slough! And how they pursue their enemies
to the shelter of the forest, and slay them and
the wolves together! And how, when this is
found dangerous and troublesome, they fell
whole acres of the woodland, to destroy the
harbourage of man and beast; and the moss
grows and spreads, and rises all the while, to
receive whatever falls from the hills, and
swallow up all that lies at their base! Ah!
there is to be a new prey for the cruel moss
in consequence of this felling of the woodland.
Fugitives, outlaws, rebels, must have a place
of refuge. The limestone hills are laid bare,
and a rough grass, which affords no shelter, is
soon the only covering of the ridges. See how
the hunted fugitives learn by necessity to
walk where wolf and wild-cat would not venture!
First, they shoe themselves with light
boards, or plates of wicker-work, and go
fearfully into the swamp; but soon they learn
how to pick their way from clump to clump
of moss and heath, and can go best barefoot.
They find out dry spots where they can hide
their heads and kindle a sod to warm themselves,
secure from being followed by armed
men whose weight would sink them. One has
ventured, and presently sunk, stifled in black
mud: there sticks his body, without other
burial. Another has tried, and perished at
once—drowned in dark-brown water. Day
by day, for scores of years, must their bones
dissolve in the juices of the bog—the skull
melting and evaporating, and the brain and
muscle shrivelling up, and the skin turning to
leather in this natural tanpit. The antique
cattle are lying far below, the modern men
near the surface, the hazel with its nuts, the
oak with its acorns, the yews and firs in
successive layers, all tanning together in this
mighty tanpit of four thousand acres, without
break.

And what is to be the end of it? Is the
moss to go on growing, till it has swallowed
up all Ireland? Oh no; for a wall is enough
to stop its growth; and there are strong
rivers to stop it in more directions than one.
This bog will not outgrow its four thousand
acres; and indeed, if that space does not
satisfy the ambition of the little moss, it is
hard to say what would. The change is sad
and dreary enough. Instead of forests, we
see hills, carpeted, it is true, with oats and
grass, but without a single tree. We see,
instead of gleaming lakes and bright alluvions
between, a dingy, brown expanse, tufted with
hillocks, and . . . But what is this? What
are these people doing?

What are they doing? They are visiting
the little moss with retribution. It is very
late, after thousands of years: but the hour
of retribution has come at last. There are
plenty of people engaged in undoing the work
of so many ages, and beginning a new era on
this spot which has seen so many changes.
Which corner shall we look at first?

Here are men probing the bog, to find a
good place to dig in on their own account.
They trench deep; and, having pared away
the loose fibrous sponge near the top, find
beneath a brown peat, which they know will
be worth digging out. But below that again
is a black peat of a closer grain; and this
goes down and down, blacker and denser with
every foot, from having borne the weight of
more centuries, and the pressure of a thicker
overgrowth. Into the trench dribbles and
drips the black water which has been
imprisoned so long—too far below the sunshine
to be evaporated, and too far away from any
natural channel to flow down into any stream.
It is hardly like water now—salt, astringent,
and spirituous; but it will still reflect the
blue sky from its surface, and it can run
away down hill, as fast as ever. As it dribbles
out and runs away, the banks of the trench
sink, and the soil becomes more compact.
The poor come to slice the peat away, and cut
it into oblong pieces like bricks, and set the
pieces on end in little groups to dry; and
when they are dry, pack them into a sort of
large hamper, which is fastened on a truck
drawn by an ass or pony—the whole being
dignified with the name of a car. There goes
the train of cars along the road—the burial
procession of the little moss, which is being
carried to its funeral pile.

What is that group of buildings at the edge
of the bog—the tall chimney—the brick
houses—the curious range of metal pipes,
dripping and splashing with water—and the
yards, with sheds, and tubs of black liquor,
and spirituous and pungent smells hanging
all about, and men, bearded and begrimed,
flitting about the place?

Why, this is the very centre of retribution,
whence vengeance goes forth against the
usurping moss. This is the head-quarters of
those who have pledged themselves to the
utter annihilation of the destroyer. These
are the premises of the Irish Peat Company,
of whose enterprise we have given some
account before. They undertake so to deal
with the peat moss as that it shall be utterly
decomposed, and every part turned to use.
They have taken in hand five hundred acres of
this bog; and there, scattered as far as one can
see, are one hundred labourers—men, women,
and children. The trenches are so wide and
deep as to be like little canals. The depth is
already fourteen feet; and it is understood
that it is to go down to thirty-two feet. To
the eye, the mass of peat appears inexhaustible.
There are the men, barelegged in the
trenches, slicing the vegetable earth, and
throwing it up, to be caught by the "catchers"
above, who, for sixpence a day, receive and
deliver the sods. There are the women who,
for sixpence a day, place or set up the sods,
and turn them to dry. There is something
picturesque in the wild scene; the brown
waste in clear contrast with the blue hills;
the lines and patches of sunlight, catching a
bunch of yellow weeds or purple heather
here—a little pool there—a group of women