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.”