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!”