THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
| Number 40. | SATURDAY, APRIL 3, 1841. | Volume I. |
THE IRISH MIDWIFE, Part III.—DANDY KEHO’S CHRISTENING.
BY WILLIAM CARLETON.
The following Sunday morning, Rose paid an early visit to her patient, for, as it was the day of young Dandy’s christening, her presence was considered indispensable. There is, besides, something in the appearance and bearing of a midwife upon those occasions which diffuses a spirit of buoyancy and light-heartedness not only through the immediate family, but also through all who may happen to participate in the ceremony, or partake of the good cheer. In many instances it is known that the very presence of a medical attendant communicates such a cheerful confidence to his patient, as, independently of any prescription, is felt to be a manifest relief. So is it with the midwife; with this difference, that she exercises a greater and more comical latitude of consolation than the doctor, although it must be admitted that the one generally falls woefully short of that conventional dress with which we cover nudity of expression. No doubt many of her very choicest stock jokes, to carry on the metaphor, are a little too fashionably dressed to pass current out of the sphere in which they are used; but be this as it may, they are so traditional in character, and so humorous in conception, that we never knew the veriest prude to feel offended, or the morosest temperament to maintain its sourness, at their recital. Not that she is at all gross or unwomanly in any thing she may say, but there is generally in her apothegms a passing touch of fancy—a quick but terse vivacity of insinuation, at once so full of fun and sprightliness, and that truth which all know but few like to acknowledge, that we defy any one not irretrievably gone in some incurable melancholy to resist her humour. The moment she was seen approaching the house, every one in it felt an immediate elevation of spirits, with the exception of Mrs Keho herself, who knew that wherever Rose had the arrangement of the bill of fare, there was sure to be what the Irish call “full an’ plinty”—“lashins an’ lavins”—a fact which made her groan in spirit at the bare contemplation of such waste and extravagance. She was indeed a woman of a very un-Irish heart—so sharp in her temper and so penurious in soul, that one would imagine her veins were filled with vinegar instead of blood.
“Banaght Dheah in shoh” (the blessing of God be here), Rose exclaimed on entering.
“Banaght Dheah agus Murra ghuid” (the blessing of God and the Virgin on you), replied Corny, “an’ you’re welcome, Rose ahagur.”
“I know that, Corny. Well, how are we?—how is my son?”
“Begarra, thrivin’ like a pair o’ throopers.”
“Thank God for it! Hav’n’t we a good right to be grateful to him any way? An’ is my little man to be christened to-day?”
“Indeed he is—the gossips will be here presently, an’ so will her mother. But, Rose, dear, will you take the ordherin’ of the aitin’ an’ drinkin’ part of it?—you’re betther up to these things than we are, an’ so you ought, of coorse. Let there be no want of any thing; an’ if there’s an overplush, sorra may care; there’ll be poor mouths enough about the door for whatever’s left. So, you see, keep never mindin’ any hint she may give you—you know she’s a little o’ the closest; but no matther. Let there, as I said, be enough an’ to spare.”
“Throth, there spoke your father’s son, Corny; all the ould dacency’s not dead yet, any how. Well, I’ll do my best. But she’s not fit to be up, you know, an’ of coorse can’t disturb us.” The expression of her eye could not be misunderstood as she uttered this. “I see,” said Corny—“devil a betther, if you manage that, all’s right.”
“An’ now I must go in, till I see how she an’ my son’s gettin’ an: that’s always my first start; bekase you know, Corny, honey, that their health goes afore every thing.”
Having thus undertaken the task required of her, she passed into the bedroom of Mrs Keho, whom she found determined to be up, in order, as she said, to be at the head of her own table.
“Well, alanna, if you must, you must; but in the name of goodness I wash my hands out of the business teetotally. Dshk, dshk, dshk! Oh, wurra! to think of a woman in your state risin’ to sit at her own table! That I may never, if I’ll see it, or be about the place at all. If you take your life by your own wilfulness, why, God forgive you; but it mustn’t be while I’m here. But since you’re bent on it, why, give me the child, an’ afore I go, any how, I may as well dress it, poor thing! The heavens pity it—my little man—eh?—where was it?—cheep—that’s it, a ducky; stretch away. Aye stretchin’ an’ thrivin’ an, my son! Oh, thin, wurra! Mrs Keho, but it’s you that ought to ax God’s pardon for goin’ to do what might lave that darlin’ o’ the world an orphan, may be. Arrah be the vestments, if I can have patience wid you. May God pity you, my child. If anything happened your mother, what ’ud become of you, and what ’ud become of your poor father this day? Dshk, dshk, dshk!” These latter sounds, exclamations of surprise and regret, were produced by striking the tongue against that part of the inward gum which covers the roots of the teeth.
“Indeed, Rose,” replied her patient, in her sharp, shrill, quick voice, “I’m able enough to get up; if I don’t, we’ll be harrished. Corny’s a fool, an’ it’ll be only rap an’ rive wid every one in the place.”
“Wait, ma’am, if you plaise. Where’s his little barrow? Ay, I have it. Wait, ma’am, if you plaise, till I get the child dressed, an’ I’ll soon take myself out o’ this. Heaven presarve us! I have seen the like o’ this afore—ay have I—where it was as clear as crystal that there was something over them—ay, over them that took their own way as you’re doin’.”
“But if I don’t get up”——
“Oh, by all manes, ma’am—by all manes. I suppose you have a laise o’ your life, that’s all. It’s what I wish I could get.”
“An’ must I stay here in bed all day, an’ me able to rise, an’ sich wilful waste as will go an too?”
“Remember you’re warned. This is your first baby, God bless it, an’ spare you both. But, Mrs Keho, does it stand to raison that you’re as good a judge of these things as a woman like me, that it’s my business? I ax you that, ma’am.”
This poser in fact settled the question, not only by the reasonable force of the conclusion to be derived from it, but by the cool authoritative manner in which it was put.
“Well,” said the other, “in that case, I suppose, I must give in. You ought to know best.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am; have you found it out at last? No, but you ought to put your two hands under my feet for preventin’ you from doin’ what you intinded. That I may never sup sorrow, but it was as much as your life was worth. Compose yourself; I’ll see that there’s no waste, and that’s enough. Here, hould my son—why, thin, isn’t he the beauty o’ the world, now that he has got his little dress upon him?—till I pin up this apron across the windy; the light’s too strong for you. There now: the light’s apt to give one a headache when it comes in full bint upon the eyes that way. Come, alanna, come an now, till I show you to your father an’ them all. Wurra, thin, Mrs Keho, darlin’,” (this was said in a low confidential whisper, and in a playful wheedling tone which baffles all description), “wurra, thin, Mrs Keho, darlin’, but it’s he that’s the proud man, the proud Corny, this day. Rise your head a little—aisy—there now, that’ll do—one kiss to my son, now, before he laives his mammy, he says, for a weeny while, till he pays his little respects to his daddy an’ to all his friends, he says, an’ thin he’ll come back to mammy agin—to his own little bottle, he says.”
Young Corny soon went the rounds of the whole family, from his father down to the little herd-boy who followed and took care of the cattle. Many were the jokes which passed between the youngsters on this occasion—jokes which have been registered by such personages as Rose, almost in every family in the kingdom, for centuries, and with which most of the Irish people are too intimately and thoroughly acquainted to render it necessary for us to repeat them here.
Rose now addressed herself to the task of preparing breakfast, which, in honour of the happy event, was nothing less than “tay, white bread, and Boxty,” with a glass of poteen to sharpen the appetite. As Boxty, however, is a description of bread not generally known to our readers, we shall give them a sketch of the manner in which this Irish luxury is made. A basket of the best potatoes is got, which are washed and peeled raw; then is procured a tin grater, on which they are grated; the water is then shired off them, and the macerated mass is put into a clean sheet, or table-cloth, or bolster-cover. This is caught at each end by two strong men, who twist it in opposite directions until the contortions drive up the substance into the middle of the sheet, &c.; this of course expels the water also; but lest the twisting should be insufficient for that purpose, it is placed, like a cheese-cake, under a heavy weight, until it is properly dried. They then knead it into cakes, and bake it on a pan or griddle; and when eaten with butter, we can assure our readers that it is quite delicious.
The hour was now about nine o’clock, and the company asked to the christening began to assemble. The gossips or sponsors were four in number; two of them wealthy friends of the family that had never been married, and the two others a simple country pair, who were anxious to follow in the matrimonial steps of Corny and his wife. The rest were, as usual, neighbours, relatives, and cleaveens, to the amount of sixteen or eighteen persons, men, women, and children, all dressed in their best apparel, and disposed to mirth and friendship. Along with the rest was Bob M’Cann, the fool, who by the way could smell out a good dinner with as keen a nostril as the wisest man in the parish could boast of, and who on such occasions carried turf and water in quantities that indicated the supernatural strength of a Scotch brownie rather than that of a human being. Bob’s qualities, however, were well proportioned to each other, for, truth to say, his appetite was equal to his strength, and his cunning to either.
Corny and Mrs Moan were in great spirits, and indeed we might predicate as much of all who were present. Not a soul entered the house who was not brought up by Corny to an out-shot room, as a private mark of his friendship, and treated to an underhand glass of as good poteen “as ever went down the red lane,” to use a phrase common among the people. Nothing upon an occasion naturally pleasant gives conversation a more cheerful impulse than this; and the consequence was, that in a short time the scene was animated and mirthful to an unusual degree.
Breakfast at length commenced in due form. Two bottles of whisky were placed upon the table, and the first thing done was to administer a glass to each guest.
“Come, neighbours,” said Corny, “we must dhrink the good woman’s health before we ate, especially as it’s the first time, any how.”
“To be sure they will, achora, an’ why not? An’ if it’s the first time, Corny, it won’t be the—— Musha! you’re welcome, Mrs ——! an’ jist in time too”—this she said, addressing his mother-in-law, who then entered. “Look at this swaddy, Mrs ——; my soul to happiness, but he’s fit to be the son of a lord. Eh, a pet? Where was my darlin’? Corny, let me dip my finger in the whisky till I rub his gums wid it. That’s my bully! Oh, the heavens love it, see how it puts the little mouth about lookin’ for it agin. Throth you’ll have the spunk in you yet, acushla, an’ it’s a credit to the Kehos you’ll be, if you’re spared, as you will, plaise the heavens!”
“Well, Corny,” said one of the gossips, “here’s a speedy uprise an’ a sudden recovery to the good woman, an’ the little sthranger’s health, an’ God bless the baker that gives thirteen to the dozen, any how!”
“Ay, ay, Paddy Rafferty, you’ll have your joke any way; an’, throth, you’re welcome to it, Paddy; if you weren’t, it isn’t standin’ for young Corny you’d be to-day.”
“Thrue enough,” said Rose, “an’, by the dickens, Paddy isn’t the boy to be long under an obligation to any one. Eh, Paddy, did I help you there, avick? Aisy, childre; you’ll smother my son if you crush about him that way.” This was addressed to some of the youngsters, who were pressing round to look at and touch the infant.
“It won’t be my fault if I do, Rose,” said Paddy, slyly eyeing Peggy Betagh, then betrothed to him, who sat opposite, her dark eyes flashing with repressed humour and affection. Deafness, however, is sometimes a very convenient malady to young ladies, for Peggy immediately commenced a series of playful attentions to the unconscious infant, which were just sufficient to excuse her from noticing this allusion to their marriage. Rose looked at her, then nodded comically to Paddy, shutting both her eyes by way of a wink, adding aloud, “Throth you’ll be the happy boy, Paddy; an’ woe betide you if you aren’t the sweetest end of a honeycomb to her. Take care an’ don’t bring me upon you. Well, Peggy, never mind, alanna; who has a betther right to his joke than the dacent boy that’s—aisy, childre: saints above! but ye’ll smother the child, so you will.—Where did I get him, Dinney? sure I brought him as a present to Mrs Keho; I never come but I bring a purty little babby along wid me—than the dacent boy, dear, that’s soon to be your lovin’ husband? Arrah, take your glass, acushla; the sorrabarm it’ll do you.”
“Bedad, I’m afeard, Mrs Moan. What if it ’ud get into my head, an’ me’s to stand for my little godson? No, bad scran to me if I could—faix, a glass ’ud be too many for me.”
“It’s not more than half tilled, dear; but there’s sense in what the girl says, Dandy, so don’t press it an her.”
In the brief space allotted to us we could not possibly give any thing like a full and correct picture of the happiness and hilarity which prevailed at the breakfast in question. When it was over, they all prepared to go to the parish chapel, which was distant at least a couple of miles, the midwife staying at home to see that all the necessary preparations were made for dinner. As they were departing, Rose took the Dandy aside, and addressed him thus:
“Now, Dandy, when you see the priest, tell him that it is your wish, above all things, ‘that he should christen it against the fairies.’ If you say that, it’s enough. And, Peggy, achora, come here. You’re not carryin’ that child right, alanna; but you’ll know betther yet, plaise goodness. No, avillish, don’t keep its little head so closely covered wid your cloak; the day’s a burnin’ day, glory be to God, an’ the Lord guard my child; sure the least thing in the world, where there’s too much hait, ’ud smother my darlin’. Keep its head out farther, and just shade its little face that way from the sun. Och, will I ever forget the Sunday whin poor Molly M’Guigan wint to take Pat Feasthalagh’s child from under her cloak to be christened, the poor infant was a corpse; an’ only that the Lord put it into my head to have it privately christened, the father an’ mother’s hearts would break. Glory be to God! Mrs Duggan, if the child gets cross, dear, or misses any thing, act the mother by him, the little man. Eh, alanna! where was it? Where was my duck o’ diamonds—my little Con Roe? My own sweety little ace o’ hearts—eh, alanna! Well, God keep it, till I see it again, the jewel!”
Well, the child was baptized by the name of his father, and the persons assembled, after their return from chapel, lounged about Corny’s house, or took little strolls in the neighbourhood, until the hour of dinner. This of course was much more convivial, and ten times more vociferous, than the breakfast, cheerful as that meal was. At dinner they had a dish, which we believe is, like the Boxty, peculiarly Irish in its composition: we mean what is called sthilk. This consists of potatoes and beans pounded up together in such a manner that the beans are not broken, and on this account the potatoes are well champed before the beans are put into them. This is dished in a large bowl, and a hole made in the middle of it, into which a miscaun or roll of butter is thrust, and then covered up until it is melted. After this, every one takes a spoon and digs away with his utmost vigour, dipping every morsel into the well of butter in the middle, before he puts it into his mouth. Indeed, from the strong competition which goes forward, and the rapid motion of each right hand, no spectator could be mistaken in ascribing the motive of their proceedings to the principle of the old proverb, devil take the hindmost. Sthilk differs from another dish made of potatoes in much the same way, called colcannon. If there were beans, for instance, in colcannon, it would be sthilk. This practice of many persons eating out of the same dish, though Irish, and not cleanly, is of very old antiquity. Christ himself mentions it at the Last Supper. Let us hope, however, that, like the old custom which once prevailed in Ireland, of several persons drinking at meals out of the same mether, the usage we speak of will soon be replaced by one of more cleanliness and individual comfort.
After dinner the whisky began to go round, for in these days punch was a luxury almost unknown to the class we are writing of. In fact, nobody there knew how to make it but the midwife, who wisely kept the secret to herself, aware that if the whisky were presented to them in such a palatable shape, they would not know when to stop, and she herself might fall short of the snug bottle that is usually kept as a treat for those visits which she continues to pay during the convalescence of her patients.
“Come, Rose,” said Corny, who was beginning to soften fast, “it’s your turn now to thry a glass of what never seen wather.” “I’ll take the glass, Dandy—deed will I—but the thruth is, I never dhrink it hard. No, but I’ll jist take a drop o’ hot wather an’ a grain o’ sugar, an’ scald it; that an’ as much carraway seeds us will lie upon a sixpence does me good; for, God help me, the stomach isn’t at all sthrong wid me, in regard of bein’ up so much at night, an’ deprived of my nathural rest.”
“Rose,” said one of them, “is it thrue that you war called out one night, an’ brought blindfoulded to some grand lady belongin’ to the quality?”
“Wait, avick, till I make a drop o’ wan-grace[1] for the misthress, poor thing; an’, Corny, I’ll jist throuble you for about a thimbleful o’ spirits to take the smell o’ the wather off it. The poor creature, she’s a little weak still, an’ indeed it’s wonderful how she stood it out; but, my dear, God’s good to his own, an’ fits the back to the burden, praise be to his name!”
She then proceeded to scald the drop of spirits for herself, or, in other words, to mix a good tumbler of ladies’ punch, making it, as the phrase goes, hot, strong, and sweet—not forgetting the carraways, to give it a flavour. This being accomplished, she made the wan-grace for Mrs Keho, still throwing in a word now and then to sustain her part in the conversation, which was now rising fast into mirth, laughter, and clamour.
“Well, but, Rose, about the lady of quality, will you tell us that?”
“Oh, many a thing happened me as well worth tellin’, if you go to that; but I’ll tell it to you, childre, for sure the curiosity’s nathural to yez. Why, I was one night at home an’ asleep, an’ I hears a horse’s foot gallopin’ for the bare life up to the door. I immediately put my head out, an’ the horseman says, ‘Are you Mrs Moan?’
‘That’s the name that’s an me, your honour,’ says myself.
‘Dress yourself thin,’ says he, ‘for you’re sadly wanted; dress yourself and mount behind me, for there’s not a moment to be lost!’ At the same time I forgot to say that his hat was tied about his face in sich a way that I couldn’t catch a glimpse of it. Well, my dear, we didn’t let the grass grow undher our feet for about a mile or so. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘you must allow yourself to be blindfoulded, an’ it’s useless to oppose it, for it must be done. There’s the character, may be the life, of a great lady at stake; so be quiet till I cover your eyes, or,’ says he, lettin’ out a great oath, ‘it’ll be worse for you. I’m a desperate man;’ an’, sure enough, I could feel the heart of him beatin’ undher his ribs, as if it would burst in pieces. Well, my dears, what could I do in the hands of a man that was strong and desperate. ‘So,’ says I, ‘cover my eyes in welcome; only, for the lady’s sake, make no delay.’ Wid that he dashed his spurs into the poor horse, an’ he foamin’ an’ smokin’ like a lime-kiln already. Any way, in about half an hour I found myself in a grand bedroom; an’ jist as I was put into the door, he whishpers me to bring the child to him in the next room, as soon as it would be born. Well, sure I did so, afther lavin’ the mother in a fair way. But what ’ud you have of it?—the first thing I see, lyin’ an the table, was a purse of money an’ a case o’ pistols. Whin I looked at him, I thought the devil, Lord guard us! was in his face, he looked so black and terrible about the brows. ‘Now, my good woman,’ says he, ‘so far you’ve acted well, but there’s more to be done yet. Take your choice of these two,’ says he, ‘this purse, or the contents o’ one o’ these pistols, as your reward. You must murdher the child upon the spot.’ ‘In the name of God an’ his Mother, be you man or devil, I defy you,’ says I; ‘no innocent blood ’ll ever be shed by these hands.’ ‘I’ll give you ten minutes,’ says he, ‘to put an end to that brat there;’ an’ wid that he cocked one o’ the pistols. My dears, I had nothin’ for it but to say in to myself a pather an’ ave as fast as I could, for I thought it was all over wid me. However, glory be to God! the prayers gave me great stringth, an’ I spoke stoutly. ‘Whin the king of Jerusalem,’ says I—‘an’ he was a greater man than ever you’ll be—whin the king of Jerusalem ordhered the midwives of Aigyp to put Moses to death, they wouldn’t do it, and God preserved them in spite of him, king though he was,’ says I; ‘an’ from that day to this it was never known that a midwife took away the life of the babe she aided into the world—No, an’ I’m not goin’ to be the first that’ll do it.’ ‘The time is out,’ says he, puttin’ the pistol to my ear, ‘but I’ll give you one minute more.’ ‘Let me go to my knees first,’ says I; ‘an’ now may God have mercy on my sowl, for, bad as I am, I’m willin’ to die, sooner than commit murdher an the innocent.’ He gave a start as I spoke, an’ threw the pistol down. ‘Ay,’ said he, ‘an the innocent—an the innocent—that is thrue! But you are an extraordinary woman: you have saved that child’s life, and previnted me from committing two great crimes, for it was my intintion to murder you afther you had murdered it.’ I thin, by his ordhers, brought the poor child to its mother, and whin I came back to the room, ‘Take that purse,’ says he, ‘an’ keep it as a reward for your honesty.’ ‘Wid the help o’ God,’ says I, ‘a penny of it will never come into my company, so it’s no use to ax me.’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘afore you lave this, you must swear not to mintion to a livin’ sowl what has happened this night, for a year and a day.’ It didn’t signify to me whether I mintioned it or not; so being jack-indifferent about it, I tuck the oath, and kept it. He thin bound my eyes agin, hoisted me up behind him, an’ in a short time left me at home. Indeed, I wasn’t betther o’ the start it tuck out o’ me for as good as six weeks afther!”
The company now began to grow musical; several songs were sung; and when the evening got farther advanced, a neighbouring fiddler was sent for, and the little party had a dance in the barn, to which they adjourned lest the noise might disturb Mrs Keho, had they held it in the dwelling-house. Before this occurred, however, the “midwife’s glass” went the round of the gossips, each of whom drank her health, and dropped some silver, at the same time, into the bottom of it. It was then returned to her, and with a smiling face she gave the following toast:—“Health to the parent stock! So long as it thrives, there will always be branches! Corny Keho, long life an’ good health to you an’ yours! May your son live to see himself as happy as his father! Youngsters, here’s that you may follow a good example! The company’s health in general I wish; an’, Paddy Rafferty, that you may never have a blind child but you’ll have a lame one to lead it!—ha! ha! ha! What’s the world widout a joke? I must see the good woman an’ my little son afore I go; but as I won’t follow yez to the barn, I’ll bid yez good night, neighbours, an’ the blessin’ of Rose Moan be among yez!”
And so also do we take leave of our old friend Rose Moan, the Irish Midwife, who we understand took her last leave of the world only about a twelvemonth ago.
[1] A wan-grace is a kind of small gruel or meal tea sweetened with sugar.