{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54563/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54563","id":"gutenberg_54563","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54563","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: History - Other","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n       NUMBER 26.      SATURDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1840.      VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF TERMON MAGRATH, COUNTY OF DONEGAL.]\n\nIn a recent number of our journal we called the attention of our readers\nto the little-appreciated beauties of Lough Erne; and we now present\nthem with another vista of that delightful locality in connection with\nthe Castle of Termon Magrath, or Termon, as it is more usually called,\nwhich is situated at its northern extremity, in the county of Donegal.\nConsidered as a sheet of water, the lower lake appears from this side to\nthe greatest advantage; but its distant shores are but little improved by\nplantations, and consequently look comparatively bleak and barren. In the\nimmediate vicinity of our subject, however, the scenery is of the rich\ncharacter for which Lough Erne is so remarkable, the shores of the lake\nbeing fringed with the plantations of the glebe of Templecarn and those\nof Waterfoot, the beautiful seat of Colonel Barton.\n\nThe Castle of Termon is situated in the parish of Templecarn, about half\na mile to the west of the pleasant and improving little town of Pettigoe,\nwhich, if it had a comfortable inn, would be a good station for pleasure\ntourists wishing to enjoy the scenery of the lower Lough Erne and that of\nLough Derg, with its celebrated purgatory of St Patrick.\n\nThe foundation of this castle, according to popular tradition, is\nascribed to the celebrated Malmurry, or, as he was usually called, Myler\nMagrath, the first Protestant Bishop of Clogher; and there is every\nreason to believe this tradition correct. The lands on which the castle\nis situated anciently constituted the Termon of St Daveog of Lough Derg,\nof which the Magraths were hereditarily the termoners or churchwardens;\nand of this family Myler Magrath was the head; so that these lands\nproperly belonged to him anteriorly to any grant of them derived through\nhis bishopric. He was originally a Franciscan friar, and being a man of\ndistinguished abilities, was advanced by Pope Pius V. to the see of Down;\nbut having afterwards embraced Protestantism, he was placed in the see of\nClogher by letter of Queen Elizabeth, dated 18th May 1570, and by grant\ndated the 18th September, in the same year. He remained, however, but a\nshort time in this see, in which he received but little or nothing of the\nrevenues, and in which he was probably surrounded by enemies even among\nhis own kindred, and was translated to the archbishopric of Cashel on\nthe 3d of February, in the year following. He died at Cashel at the age\nof one hundred, in the year 1622, and was interred in the choir of that\nancient cathedral, where a splendid monument to his memory still exists,\nwith a Latin inscription penned by himself, of which the following quaint\ntranslation is given in Harris\u2019s Ware:--\n\n    Patrick, the glory of our isle and gown,\n    First sat a bishop in the see of Down.\n    I wish that I, succeeding him in place\n    As bishop, had an equal share of grace.\n    I served thee, England, fifty years in jars,\n    And pleased thy princes in the midst of wars;\n    Here where I\u2019m placed I\u2019m not; and thus the case is,\n    I\u2019m not in both, yet am in both the places. 1621.\n        He that judgeth me is the Lord.--1 Cor. iv.\n        Let him who stands take care lest he fall.\n\nHarris remarks, that the Roman Catholics of his diocese have a tradition\nthat he returned to his original faith previously to his death, and that\nthough it was pretended that he was buried in his own cathedral, yet\nhe had given private orders for burying his body elsewhere, to which\ncircumstance, as they say, the two last lines of his epitaph allude.\n\u201cBut,\u201d says Harris, \u201calthough he was no good man, and had impoverished\nhis see by stripping it of much of its ancient estate, yet I do not\nfind any room to call his sincerity as to his religious profession\nin question, living or dying. These lines rather seem to hint at the\nseparate existence of the soul and body.\u201d But however this may be, there\nis another tradition relative to him less doubtful, inasmuch as it is\ncommon to the peasantry of different creeds, namely, that he was the\nhandsomest man in Ireland in his day!\n\nThe Castle of Termon, like most edifices of the kind erected in the\nsixteenth century, consisted of a strong keep with circular towers at two\nof its angles, and encompassed by outworks. It was battered by Ireton\nfrom the neighbouring hill in the parliamentary wars; but its ruins are\nconsiderable, and by their picturesqueness add interest to the northern\nshore of the lower Lough Erne.\n\n                                                                       P.\n\n\n\n\nTHE IRISH MIDWIFE.\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nIntroductory.\n\nOf the many remarkable characters that have been formed by the spirit and\nhabits of Irish feeling among the peasantry, there is not one so clear,\ndistinct, and well traced, as that of the Midwife. We could mention\nseveral that are certainly marked with great precision, and that stand\nout in fine relief to the eye of the spectator, but none at all, who\nin richness of colouring, in boldness of outline, or in firmness and\nforce, can for a moment be compared with the Midwife. The Fiddler for\ninstance lives a life sufficiently graphic and distinct; so does the\nDancing-master, and so also does the Matchmaker, but with some abatement\nof colouring. As for the Cosherer, the Shanahie, the Keener, and the\nFoster-nurse, although all mellow toned, and well individualized by the\nstrong power of hereditary usage, yet do they stand dim and shadowy, when\nplaced face to face with this great exponent of national temperament.\n\nIt is almost impossible to conceive a character of greater\nself-importance than an Irish Midwife, or who exhibits in her whole\nbearing a more complacent consciousness of her own privileges. The\nFiddler might be dispensed with, and the Dancing-master might follow him\noff the stage; the Cosherer, Shanahie, Keener, might all disappear, and\nthe general business of life still go on as before. But not so with her\nwhom we are describing; and this conviction is the very basis of her\npower, the secret source from which she draws the confidence that bears\ndown every rival claim upon the affections of the people.\n\nBefore we introduce Rose Moan to our kind readers, we shall briefly\nrelate a few points of character peculiar to the Irish Midwife, because\nthey are probably not in general known to a very numerous class of our\nreaders. This is a matter which we are the more anxious to do, because\nit is undeniable that an acquaintance with many of the old legendary\npowers with which she was supposed to be invested, is fast fading out of\nthe public memory; and unless put into timely record, it is to be feared\nthat in the course of one or two generations more, they may altogether\ndisappear and be forgotten.\n\nOne of the least known of the secrets which old traditionary lore\naffirmed to have been in possession of the Midwife, was the knowledge of\nhow beer might be brewed from heather. The Irish people believe that the\nDanes understood and practised this valuable process, and will assure\nyou that the liquor prepared from materials so cheap and abundant was\nsuperior in strength and flavour to any ever produced from malt. Nay,\nthey will tell you how it conferred such bodily strength and courage upon\nthose who drank it, that it was to the influence and virtue of this alone\nthat the Danes held such a protracted sway, and won so many victories\nin Ireland. It was a secret, however, too valuable to be disclosed,\nespecially to enemies, who would lose no time in turning the important\nconsequences of it against the Danes themselves. The consequence was,\nthat from the day the first Dane set foot upon the soil of Ireland, until\nthat upon which they bade it adieu for ever, no Irishman was ever able to\nget possession of it. It came to be known, however, and the knowledge of\nit is said to be still in the country, but must remain unavailable until\nthe fulfilment of a certain prophecy connected with the liberation of\nIreland shall take away the obligation of a most solemn oath, which bound\nthe original recipient of the secret to this conditional silence. The\ncircumstances are said to have been these:--\n\nOn the evening previous to the final embarkation of the Danes for their\nown country, the wife of their prince was seized with the pains of\nchildbirth, and there being no midwife among themselves, an Irish one\nwas brought, who, as the enmity between the nations was both strong and\nbitter, resolutely withheld her services, unless upon the condition of\nbeing made acquainted with this invaluable process. The crisis it seems\nbeing a very trying one, the condition was complied with; but the midwife\nwas solemnly sworn never to communicate it to any but a woman, and never\nto put it in practice until Ireland should be free, and any two of its\nprovinces at peace with each other. The midwife, thinking very naturally\nthat there remained no obstacle to the accomplishment of these conditions\nbut the presence of the Danes themselves, and seeing that they were on\nthe eve of leaving the country for ever, imagined herself perfectly safe\nin entering into the obligation; but it so happened, says the tradition,\nthat although the knowledge of the secret is among the Irish midwives\nstill, yet it never could be applied, and never will, until Ireland shall\nbe in the state required by the terms of her oath. So runs the tradition.\n\nThere is, however, one species of power with which some of the old\nmidwives were said to be gifted, so exquisitely ludicrous, and yet at the\nsame time so firmly fixed in the belief of many among the people, that\nwe cannot do justice to the character without mentioning so strange an\nacquisition. It is this, that where a husband happens to be cruel to his\nwife, or suspects her unjustly, the Midwife is able, by some mysterious\ncharm, to inflict upon him and remove from the wife the sufferings\nannexed to her confinement, as the penalty mentioned by holy writ which\nis to follow the sex in consequence of the transgression of our mother\nEve. Some of our readers may perhaps imagine this to be incredible, but\nwe assure them that it is strictly true. Such a superstition did prevail\nin Ireland among the humbler classes, and still does, to an extent which\nwould surprise any one not as well acquainted with old Irish usages and\nsuperstitions as we happen to be. The manner in which the Midwife got\npossession of this power is as follows:--It sometimes happened that\nthe \u201cgood people,\u201d or _Dhoine Shee_--that is, the fairies--were put\nto the necessity of having recourse to the aid of the Midwife. On one\nof those occasions it seems, the good woman discharged her duties so\nsuccessfully, that the fairy matron, in requital for her services and\npromptitude of attendance, communicated to her this secret, so formidable\nto all bad husbands. From the period alluded to, say the people, it\nhas of course been gladly transmitted from hand to hand, and on many\noccasions resorted to with fearful but salutary effect. Within our own\nmemory several instances of its application were pointed out to us, and\nthe very individuals themselves, when closely interrogated, were forced\nto an assertion that was at least equivalent to an admission, \u201cit was\nnothing but an attack of the cholic,\u201d which by the way was little else\nthan a libel upon that departed malady. Many are the tales told of cases\nin which midwives were professionally serviceable to the good people;\nbut unless their assistance was repaid by the communication of some\nsecret piece of knowledge, it was better to receive no payment, any other\ndescription of remuneration being considered unfortunate. Some of those\nstories have been well told, and with others of them we may probably\namuse our readers upon some future occasion.\n\nFrom this source also was derived another most valuable quality said to\nbe possessed by the Irish Midwife, but one which we should suppose the\nvirtue of our fair countrywomen rendered of very infrequent application.\nThis was the power of destroying jealousy between man and wife. We forget\nwhether it was said to be efficacious in cases of guilt, but we should\nimagine that the contrary would rather hold good, as an Irishman is\nnot exactly that description of husband who would suffer himself to be\ncharmed back into the arms of a polluted wife. This was effected by the\nknowledge of a certain herb, a decoction of which the parties were to\ndrink nine successive times, each time before sunrise and after sunset.\nOf course the name of the herb was kept a profound secret; but even if it\nhad been known, it could have proved of little value, for the full force\nof its influence depended on a charm which the Midwife had learned among\nthe fairies. Whether it was the _Anacampserotes_ of the middle ages or\nnot, is difficult to say; but one thing is certain, that not only have\nmidwives, but other persons of both sexes, gone about through the country\nprofessing to cure jealousy by the juice or decoction of a mysterious\nherb, which was known only to themselves. It is not unlikely to suppose\nthat this great secret after all was nothing more than a perverted\napplication of the Waters of Jealousy mentioned by Moses, and that it\nonly resembled many other charms practised in this and other countries,\nwhich are generally founded upon certain passages of Scripture. Indeed,\nthere is little doubt that the practice of attempting to cure jealousy by\nherbs existed elsewhere as well as in Ireland; and one would certainly\nimagine that Shakspeare, who left nothing connected with the human heart\nuntouched, must have alluded to the very custom we are treating of, when\nhe makes Iago, speaking of Othello\u2019s jealousy, say,\n\n    \u201cLook where he comes! not poppy nor mandragora,\n    Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,\n    Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep\n    Which thou hadst yesterday.\u201d\n\nHere it is quite evident that the efficacy of the \u201csyrups\u201d spoken of\nwas to be tried upon the mind only in which the Moor\u2019s horrible malady\nexisted. That Shakspeare, in the passage quoted, alluded to this singular\ncustom, is, we think, at least extremely probable.\n\nWe have said that the Midwife stood high as a matchmaker, and so\nunquestionably she did. No woman was better acquainted with charms of\nall kinds, especially with those that were calculated to aid or throw\nlight upon the progress of love. If for instance young persons of\neither sex felt doubt as to whether their passion was returned, they\ngenerally consulted the Midwife, who, on hearing a statement of their\napprehensions, appointed a day on which she promised to satisfy them.\nAccordingly, at the time agreed upon, she and the party interested\nrepaired as secretly as might be, and with much mystery, to some lonely\nplace, where she produced a Bible and key, both of which she held in\na particular position--that is, the Bible suspended by a string which\npassed through the key. She then uttered with a grave and solemn face\nthe following verses from the Book of Ruth, which the young person\naccompanying her was made to repeat slowly and deliberately after her:--\n\n\u201cAnd Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following\nafter thee: for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I\nwill lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God:\n\n\u201cWhere thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so\nto me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.\u201d\n\nIf at the conclusion of these words the Bible turned, she affirmed, with\nthe air of a prophetess, not only that the affection of the parties was\nmutual, but that their courtship would terminate in marriage. If, on the\ncontrary, it remained stationary, the passion existed only on one side,\nand the parties were not destined for each other. Oh, credulous love! not\nto see that the venerable sybil could allow the Bible to turn or not,\njust as she may have previously ascertained from either party whether\ntheir attachment was reciprocal or otherwise! We dare say the above charm\nis seldom resorted to now, and of course this harmless imposition on the\nlovers will soon cease to be practised at all.\n\nThe Midwife\u2019s aid to lovers, however, did not stop here. If they wished\nto create a passion in some heart where it had not previously existed,\nshe told them to get a dormouse and reduce it to powder, a pinch of\nwhich, if put into the drink of the person beloved, would immediately\nrivet his or her affections upon the individual by whose hands it was\nadministered. Many anecdotes are told of humorous miscarriages that\nresulted from a neglect of this condition. One is especially well\nknown, of a young woman who gave the potion through the hands of her\ngrandmother; and the consequence was, that the bachelor immediately\nmade love to the old lady instead of the young one, and eventually\nbecame grandfather to the latter instead of her husband. Indeed, the\nadministering of philtres and the use of charms in Ireland were formerly\nvery frequent, and occasionally attended by results which had not been\nanticipated. The use especially of _cantharides_, or French flies, in the\nhands of the ignorant, has often been said to induce madness, and not\nunfrequently to occasion death. It is not very long since a melancholy\ncase of the latter from this very cause appeared in an Irish newspaper.\n\nThe Midwife was also a great interpreter of dreams, omens, auguries, and\nsigns of all possible sorts, and no youngsters who ever consulted her\nneed be long at a loss for a personal view of the object of their love.\nThey had only to seek in some remote glen or dell for a briar whose top\nhad taken root in the ground; this they were to put under their pillow\nand sleep upon, and the certain consequence was, that the image of the\nfuture wife or husband would appear to them in a dream. She was also\nfamous at cup-tossing; and nothing could surpass the shrewd and sapient\nexpression of her face as she sat solemnly peering into the grounds\nof the tea for the imaginary forms of rings, and love-letters, and\ncarriages, which were necessary to the happy purport of her divination,\nfor she felt great reluctance to foretell calamity. She seldom, however,\nhad recourse to card-cutting, which she looked upon as an unholy\npractice; the cards, as everyone knows, being the only book on which\nthe devil says his prayers night and morning. Who has not heard of his\n_prayer-book_?\n\nWe are now to consider the Midwife in the capacity of a woman not only\nbrimful of medicinal knowledge, but possessed of many secrets, which the\nmere physician or apothecary could never penetrate. As a doctress, she\npossessed a very high reputation for all complaints incident to children\nand females; and where herbal skill failed, unlike the mere scientific\nman of diplomas, she could set physical causes and effects aside, and\nhave recourse at once to the supernatural and miraculous.\n\nFor instance, there are two complaints which she is, beyond any other\nindividual, celebrated for managing--that is to say, headache, and\nanother malady which is anonymous, or only known to country folk by\nwhat is termed \u201cthe spool or bone of the breast being down.\u201d The first\nshe cures by a very formal and serious process called \u201cmeasuring the\nhead.\u201d This is done by a ribbon, which she puts round the cranium,\nrepeating during the admeasurement a certain prayer or charm from\nwhich the operation is to derive its whole efficacy. The measuring is\nperformed twice--in the first instance, to show that its sutures are\nseparated by disease, or, to speak more plainly, that the bones of the\nhead are absolutely opened, and that as a natural consequence the head\nmust be much larger than when the patient is in a state of health. The\ncircumference of the first admeasurement is marked upon a ribbon, after\nwhich she repeats the charm that is to remove the headache, and measures\nthe cranium again, in order to show, by a comparison of the two ribbons,\nthat the sutures have been closed, the charm successful, and the headache\nconsequently removed. It is impossible to say how the discrepancy in the\nmeasurement is brought about; but be that as it may, the writer of this\nhas frequently seen the operation performed in such a way as to defy\nthe most scrutinising eye to detect any appearance of imposture, and he\nis convinced that in the majority of cases there is not the slightest\nimposture intended. The operator is in truth a dupe to a strong and\ndelusive enthusiasm.\n\nWhen the Midwife raises the spool of the breast, the operation is\nconducted without any assistance from the supernatural. If a boy or\ngirl diminishes in flesh, is troubled with want of rest or of appetite,\nwithout being afflicted with any particular disease, either acute or\nlocal, the Midwife puts her finger under the bone which projects over the\npit of the stomach, and immediately feels that \u201cthe spool of the breast\nis down\u201d--in other words, she informs the parents that the bone is bent\ninwards, and presses upon _the heart_! The raising of this precisely\nresembles the operation of cupping. She gets a penny piece, which she\nplaces upon the spot affected, the patient having been first laid in\na supine posture; after this she burns a little spirits in a tumbler\nin order to exhaust the air in it; she then presses it quickly against\nthe part which is under the penny piece; and in a few moments, to the\namazement of the lookers-on, it is drawn strongly up, and remains so\nuntil the heart-bone is supposed to be raised in such a manner as that it\nwill not return.\n\nThe next charm for which she is remarkable among the people, is that\nby which a mote is taken out of the eye. The manner of doing this is\nas follows:--A white basin is got, and a jug of the purest water; the\nmidwife repeatedly rinses her mouth with the water, until it returns\nas pure and clear as when she took it in. She then walks to and fro,\nrepeating the words of the charm, her mouth all the time filled with the\nwater. When the charm is finished, she pours the water out of her mouth\ninto the clean basin, and will point out the mote, or whatever it may\nhave been, floating in the water, or lying in the bottom of the vessel.\nIn fact, you could scarcely mention a malady with which the Midwife of\nthe old school was not prepared to grapple by the aid of a charm. The\ntoothache, the cholic, measles, childbirth, all had their respective\ncharms. The latter especially required one of a very pithy cast. Every\none knows that the power of fairies in Ireland is never so strong, nor so\nearnestly put forth, as in the moment of parturition, when they strive by\nall possible means to secure the new-born infant before it is christened,\nand leave a changeling in its stead. Invaluable indeed is the midwife who\nis possessed of a charm to prevent this, and knows how to arrange all\nthe ceremonies that are to be observed upon the occasion without making\nany mistake, for that would vitiate all. Many a time on such occasions\nhave the ribs of the roof been made to crack, the windows rattled out,\nthe door pushed with violence, and the whole house shaken as if it would\ntumble about their heads--and all by the fairies--but to no purpose: the\ncharm of the midwife was a rock of defence; the necessary precautions had\nbeen taken, and they were ultimately forced to depart in a strong blast\nof wind, screaming and howling with rage and disappointment as they went.\n\nThere were also charms for the diseases of cattle, to cure which there\nexist in Ireland some processes of very distant antiquity. We ourselves\nhave seen elemental fire produced by the friction of two green boughs\ntogether, applied as a remedy for the black-leg and murrain. This is\nevidently of Pagan origin, and must have some remote affinity with the\nold doctrines of Baal, the ancient god of fire, whose worship was once so\ngeneral in Ireland.\n\nOf these charms it may be said that they are all of a religious\ncharacter, some of them evidently the production of imposture, and others\napparently of those who seriously believed in their efficacy. There is\none thing peculiar about them, which is, that they must be taught to\npersons of the opposite sex: a man, for instance, cannot teach a charm to\na man, nor a woman to a woman, but he may to a woman, as a woman may to a\nman. If taught or learned in violation of this principle, they possess no\nvirtue.\n\nIn treating of the Irish Midwife, we cannot permit ourselves to overlook\nthe superstition of the \u201clucky caul,\u201d which comes so clearly within her\nprovince. The caul is a thin membrane, about the consistence of very fine\nsilk, which covers the head of a new-born infant like a cap. It is always\nthe omen of great good fortune to the infant and parents; and in Ireland,\nwhen any one has unexpectedly fallen into the receipt of property, or any\nother temporal good, it is customary to say \u201csuch a person was born with\na \u2018lucky caul\u2019 on his head.\u201d\n\nWhy these are considered lucky, it would be a very difficult matter\nto ascertain. Several instances of good fortune, happening to such as\nwere born with them, might by their coincidences form a basis for the\nsuperstition; just as the fact of three men during one severe winter\nhaving been found drowned, each with two shirts on, generated an opinion\nwhich has now become fixed and general in that parish, that it is unlucky\nto wear two shirts at once. We are not certain whether the caul is in\ngeneral the perquisite of the Midwife--sometimes we believe it is; at all\nevents, her integrity occasionally yields to the desire of possessing it.\nIn many cases she conceals its existence, in order that she may secretly\ndispose of it to good advantage, which she frequently does; for it is\nconsidered to be the herald of good fortune to those who can get it into\ntheir possession. Now, let not our English neighbours smile at us for\nthose things until they wash their own hands clear of such practices. At\nthis day a caul will bring a good price in the most civilized city in the\nworld--to wit, the good city of London--the British metropolis. Nay, to\nsuch lengths has the mania for cauls been carried there, that they have\nbeen actually advertised for in the Times newspaper.\n\nOf a winter evening, at the fireside, there can be few more amusing\ncompanions than a Midwife of the old school. She has the smack of old\ntimes and old usages about her, and tastes of that agreeable simplicity\nof manners which always betokens a harmless and inoffensive heart.\nHer language is at once easy, copious, and minute, and if a good deal\npedantic, the pedantry is rather the traditionary phraseology and antique\nhumour which descends with her profession, than the peculiar property or\nbias of her individual mind. She affects much mystery, and intimates\nthat she could tell many strange stories of high life; but she is always\ntoo honourable to betray the confidence that has been reposed in her good\nfaith and secrecy. In her dress she always consults warmth and comfort,\nand seldom or never looks to appearance. Flannel and cotton she heaps on\nherself in abundant folds, and the consequence is, that although subject\nto all the inclemency of the seasons both by night and day, she is hardly\never known to be sick. The cottage of the Midwife may in general be\nknown by the mounting-stone which is beside her door, and which enables\nher without difficulty or loss of time to get on horseback behind the\nimpatient messenger. The window of her bedroom is also remarkable for its\nopening on hinges like a door, a thing not usual in the country. This\nis to enable her to thrust forth her well-flannelled head without any\npossible delay, in order to inquire the name of the party requiring her\naid, the length of journey before her, and such other particulars as she\nusually deems necessary. The sleep of the Midwife is almost peculiar in\nits character to herself. No person sleeps more soundly and deeply than\nshe does, unless to a knock at the door or a tap at the window, to both\nof which it may be said she is ever instinctively awake. We question if a\npeal of cannon discharged at her house-side would disturb her; but give\non the other hand the slightest possible knock or tap at either her door\nor window, and ere you could imagine she had time to awaken, the roll of\nflannel that contains her head is thrust out of the window.\n\nHaving thus recited everything, so far as we could remember it, connected\nwith the social antiquities of her calling, and detailed some matters not\ngenerally known, that may, we trust, be interesting to those who are fond\nof looking at the springs which often move rustic society, we now close\nthis \u201cEssay on Midwifery,\u201d hoping to be able to bring the Midwife herself\npersonally on the stage in our next, or at least in an early number.\n\n\n\n\nGLIMPSES IN THE MOUNTAINS.\n\nBY COUL GOPPAGH.\n\n\nWhat can have become of the old world I remember long long ago--almost\ntwenty years ago? It is a weary look backward, and the distance hides\nit. This is not the world I was born in. I remember when the old men\nused to show me the ways they walked in, scores of years before, and the\nvery corners and the footpaths through the fields. Here they met an old\nfriend--there they took shelter from a storm. On this lake they skated\nall day--from that hill they saw the ships returning with victory from\nforeign war. Men walked quietly together then in silence or friendly\ntalk, and did not jostle each other from the way; they went to bed and\nrose as the sun did; they followed in their fathers\u2019 ways--read the same\nbooks, laughed at the same fine old jokes, and believed their posterity\nwould do the same. Old men then wore grey hairs, and saw their children\u2019s\nchildren, and were venerable. But they are all gone; and could they look\nout of their graves (if indeed their very graves be spared), they would\nnot know the old world they used to live in.\n\nIt is all changed now with us old fellows of five-and-twenty. We are\nleft doting among the ruins of our youth. There is nothing left to us of\nour early days. The old crooked grassy byeways where we went to gather\nblackberries and idle away a summer day, have been gone over by the\nsurveyor\u2019s chain, and some straight cut, with prim, bare fences, has run\nit down. The little stream has been piped over, and, where it \u201cbabbled o\u2019\ngreen fields,\u201d is a noisy, muddy thoroughfare. Over the green glen where\nthe hazels nourished their brown clusters, strides a cursed viaduct; the\nexecrable railway has frighted the linnets from the boughs, and a bird\u2019s\nnest shall never more be found. In the lonely bay where we used to gather\nshells, thinking ourselves in fairy land, and wondering what lay beyond\nthe dim horizon, the steamboat roars and splashes. Riot and swearing and\nslang and vice of cities have usurped the quiet haunts of country calm\nand charity.\n\nIt is for a coming age all these things are preparing: to us is allotted\nonly the vexation and bewilderment. I have no associations to link me\nto these horrors, and I prefer the old repose to all the luxuries they\nbring. What is it to me that I can go to East or West in so many days\nsooner, or even if the sun that sets on me to-night should rise for me\nto-morrow by the Ganges? Here is my \u201cfortunate isle;\u201d this is my home\nwhere my heart is. I have no business with Egypt or the Nile. I wish to\nsit undisturbed by my own fireside, to walk under the old trees, to look\non my own fields, to be warmed by my own sun. But they will dig a canal\nthrough my silent walks, and the infernal city will pour through these\nbanks its restless impurity, and make them echo with the laughter of\nbrutal debauchery.\n\nIt is something for a man to look on the same scenes he looked on in\nhis childhood, among the same fields and trees and household ways his\nforefathers tilled and planted, and knew before him. There is a sanctity\ngrows round them year by year, enriching the heart, that cannot be broken\nthrough nor profaned without a loss never to be repaired. The exile can\nstill listen to the whispering of the woods and the sound of the streams,\nbut he remembers the woods and waters of his native land with tears. In\ntwenty years I have grown old and an exile where I was born. Huge piles\nhave covered the green where I played. The roar of busy streets insults\nthe memory of the green lanes where I strolled at evening.\n\nThere is no country now. The city has invaded the solitude, and vice and\nimpudent folly march in its rear. The bumpkin imitates the swagger of the\ncitizen--the ploughman talks politics--the haymaker shakes the swathe and\ndiscourses of political economy--the reaper questions the revenue.\n\nThe mountains yet remain! I can see them, still, from my door; I can see\nthem from the city streets. I can climb up their rugged sides still, and\nbless God that no discoverer as yet has uprooted the hills.\n\nMy heart is with them, for they have not changed. With them I have still\na sovereign sympathy, for I can look on them and renew the fancies of my\ninfancy. There is not a torrent pouring down their sides, not a crag nor\na bramble, that is not reverend in my eye.\n\nThe world is drunk, and raves. Come away from these reeling bacchanals,\nand let us fare among the hills! Long ago, before the time of history,\nsome naked savage here has worshipped the sunrise; some Druid sacrificed\nhis victims; some barbarian Spartacus, lurking among the wild deer and\nthe wolves, has defied his nation; some young warrior, with tears on his\nhardy cheek, has pointed up thither, whispering to one beside him dearer\nthan his name, his clan, or his life, and sped away on the wings of love\nto the peace and safety of the mountains.\n\nThese noble fronts have never varied. The clouds float here over the same\nridges on which the eyes of our childhood rested, and of the men of old\ntime. The clank of monstrous engines has never yet dismayed the primeval\nstillness.\n\nThe skeleton of creation is visible here, and we see the beginnings of\nthe world. This solid granite sparkled in the sun when \u201cthe evening and\nthe morning were the first day,\u201d and was as firm and solid to the centre\nwhen the world was \u201cwithout form and void.\u201d This whinstone rock has been\nhardened in some earthquake furnace long since then, and these flints are\nnew, though they held fire before Prometheus suffered. This soft soil is\nthe relics of the life and death of a thousand green years, and the fresh\nbloom that feeds on its decay will nourish succeeding blossoms.\n\nThe Western nations look here for the dawn, and the people of the East\nfor sunset. Young children look up here from cottage doors at evening,\nand see the portals of Paradise opened, gazing through vistas brighter\nthan imagination, unfolding far into the heart of heaven, and hold their\nbreath, waiting for the passage of the archangels. This is a glorified\nsoil. On these peaks hang the morning and the evening stars. The sun and\nthe moon come here to do them honour; and they clothe themselves with\ngold and azure, and purple, deeper than the Tyrian, to receive their\ncelestial guests.\n\nHigh up here in this blessed solitude there is life, and liberty of\nheart, and sacred peace. No fenced-in space confines me here. I breathe\nin a domain as wide as the horizon, as high as the planets and the sun.\nThe clouds are my fellow-wanderers here, and enjoy with me the liberal\nbosom of the air. Their ethereal hills and dales invite my fancy to a\nreal heaven, where I gather all I love around me. Their shadows cover me\nas they pass over, and I bid them \u201cGod speed\u201d as they carry cool showers\ndown to the thirsting land. No miserable moan of want or sickness, no sob\nof long-breaking hearts, no choked sigh of cheated hope, nor any human\nwoe, alarms me here. I see no loathsome household, plague-stricken with\npoverty, and festering in filth, despised of men, and famishing into\nhorrors and crime: no form of woman (black shame before God!) wading in\nf\u0153tid rags through mire and snow, with those awful human (!) children of\nhers, debased as the swine with whom they sleep (for charity!) and on\nwhom the rich man looks--poor unreckoning fool!--and never pauses to\nthink and tremble.\n\nHere the wild bee sings among the rich fragrance of the heather-bells\nand thyme, gathering pure honey, fresh from the breath of the immediate\nsunrise. The larks have their nests among the heath by thousands, and\nmake the whole mountain musical. Many strange insects, born and dying\nin the hour, that live on dew-drops, buzz by, and a thousand unknown\ncreatures, gifted with voice, inhabiting small twigs in labyrinths of\ngreenest moss, join in the hymn. The invisible wind, like a ruler of the\nstrings, pours in a sovereign master-note that blends in all one solemn\nharmony, filling the air till the valleys sing for joy.\n\nHere is Solitude, unforced, and free as the wandering wind. Here is peace\nlike the summer life of untrodden blossoms. Here is a lofty quiet as of\nthe dreams of the heart over its holy memories. Here are everlasting\nrocks, steadfast as honour, and true. Here is wealth for Fancy, and a\ndwelling for Imagination. Wide and far as the peaks can seek the heavens,\nthere is no place for Envy or Hate, where the glens are vocal, and the\nholy silence compels the heart to adoration, making a haven for religion\namong the mighty hills.\n\nWhat throes of central agony heaved up these huge mountains, twisting and\nfolding each into each away as far as the eye can follow! What pangs and\nconvulsions at the heart! What startling from chaotic trance, long before\nman or his mammoth ancestors, at the creative song of some wandering\nstar-messenger, millions of years upon its way!\n\nMy heart enlarges here, and recognises an a\u00ebrial amity with the sky. I\nam filled with celestial promptings. I shake off all incumbrance of the\nearth. I stretch out my arms to the blue heaven, and its breath comes\ninto my bosom as a friend. The stir of humanity is dumb beneath me. I\nleap among the heathy knolls. I sing beside the infant rivers. I shout,\nand hear answers from the lurking echoes, like the mysterious voices of\ninfinite years. I drink in unused air with\n\n            \u201cFair creatures of the element,\n    That in the colours of the rainbow live,\n    And play i\u2019 the plighted clouds.\u201d\n\nI stand wrapt in mute visions, growing into the majesty of the mountains.\nI spurn Decay and Time. I share the enduring strength, and carry lightly\nthe burden of centuries.\n\nThe mountains swell up around me like a sea with billows. My footfall is\ninaudible, and I fleet to and fro like the unbodied soul of a great poet\nthat makes the worlds it sees. There are no furrows on this soil: the\ncurse has not fallen here. The sweat of the brow has not dropped here,\nnor aught save the rain and the dew of heaven. I am still nearer to the\nangels, and my spirit begins to put forth unaccustomed wings.\n\nThe ancient gods still linger here, and Antiquity has not yet grown old.\nThe world has not yet heard \u201cthe voice of one crying in the wilderness,\u201d\nnor has Paul yet preached. Here I am a devout Pagan. I am the friend of\nPlato; I remember the voice of Socrates. I worship the Gods reverently,\nand have come up hither with sacrifice according to the voice of the\noracle.\n\nI have drunk with the muses at this fountain. Here, under the hanging ivy\nfrom the rock, I behold the real Castaly; and wherever the stream may\nwander, it will carry music on its way from divinest voices. From this\nclump I have listened to Apollo teaching the shepherds. Yea, I feel my\nveins tingling with a more celestial liquor; I own invulnerable limbs,\nand am myself a God!\n\nIt was not Mercury, but I, who passed swiftly down yon green declivity\nwith feathered feet, and away over the hill-tops like the shadow of a\ncloud. Those cattle brousing in the thicket, far down the ravine, I stole\nfrom Pieria. I bear the imperial mandates, and the breeze carries the\nsound of my eloquence through all the forests.\n\nBut I aspire to loftier seats. This is the high Olympus; Saturn is\nbaffled, and immortal Jove laughs at the terrible prophecies of the\nenduring Titan. Let him rend his rivets. Let him melt the heart of\nCaucasus, or appease the Vulture! Would that I could as easily escape the\nreproaches of Juno, or overcome Dan\u00e4e! But it shall rain gold to-morrow\nin her lap, and Leda shall fondle in her snowier bosom a snowy swan.\nMeanwhile let the nectar be poured! The laughing gods surround me, and I\nknow immortal vigour. How Mercury jeered at the grinning Vulcan erewhile\nas he writhed his iron sinews, when I held him over the edge of heaven!\nHere I compel the clouds around me; I sit throned, and thunder.\n\nLo! to my ears comes up a solemn strain, and the Eagle shrieks and flies.\nThe thunderbolt withers from my hand:--\n\n        \u201cThe Oracles are dumb;\n        No voice or hideous hum\n    Runs through the arch\u00e9d roof with words deceiving;\n        Apollo from his shrine\n        Can no more divine,\n    With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving;\n        No nightly trance, or breath\u00e9d spell,\n        Inspires the pale-eyed priest in his prophetic cell.\u201d\n\nA louder thunder has been heard than Jove\u2019s. There is a mountain more\nvenerable than Olympus. Moses went up there to talk with God, and came\ndown with the brightness of the sun in his countenance that could not\nbe looked upon, bearing in his hand an eternal law. That thunder still\nechoes which shook Babylon, and quelled the Assyrian. The Persian rolled\naway before it like a cloud. The Egyptian, Greek, and Roman, have fled\nfrom it for ever.\n\nBut a greater than Moses has made the mountains holy. A greater\nhierophant opened up there the law and the prophets. On a mountain\nSatan confessed his conqueror. Who shall conceive of that tremendous\nhour, pregnant with the fate of man, when \u201cJesus went up alone into the\nmountain to pray!\u201d And we know what deed was done on Calvary.\n\n\n\n\nAPOLOGUES AND FABLES\n\nFROM FOREIGN LANGUAGES.\n\n(_Translated for the Irish Penny Journal._)\n\nNo. V.--THE OLD MAN AND THE YOUTHS.\n\n(FROM THE FRENCH OF LAFONTAINE.)\n\n\n    A man of eighty years was planting trees:--\n      \u201cHa! ha!\u201d laughed out three striplings from the village,\n      \u201cPlanting at eighty!--Had his task been tillage,\n    Or building houses, or aught else you please,\n    The folly might have passed as less worth noting.\n    But--planting trees! He must indeed be doting!\n    Why, in the name of all that\u2019s odd, old neighbour,\n      What fruit can such as you expect to gather\n    From this ridiculous and driftless labour?\n      You, who already are a great-grandfather!\n    What! do you think to rival in his years\n      Methuselah? For shame! Do penance rather\n    For your past errors! Mourn your sins with tears!\n    Abandon hopes and plans that so ill suit your\n      Age and grey hairs! Give over looking wildly\n    Out through the vista of a boundless future!\n    All these are but for us, and such as we.\u201d\n      \u201cThey are not even for you,\u201d replied the Old Man mildly.\n    \u201cYouth may be just as nigh Eternity\n    As Age. What though the pitfalls of Existence\n      Be covered o\u2019er with flowers in lieu of snows,\n    Who shall foremeasure the brief distance\n      Between this dim dream\u2019s birth and close?\n    The wing\u00e9d bolts of Death are swift to strike\n      Life in its dawning as decline;\n    The pallid Parc\u00e6 play their game alike\n      With your days and with mine.\n    Who knows which of us four shall be the one\n    To gaze last on the glory of the sun?\n    Molest me not, then. Leave me to employ\n      The hours that yet remain to me. I love\n    To think my great-grandchildren will enjoy\n      The shade and shelter of this embryo grove.\n    Meantime I live, I breathe, and I may even\n    Share for some years to come the gifts of Heaven.\n    Alas! even I may see the morning-light\n      Shine more than once, young men! upon your graves!\u201d\n    The Old Man spake a truth which Time revealed:--\n    Boating soon after, on a stormy night,\n      One of these youths was buried in the waves--\n    A second was cut off upon the battle-field--\n    The third fell ill, and in four fleeting weeks\n      His bier was dressed with Death\u2019s pale plumes;--\n        So died the Three--thus early fated!\n    And while the tears rolled down his cheeks,\n      The Old Man sculptured on their tombs\n        The story I have here narrated.\n\n                                                         M.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLearning, it has been said, may be an instrument of fraud: so may\nbread, if discharged from the mouth of a cannon, be an instrument of\ndeath.--_Bentham._\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNUFF SHOP.\n\n\nFew, we dare say, ever entered a shop of the description named in the\ntitle of this paper with any other idea than that they were entering\nmerely a repository of Lundy Foot, cigars, and small twist. Few, we\nsuppose, ever looked on such a place in any other light, or ever\nconsidered its keeper in any other point of view than that simply of\na tobacconist. Yet is there another light, and a dismal one it is, in\nwhich both the snuff shop and the snuff dealer himself may be looked\nupon; and it is in such a light that we ourselves always do look upon\nthem. This is, viewing the one as a charnel-house of defunct authors;\nthe other as a goul, battening on their mortal remains. We sometimes\nvary this horrifying, but, alas! too correct view of the snuff shop and\nthe snuff dealer, by supposing the one a sort of literary shambles or\nslaughter-house, and the other a cold-blooded, merciless literary butcher.\n\nTaking either of these views of the snuff shop, what a change takes place\nin its aspect, and in that of every thing and person pertaining to it!\nWhat a dismal and hideous den it then becomes, and what a truculent,\nsavage-looking fiend becomes that smiling and simpering tobacconist!\nNo bowels of compassion has he for the mangled and mutilated authors\nthat are lying thick around him, cruelly Burked by his own merciless\nhands. No; there he sits in the midst of the dire carnage as calm and\nunconcerned as if he had nothing whatever to do with it--the callous\nmonster!\n\nPursuing the idea just broached, let us enter this horrid den, and for a\nmoment contemplate its interior in a spirit in accordance with that idea;\nfor, not being authors, we have nothing to fear for ourselves, it being\nthat class only that need stand in awe of the snuff shop--to all others\nit is a harmless place enough.\n\nLo! then, behold (giving us the advantage here of a little stretch\nof imagination), the walls bespattered with the blood and brains of\nmurdered authors; and see that blood-stained bench which the demon of\nthe place calls a counter; and in various other depositories around lie\ntheir dismembered limbs and mangled carcases. Oh, it is a shocking and\nheart-rending sight!\n\nSome of those unfortunates have evidently died hard: they have the\nappearance of having struggled desperately for life. But, alas, in vain!\nAn irresistible destiny thrust them into the fatal snuff shop, where they\nperished quickly and miserably by the hand of the ruthless savage within.\nOthers, again, seem to have quietly resigned themselves to their fate,\nand, indeed, to have been more than half dead before they were brought\nin; while others, again, appear to have been wholly defunct, having died\na natural death. These, then, have been conveyed thither merely to be cut\nup, and converted to the degrading uses of the tobacconist.\n\nAlthough some of the unhappy authors whose mangled remains strew this\nden of horrors seem to have attained a kind of maturity before they were\ncruelly torn to pieces as we now see them, by far the greater number are\na sort of murdered innocents, having been strangled in their birth, or\nshortly after. A good many there are, too, who seem to have been dead\nborn, or to have perished while yet in embryo.\n\nPiteous as it is to look on the heavy, sturdy corpses of the murdered\nprose writers that lie thickly up and down this chamber of death, yet\ninfinitely more piteous is it to contemplate the delicate, fragile forms\nof the poets thus cruelly mangled and mutilated that lie no less thickly\naround us. Poor dear, unfledged things! What a fate has been thine!--what\na destiny, to be consigned, ere ye had yet opportunity to open your\nlittle musical throats, to the tender mercies of _that_ literary\nBurke--that ruthless monster whom the world, thinking of him only in\nconnection with cigars and pigtail, calls a tobacconist. Where now,\nsweet little humming birds, be those soft and tender notes with which\nye sought, alas, how vainly! to charm the huge, rude ear of an uncouth\nand barbarous world that would not listen to ye? Alas, they have ceased\nfor ever! How little does that savage, the demon of the place, mind your\nsweet, small voices, that give forth a piteous wail, like the last notes\nof the dying swan, every time he lays his merciless hands on you. Little,\nindeed! Let but a customer come in for half an ounce of \u201cBlackguard,\u201d\nand he will, without the smallest hesitation or compunction, seize one\nof you, dear unfortunates, and tear you limb from limb for his own and\nthat customer\u2019s conveniency: ay, for a paltry three half-pence, mayhap\nless--a pennyworth of \u201cScotch\u201d--will he perpetrate this atrocious deed.\nThat sanguinary bench, that horrid counter, is strewn over with your\nslim carcases and fragile limbs; and your murderer is hanging over your\nmutilated remains, laughing and chatting and joking with his customers as\npleasantly and unconcernedly as if you were so much waste paper. Oh, it\nis atrocious!\n\nSuch, then, dear reader, is the light--a terrible one, indeed, but as\nthou wilt acknowledge, we have no doubt, a correct one--in which we look\nupon snuff shops, which, as thou well knowest, have long lain, and not\nunjustly, under the stigma of being fatal to authors. If thou art one,\npray, then, eschew it; for if thou dost once enter its dismal portals,\nthou wilt never, never more be heard of in this world!\n\n                                                                       C.\n\n\n\n\nANIMAL TAMING.\n\nSECOND AND CONCLUDING ARTICLE.\n\n\nIn my last paper on the taming of animals, I treated the subject\ngenerally rather than in detail. It is probable that the curious reader\nmay not be displeased to learn a little more of the mode of keeping and\ndomesticating wild and savage animals, as well as the methods to be\nadopted in order to bring together fierce animals of different species,\nand induce them to occupy the same cage in peace and harmony, and without\ndanger of contention. It is, as will be at once recognised, this latter\ncircumstance which renders the exhibitions of Van Amburgh and his rivals\nas wonderful as they are; it being a far easier matter to reconcile a\nlion or a tiger to yourself, and even familiarize it to the furthest\npossible degree, than it is to induce the tiger and the lion to consort\ntogether, and refrain from engaging in deadly conflict.\n\nLet us suppose, for the sake of illustration of the mode which should be\nadopted to tame two or more animals, that you are made a present of a\nlion and a tiger. If the animals be very young, you will have very little\ntrouble with them for a long time--none, indeed, beyond the necessity of\nattending to their health, for the larger felines are difficult to be\nreared; but as they grow older, they will be very apt to quarrel between\nthemselves; wounds will be given and received, and the death or maiming\nof either, or perhaps of both, will pretty speedily result. To guard\nagainst any unpleasantness of this nature, it should be your business\nthe instant you receive the animals to commence operations. Let them be\nkept at first far apart; for it is not advisable, as their dispositions\nmay be very different, that one should be witness of the severity you may\nbe compelled to exercise towards the other. This done, take, according\nto the animals\u2019 ages, a stout cane, a supplejack, or an iron rod. If the\ncreatures be very young, that is, under three months, or perhaps four,\nthe cane will be sufficient. If greater, or from that to half grown, you\nwill require the supplejack, and let it be thicker at one end than at the\nother. For a half-grown animal the iron rod will be absolutely necessary,\nand it must be of sufficient weight that a blow of it on the skull may be\nsufficient to produce a temporary insensibility--the only chance you will\nhave of escape, should the fierce brutes at any time take it into their\nheads to rebel.\n\nHaving thus provided yourself with arms offensive, you must be equally\ncautious as to your costume. That must be of strong material, hard, and\nfitting close. You must have no loose flapping skirts, no open jackets.\nAll must be tight, and buttoned closely to the body. An under-waistcoat\n(sleeved) of strong buff, with a stout pea-jacket over it, leather\nor corduroy breeches, and top boots, is about the best dress for the\nexperimentalist in animal taming that I can suggest at this moment. The\nreason--for I like to give a reason for everything I recommend--of this\nnecessity for a firm, tight-fitting dress, is, that if a wild animal,\nalthough to all appearance perfectly domesticated, chances even in play\nto get his claws fastened in your clothes, the sensation of seizing upon\nprey involuntarily presents itself to his imagination. The accidental\nentanglement is succeeded by a plunge of the claws, the jaws are brought\ninto requisition, and your life is by no means in a safe position. Hence\nthe necessity for tight dress.\n\nThus accoutred, with your rod in your hand, and, if the animal be more\nthan half grown, a brace of pistols in your breast--the one loaded with\nball, the other with powder, upon which a quantity of tow has been\ncrammed down--approach the cage of the young animal which you design to\ntame. I commence with this stage of the process, because I presume that\nyou have already rendered your proteg\u00e9 sufficiently familiar by feeding\nand caressing it through the bars, and by spending some time each day in\nits company. I presume therefore that it has already begun to recognise\nyour appearance, and to come over to your hand when called, as well as to\npermit you to stroke and pat it, without attempting to bite you. Approach\nthe cage, hold in your left hand a heavy cloak or blanket wrapped round\nyour hand and arm; let there be two assistants near at hand, and a small\nstove in which half a dozen iron rods are heating; let the door of the\ncage be a real door, opening upon hinges, and shutting with a good and\ndeeply-notched latch--not a sliding door, as such a mode of entering\nthe cage might be as much as your life was worth. Speak kindly to the\nanimal, and caress it through the bars of its cage ere you enter, or the\nsuddenness of your entrance may irritate or alarm it, and thus induce it\nto attack you. Your costume should likewise by no means have been put on\nfor the first time. You should have dressed in a similar manner during\nall your former visits, so that your intended pet might be acquainted\nwith your appearance. Let a platform be erected outside the cage, to its\nlevel, and ascend this, where stand a few minutes, boldly caressing and\nspeaking to the animal. Then throw open the door, enter with a firm and\nresolute step, push the door behind you, but see that you do not for an\ninstant remove your eyes from those of the animal you are visiting. Do\nnot advance from the door; stand near the bars of the cage, that you may\nhave a better chance of escape, and may be more readily assisted by your\nattendants in the event of an attack. Speak kindly towards the animal,\nand if it, as it most likely will, comes over to you, fear nothing, but\nstretch forth your hand and caress it. The creature will then probably\npurr, and rub against you. Permit it to do so, and encourage it in its\nfamiliarity; but if it offer to play with you, repress such disposition\nwith firmness; and if you perceive that the animal is bent on frolic,\nleave the cage at once, for it is unsafe longer to remain, the play of\nthese savage creatures always leading to mischief, just as the cat sports\nwith the captured mouse ere she gives it the finishing blow, and buries\nit in her maw. Repress, therefore, every attempt to play. Use your rod\nfreely and severely. Do so not merely for a grievous fault, but for\nthe most distant appearance of insubordination. Let your corrections\nbe terrible when you do inflict them, and you will have to repeat them\nso much the less frequently. Some, and Van Amburgh I believe among the\nrest, are in favour of beating the animals every morning, whether they\ndeserve such chastisement or not, just by way of keeping up a salutary\nawe of their masters. I object to this, as I conceive it to be both cruel\nand unnecessary. If animals are of an unruly disposition, and require\nfrequent correction, I should rather recommend that they should be\nvisited every morning, and an opportunity of misbehaving themselves thus\nafforded, when indeed a good thrashing might be administered with much\ngreater justice. Never display either timidity or ill-humour. The former\nwill make the animals despise your menaces, and perhaps give you a bite\nor a claw--the latter will cause them to hate you, to regard you as a\ntyrant, and probably seize on the first favourable opportunity for your\ndestruction. Be just, therefore, in your punishments, and do not be too\nfamiliar. Never for an instant permit any animal to make too free with\nyou. Recollect the old copybook adage, \u201cFamiliarity breeds contempt;\u201d\nand recollect that if a young lion or a tiger so far forgets himself as\nto despise your authority, you will stand a fair chance of being torn to\npieces some fine morning, and devoured for their breakfast.\n\nI conceive that the preceding rapidly sketched hints will serve as a\nsufficient ground-work for the animal-tamer to act upon. He must not be\ndiscouraged if he do not succeed at first, and he must be satisfied to\ntake time, and persevere. Without this he need not hope for success.\n\nThe animal-tamer must be fearless--such a thing as terror must be a\nfeeling wholly foreign to his soul. He must be as brave as a lion: for\nhow can he otherwise hope to subdue the bravest of the animal creation?\nI have said \u201cbravest,\u201d and so let the word stand; but I was perhaps led\nto employ the expression rather from popular prejudice, than from a\nconviction of its truth. The feline tribes are very powerful and very\nfierce animals, but they are by no means brave. A bulldog has more\ncourage in his pigmy body, than exists in the prodigious carcasses or\na dozen lions or tigers. Let the animal-tamer recollect this, and the\nknowledge of this fact will probably encourage him. To give a case in\npoint:--I was once endeavouring to make friends with the tigress in\nthe Zoological Gardens, Ph\u0153nix Park--a beautiful animal, subsequently\npurchased from the Zoological Society by the proprietors of the\nPortobello Gardens, and since unfortunately dead. I had got so far as\nto be able to stroke the creature on the head and back, and even to open\nher mouth with my hand, and leave it within her terrible jaws. This I did\non my third visit to her, in presence of the animal\u2019s keeper. One day I\nwas alone with the tigress, and my hand was upon her neck: she with equal\ngood nature had placed her enormous paw upon my shoulder, and was purring\nin a most affectionate manner, when a sudden noise from one of the other\nanimals caused me to start; instantly the paw was brought down upon my\narm with some violence, and before I could extricate my hand, Kate, as\nthe tigress was called, had closed her teeth upon the limb, which she\nheld firmly, though as yet uninjured. I strove to withdraw my hand, but\nto no purpose. I felt in a most uncomfortable position, reader, for I\nfeared that I should lose a very useful member of my frame: it was my\n_right_ hand. Had I lost it, I should have been unable to have written\nthis or any of the other papers I have given you. The teeth of the\ntigress became more and more firmly closed, and my efforts to disengage\nmy hand were unavailing; I called for assistance, but no one was within\nhearing; when, calling courage and resolution to my aid, I bethought me\nof my own principles, and, raising my other hand, dealt Kate as severe a\nblow as I was able with my clenched fist upon her nose. The experiment\nwas successful. The animal, at once releasing my hand, sprang with an\nangry howl to the opposite side of her cage, from which in a few moments\nshe returned cowering and submissive, apparently eager to regain that\nportion of my good opinion that she seemed conscious of having forfeited.\n\nIf, then, you are attacked, act with promptness and decision. Use your\nrod freely; but if you find yourself in danger, employ your pistol,\nnot, however, that loaded with ball (reserve it as a last resource,\nwhen there is nought else between you and death), but that loaded only\nwith powder and tow; fire it into the animal\u2019s face, and I think there\nis no doubt but it will afford you ample time for escape; nay, it may\nin all likelihood render you conqueror; and if you perceive that the\nshock has terrified your assailant, hand the pistol to be re-loaded\nby an assistant, while you advance and finish with your rod what the\npistol began. If you be seized and overpowered, let your attendants use\nthe heated irons; they should be of a sufficient length to reach to any\npart of the cage, and should be applied to the nose and mouth. They will\ngenerally be found successful in turning the current of affairs.\n\nEre taking leave of my readers, I must say a few words as to introducing\nanimals of different species to each other. A very brief notice,\ncomprised under one or two heads, will suffice. First, let _each_\nanimal be perfectly and individually under your control. Secondly, do\nnot put the strangers into the same cage all at once, but put them into\na cage partitioned by an iron railing, in which leave them for a few\nweeks, until you begin to perceive that they have made each other\u2019s\nacquaintance, and may be trusted together; and do you enter the cage\nwith them when first brought together, and visit the least symptom of\nhostility with instant and effective chastisement. They should not at\nfirst be left together entirely, but only for an hour or two each day\nwhile it is convenient to you to attend. By and bye, when they become\nsufficiently familiarized, you need be under no apprehension. When\ntwo animals have been brought together, it will be comparatively easy\nand safe to introduce a third, then a fourth, and so on; the safety\nincreasing in proportion to their numbers. Make it also your business to\nselect your animals with judgment. To an old leopard introduce a young\nlion, for instance, because the leopard will, in consequence of the\nyouth of his new acquaintance, crow over him, and aid you in subduing\nhim. This advantage, to be gained by observing dissimilarity of ages, is\nby no means to be overlooked, as it is a powerful agent in the work of\ndomestication and association of the different species of animals. When\none animal is of a timid kind--the natural prey probably of the other,\nwhich latter is fierce and powerful--you have nothing to do but to make\nthe more powerful animal _afraid_ of its timid and defenceless companion.\nThis may be done in various modes, just as the time or opportunities\nmay suggest. A simple illustration may serve. Take a young cat and put\nher into a cage. Take a rat\u2019s or a mouse\u2019s skin, and fill it with hot\nscalding bran; throw it to the cat, and when she runs at it, take hold of\nher and thrust the hot skin into her mouth; keep it there for a minute\ntill she is well burned, and you have rendered that cat ever afterwards\nharmless towards mice, at least towards such as you may introduce to\nher; a wild one which she met with at large might fare differently,\nthough I hardly think she would even attempt to injure it. Treat a\nbird-skin in this manner, and, after the scalding, tie it for a while\naround puss\u2019s neck, and you have secured your aviary from molestation.\nSometimes the first experiment of this kind is not successful. When such\nis the case, however, be not disheartened, but repeat it; and one or two\nsuch inflictions cannot fail being effective. You may thus have cats,\nrats, mice, birds, &c., &c., all in one cage; a curiosity I have often\nbeheld, and which I have myself succeeded in forming in the manner I have\ndescribed.\n\nLet not the reader who may endeavour to put the above rules in practice\nbe disheartened by a little difficulty at starting. The power of nature\nis strong, and it is not until after a long and severe course of training\nthat art can expect to overcome it. Let, therefore, the experimenter\never bear in mind the extraordinary force of nature, and the vast labour\nnecessary to keep it in abeyance; and in order that he should do so, I\nshall tell him the following anecdote:--\n\n\u201cCecco maintained that nature was more potent than art, while Dante\nasserted the contrary. To prove his principle the great Italian bard\nreferred to his cat, which by repeated practice he had taught to hold a\ncandle in its paw while he supped or read. Cecco desired to witness the\nexperiment, and came not unprepared for his purpose. When Dante\u2019s cat\nwas performing its part, Cecco lifted up the lid of a pot which he had\nfilled with mice; the creature of art instantly showed the weakness of\na talent merely acquired, and, dropping the candle, sprang on the mice\nwith all its instinctive propensity. Dante was himself disconcerted; and\nit was adjudged that the advocate for the occult principle of natural\nfaculties had gained his cause.\u201d Bear this anecdote therefore in mind.\nDo not forget the power of natural instinct, even over the most careful\nartificial training; and let it be your anxious care to keep far distant\nevery circumstance that might provoke the awakening of the one, or tend\nto shake or to subvert the influence of the other.\n\nThis short sketch has, I trust, given my readers an insight into the mode\nby which Van Amburgh and his rivals perform their wonders; and I can\nassure them, that by following the principles I have here laid down, they\nmay themselves, if they choose, equal in their own private menageries the\nperformances of those public exhibitors.\n\n                                                                 H. D. R.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPHILOSOPHY.--Philosophy can add to our happiness in no other manner but\nby diminishing our misery: it should not pretend to increase our present\nstock, but make us economists of what we are possessed of. The great\nsource of calamity lies in regret or anticipation; he therefore is most\nwise who thinks of the present alone, regardless of the past or future.\nThis is impossible to a man of pleasure; it is difficult to the man of\nbusiness, and is in some degree attainable by the philosopher. Happy were\nwe all born philosophers--all born with a talent of thus dissipating our\nown cares by spreading them upon all mankind.--_Goldsmith._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are but two means in the world of gaining by other men--by being\neither agreeable or useful.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nArtificial modesty disparages a woman\u2019s real virtue as much as the use of\npaint does the natural complexion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is a common fault never to be satisfied with our fortune, nor\ndissatisfied with our understanding.--_Rochefoucault._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA prison is a grave to bury men alive.--_Mynshul._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA titled nobility is the most undisputed progeny of feudal\nbarbarism.--_Sir James Mackintosh._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe worthiest people are the most injured by slander; as we usually find\nthat to be the best fruit which the birds have been pecking at.--_Swift._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA miser grows rich by seeming poor, an extravagant man grows poor by\nseeming rich.--_Shenstone._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is not greater difference between the living and the dead, than\nbetween a wise man and a blockhead.--_Aristotle._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA man who has good judgment has the same advantage over men of any other\nqualifications whatsoever, as one that can see would have over a blind\nman of ten times the strength.--_Steele._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at\n    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,\n    College Green, Dublin--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,\n    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,\n    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J. DRAKE,\n    Birmingham; SLOCOMBE and SIMMS, Leeds; FRASER and CRAWFORD,\n    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,\n    Glasgow.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 26, December 26, 1840","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":12073}