constantly overlooked. We are in the midst
of our hay season, and we are only anxious about good weather for
securing it in tolerable order. Eight consecutive days of dry, breezy
weather would be of incalculable value to us at this moment. Anything
will grow, and grow luxuriantly, on the "West Coast: our difficulties
only begin with the season of ripening and after preservation. If there
be any truth in the old Scottish saying, that " a year of nuts will also
be a year of corn," then may the grain-growers of the West Highlands at
least already congratulate themselves, for we have seldom seen the hazel
boughs so laden with nut clusters; and a prettier sight than a hazel
wood so laden, either now or when decked in its autumnal robes, it would
be difficult to conceive. It is, besides, a fragrant, cleanly wood,
through which you can at any time dash fearlessly and at will, all the
better of your contact with the leaves, branches, and nut clusters, when
you have reached the open beyond. There is not a leaf in the woods so
thoroughly clean, so fragrant when you have crushed it in your hand, so
soft and pleasant to the touch in its every stage, as the leaf fresh
plucked from the hazel bough. And apropos of
hazel nuts, a gentlemen from the south of England, at present resident
in our neighbourhood, told us something the other day that we did not
know before. "In our part of England," observed our friend, "the hazel
is common, and grows to a larger size, has more pretentions to the name
of tree, in fact, than here with you; and our nuts, I should say, must
he larger, juicier, and in all respects better than yours." (A "soft
impeachment," at which, for the honour of Nether Lochaber, we took the
liberty of gravely shaking our head in token of dissent)." "We seldom,
however," he went on, "can get a ripe hazel nut in autumn, the reason
being that in many places they are gathered while yet in a half-formed
and green state. You look surprised, but the reason is this : the husk
of the green, unripe hazel nut is rich, as you must be aware, in a
bitterly sharp and astringent acid, that must have often made your teeth
water when you have essayed to crack a nut in a state of immaturity.
This acid, then, you must know, -is valuable as a mordant (a
technical term) in the printing and dyeing of cotton and other fabrics,
and it commands a high price in the market accordingly. It is a maxim in
commerce that demand creates supply; and the consequence is, that every
year in the month of July, when the nuts are at their greenest, and the
acid in their husks at its acridest, women and children plunder the
woods of their hazel nut clusters, which are sold to the manufacturers,
who, by a process of crushing by machinery, and washing and maceration,
extract all the acid, to be employed, as I have already mentioned, in
cotton printing and dye works." So far in substance, if not in ipsissimis
verbis, our
friend. All we could reply was that we should be sorry indeed to see our
own bonny hazel woods similarly despoiled. Another thing told us by this
friend somewhat surprised us. He observed our servant girl carrying a
bundle of potato "shaws" into the byre, and asked us what they were for.
On our replying that these were the shaws of the potatoes taken up for
dinner, and that they were thrown before the cows, and devoured by them
with avidity on their return from their hill pasture in the evening, he
earnestly advised us never to do so again; that in England it was never
done, because it was found that potato shaws given to milch cows not
only lessened the quantity of milk yielded, hut actually vitiated the
milk itself, giving it a disagreeable taste, and making it decidedly
unwholesome. All we could answer was that we had known potato shaws
given to milch cows all over the Highlands since ever we could remember,
and that we had never known or heard any of the evils stated to result
from the use of them. What says the reader? It is true, no doubt, that
the potato belongs botanically to a family of plants many of whom are
highly poisonous—such as the common deadly
nightshade
of
our lanes and roadsides, for example—and it is averred that, although
the tubor of the potato is healthy and nutritious when cooked,
it is a poison in its raw state, and that its stem, leaves, flower, and
"apple" are all more or less poisonous; and yet we have known boys,
while the blight was yet unheard of, and when potatoes were more
prolific of apples or plums than they have ever been since, eat the
large, soft, full, ripe apples with relish, and they never suffered the
slightest inconvenience in consequence that ever we heard of. As a boy
we have often ate them ourselves, and very saccharine, juicy, and
pleasant flavoured we recollect they were, not at all unlike the purple
plum of our gardens in taste and flavour, and hardly inferior to it as a
pleasant succulent bonne
bouche. Cattle,
as we know, will greedily eat the fresh shaws, as they will a decidedly
poisonous plant, the hemlock (Celtich.,
Iteotha);
and it is a well-known fact that in severe cases of scurvy on board
ships that have to go long voyages a feast of raw potatoes
is an immediate and certain cure; so that after all it would seem that
if the potato is originally a poisonous plant, cultivation has
eradicated all, or almost all, traces of the evil. As to the deleterious
effects of the shaws on the milk of cattle we have our doubts, our
amiable and learned friend abS.ve mentioned to the contrary
notwithstanding. And while on such subjects let us record a piece of
information received from an old woman in our neighbourhood a few days
ago. We were cutting some green ferns on the hillside, when the old lady
in question, who happened to pass the way at the time, stood to have a
crack with us about the weather and crops and things in general, said
crack concluding somewhat as follows:— "You are cutting fems, sir," said
the old lady, "what are you to make of them if you please, sir?" "They
are for "bedding," we replied, "bedding for the cows and pony." "Well,
sir," she rejoined, "there is no harm in bedding the pony with them;
they will do him no
evil; but take an old woman's advice, and don't put them under your
cows." "Why so," we asked in astonishment. "What can be cleaner,
fresher, fragranter for bedding, whether for horse or cow, than these
nice green ferns. Just look how beautiful and soft they are." "Still,
sir," she persisted, "you must not place them under your cows,
particularly your milch cows; if you do, their udders will assuredly
fester, and they will go wrong in their milk. I have known it happen
often, and no sensible person in the country ever does such a thing
now-a-days. Terns cut in autumn when brown and ripe make excellent
bedding for milch cows as for all other cattle, but July cut ferns,
green, juicy, and unripe, should never be used for bedding milch cows. I
do not pretend to tell you why they should produce the evils I have
mentioned, but I do know that if I had fifty cows I had rather have them
without bedding at all than put such green, fresh ferns as those under
them." We stood for the moment aghast at this piece of information,
which was perfectly new to us, and from the positive and decided tone of
the old lady, a shrewd intelligent woman of her class, we felt that
there must be something in it. On inquiry we have since found that the
old lady's belief in the evil of ferns—green, unripe ferns, that is—as
bedding for milch cows, is common among the people of this part of the
West Highlands. Whether the whole affair is a mere superstition, the
fern having always been accounted a sacred plant in the Highlands, or
whether there is really some foundation in fact for the belief that a
bedding of green ferns causes the udders of cows to swell and fester as
is alleged, we are not at this moment prepared to say; perhaps some of
our readers may be able to throw light on the subject. It is just
possible that green-cut ferns, when pressed by the recumbent animal, may
exude an acrid juice that, coming in contact with the tender udder, may
be absorbed with the effects alleged. Meantime we doubt it. One thing we
know is this, that cattle are fond of lying down among growing ferns in
their every stage, and that both roe and red deer frequently make their
lair among growing ferns at this season. Do you remember, by the way,
Scott's magnificent description in Marmion of
a fern-couched deer roused from his midnight lair by the awful tolling
of the passing bell over the living entombment of poor Constance in the
monastery of Lindisfarne—
"Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,
Northumbrian rocke in answer rung;
To Walk worth cell the echoes roll'd,
His beads the wakeful hermit told.
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,
But slept ere half a prayer he said;
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,
Then couch'd him down beside the hind,
And quaked, among the mountain fern,
To hear that sound so dull and stern."
Than the whole of the trial and doom of poor Constance,
who "loved not wisely but too well," in the second canto of Marmion, even
Scott never wrote anything more solemn or terrible. |