{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54584/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54584","id":"gutenberg_54584","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54584","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Ireland -- Periodicals"],"text":"THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.\n\n       NUMBER 27.       SATURDAY, JANUARY 2, 1841.       VOLUME I.\n\n[Illustration: THE IRISH MIDWIFE.--PART II.\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON.]\n\nThe village of Ballycomaisy was as pleasant a little place as one\nmight wish to see of a summer\u2019s day. To be sure, like all other Irish\nvillages, it was remarkable for a superfluity of \u201cpigs, praties, and\nchildre,\u201d which being the stock in trade of an Irish cabin, it is to be\npresumed that very few villages either in Ireland or elsewhere could go\non properly without them. It consisted principally of one long street,\nwhich you entered from the north-west side by one of those old-fashioned\nbridges, the arches of which were much more akin to the Gothic than the\nRoman. Most of the houses were of mud, a few of stone, one or two of\nwhich had the honour of being slated on the front side of the roof, and\nrustically thatched on the back, where ostentation was not necessary.\nThere were two or three shops, a liberal sprinkling of public-houses, a\nchapel a little out of the town, and an old dilapidated market-house\nnear the centre. A few little bye-streets projected in a lateral\ndirection from the main one, which was terminated on the side opposite to\nthe north-west by a pound, through which, as usual, ran a shallow stream,\nthat was gathered into a little gutter as it crossed the road. A crazy\nantiquated mill, all covered and cobwebbed with grey mealy dust, stood\nabout a couple of hundred yards out of the town, to which two straggling\nrows of houses, that looked like an abortive street, led you. This mill\nwas surrounded by a green common, which was again hemmed in by a fine\nriver, that ran round in a curving line from under the hunchbacked arch\nof the bridge we mentioned at the beginning. Now, a little behind, or\nrather above this mill, on the skirt of the aforesaid common, stood a\nrather neat-looking whitish cabin, with about half a rood of garden\nbehind it. It was but small, and consisted merely of a sleeping-room\nand kitchen. On one side of the door there was a window, opening on\nhinges; and on the outside, to the right as you entered the house, there\nwas placed a large stone, about four feet high, backed by a sloping\nmound of earth, so graduated as to allow a person to ascend the stone\nwithout any difficulty. In this cabin lived Rose Moan, the Midwife; and\nwe need scarcely inform our readers that the stone in question was her\nmounting-stone, by which she was enabled to place herself on pillion or\ncrupper, as the case happened, when called out upon her usual avocation.\n\nRose was what might be called a _flahoolagh_, or portly woman, with a\ngood-humoured set of Milesian features; that is to say, a pair of red,\nbroad checks, a well-set nose, allowing for the disposition to turn up,\nand two black twinkling eyes, with a mellow expression that betokened\ngood nature, and a peculiar description of knowing _professional_ humour\nthat is never to be met with in any _but_ a Midwife. Rose was dressed\nin a red flannel petticoat, a warm cotton sack or wrapper, which pinned\neasily over a large bust, and a comfortable woollen shawl. She always\nwore a long-bordered morning cap, over which, while travelling, she\npinned a second shawl of Scotch plaid; and to protect her from the cold\nnight air, she enfolded her precious person in a deep blue cloak of the\ntrue indigo tint. On her head, over cloak and shawl and morning cap, was\nfixed a black \u201csplush hat,\u201d with the leaf strapped down by her ears on\neach side, so that in point of fact she cared little how it blew, and\nnever once dreamed that such a process as that of Raper or Mackintosh was\nnecessary to keep the liege subjects of these realms warm and waterproof,\nnor that two systems should exist in Ireland so strongly antithetical to\neach other as those of Raper and Father Mathew.\n\nHaving thus given a brief sketch of her local habitation and personal\nappearance, we shall transfer our readers to the house of a young\nnew-married farmer named Keho, who lived in a distant part of the parish.\nKeho was a comfortable fellow, full of good nature and credulity; but his\nwife happened to be one of the sharpest, meanest, most suspicious, and\nmiserable devils that ever was raised in good-humoured Ireland. Her voice\nwas as sharp and her heart as cold as an icicle; and as for her tongue,\nit was incessant and interminable. Were it not that her husband, who,\nthough good-natured, was fiery and resolute when provoked, exercised a\nfirm and salutary control over her, she would have starved both him and\nher servants into perfect skeletons. And what was still worse, with a\ntemper that was vindictive and tyrannical, she affected to be religious,\nand upon those who did not know her, actually attempted to pass herself\noff as a saint.\n\nOne night, about ten or twelve months after his marriage, honest Corny\nKeho came out to the barn, where slept his two farm servants, named Phil\nHannigan and Barny Casey. He had been sitting by himself, composing his\nmind for a calm night\u2019s sleep, or probably for a curtain lecture, by\ntaking a contemplative whiff of the pipe, when the servant wench, with a\ncertain air of hurry, importance, and authority, entered the kitchen, and\ninformed him that Rose Moan must immediately be sent for.\n\n\u201cThe misthress isn\u2019t well, Masther, an\u2019 the sooner she\u2019s sint for, the\nbetther. So mind my words, sir, if you plaise, an\u2019 pack aff either Phil\nor Barny for Rose Moan, an\u2019 I hope I won\u2019t have to ax it again--hem!\u201d\n\nDandy Keho--for so Corny was called, as being remarkable for his\nslovenliness--started up hastily, and having taken the pipe out of his\nmouth, was about to place it on the hob; but reflecting that the whiff\ncould not much retard him in the delivery of his orders, he sallied out\nto the barn, and knocked.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s there? Lave that, wid you, unless you wish to be shotted.\u201d This\nwas followed by a loud laugh from within.\n\n\u201cBoys, get up wid all haste: it\u2019s the misthress. Phil, saddle Hollowback\nand fly--(puff)--fly in a jiffy for Rose Moan; an\u2019 do you, Barny, clap\na back-sugaun--(puff)--an Sobersides, an\u2019 be aff for the Misthress\u2019s\nmother--(puff.)\u201d\n\nBoth were dressing themselves before he had concluded, and in a very few\nminutes were off in different directions, each according to the orders\nhe had received. With Barny we have nothing to do, unless to say that he\nlost little time in bringing Mrs Keho\u2019s mother to her aid; but as Phil is\ngone for a much more important character, we beg our readers to return\nwith us to the cabin of Rose Moan, who is now fast asleep; for it is\ntwelve o\u2019clock of a beautiful moonlight night, in the pleasant month of\nAugust. Tap-tap. \u201cIs Mrs Moan at home?\u201d In about half a minute her warm\ngood-looking face, enveloped in flannel, is protruded from the window.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s that, _in God\u2019s name_?\u201d The words in italics were added, lest the\nmessage might be one from the fairies.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m Dandy Keho\u2019s servant--one of them, at any rate--an\u2019 my Misthress has\ngot a stitch in her side--ha! ha! ha!\u201d\n\n\u201cAisy, avick--so, she\u2019s _down_, thin--aisy--I\u2019ll be wid you like a bow\nout of an arrow. Put your horse over to \u2018the stone,\u2019 an\u2019 have him ready.\nThe Lord bring her over her difficulties, any way, amin!\u201d\n\nShe then pulled in her head, and in about three or four minutes sallied\nout, dressed as we have described her; and having placed herself on the\ncrupper, coolly put her right arm round Phil\u2019s body, and desired him to\nride on with all possible haste.\n\n\u201cPush an, avouchal, push an--time\u2019s precious at all times, but on\nbusiness like this every minute is worth a life. But there\u2019s always one\ncomfort, that God is marciful. Push forrid, avick.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever fear, Mrs Moan. If it\u2019s in Hollowback, bedad I\u2019m the babe that\u2019ll\ntake it out of him. Come, ould Hack-ball, trot out--you don\u2019t know the\nmessage you\u2019re an, nor who you\u2019re carryin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t your misthress--manin\u2019 the Dandy\u2019s wife--a daughter of ould Fitzy\nFinnegan\u2019s, the schrew of Glendhu?\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith, you may say that, Rose, as we all know to our cost. Be me song,\nshe does have us sometimes that you might see through us; an\u2019 only for\nthe masther----but, dang it, no matther--she\u2019s down now, poor woman, an\u2019\nit\u2019s not just the time to be rakin\u2019 up her failins.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not, an\u2019 God mark you to grace for sayin\u2019 so. At a time like\nthis we must forget every thing, only to do the best we can for our\nfellow-creatures. What are you lookin\u2019 at, avick?\u201d\n\nNow, this question naturally arose from the fact that honest Phil had\nbeen, during their short conversation, peering keenly on each side of\nhim, as if he expected an apparition to rise from every furze-bush on\nthe common. The truth is, he was almost proverbial for his terror of\nghosts and fairies, and all supernatural visitants whatever; but upon\nthis occasion his fears arose to a painful height, in consequence of the\npopular belief, that, when a midwife is sent for, the Good People throw\nevery possible obstruction in her way, either by laming the horse, if she\nrides, or by disqualifying the guide from performing his duty as such.\nPhil, however, felt ashamed to avow his fears on these points, but still\ncould not help unconsciously turning the conversation to the very topic\nhe ought to have avoided.\n\n\u201cWhat war you looking at, avick?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, bedad, there appeared something there beyant, like a man, only it\nwas darker. But be this and be that--hem, ehem!--if I could get my hands\non him, whatsomever he\u201d----\n\n\u201cHushth, boy, hould your tongue: you don\u2019t know but it\u2019s the very word\nyou war goin\u2019 to say might do us harm.\u201d\n\n\u201c--Whatsomever he is, that I\u2019d give him a lift on Hollowback if he\nhappened to be any poor fellow that stood in need of it. Oh! the sorra\nword I was goin\u2019 to say against any thing or any body.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re right, dear. If you knew as much as I could tell you--push\nan--you\u2019d have a dhrop o\u2019 sweat at the ind of every hair on your head.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe my song, I\u2019m tould you know a power o\u2019 quare things, Mrs Moan; an\u2019 if\nall that\u2019s said is thrue, you sartinly do.\u201d\n\nNow, had Mrs Moan and her heroic guide passed through the village of\nBallycomaisy, the latter would not have felt his fears so strong upon\nhim. The road, however, along which they were now going was a grass-grown\n_bohreen_, that led them from behind her cabin through a waste and lonely\npart of the country; and as it was a saving of better than two miles\nin point of distance, Mrs Moan would not hear of their proceeding by\nany other direction. The tenor of her conversation, however, was fast\nbringing Phil to the state she so graphically and pithily described.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cPhil Hannigan, a son of fat Phil\u2019s of Balnasaggart, an\u2019 a cousin to\nPaddy who lost a finger in the Gansy (Guernsey) wars.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know. Well, Phil, in throth the hairs \u2019ud stand like stalks o\u2019 barley\nupon your head, if you heard all I could mintion.\u201d\n\nPhil instinctively put his hand up and pressed down his hat, as if it had\nbeen disposed to fly from off his head.\n\n\u201cHem! ahem! Why, I\u2019m tould it\u2019s wonderful. But is it thrue, Mrs Moan,\nthat you have been brought _on business_ to some o\u2019 the\u201d--here Phil\nlooked about him cautiously, and lowered his voice to a whisper--\u201cto some\no\u2019 the fairy women?\u201d\n\n\u201cHusth, man alive--what the sorra timpted you to call them anything but\nthe Good People? This day\u2019s Thursday--God stand betune us an\u2019 harm. No,\nPhil, I name nobody. But there was a woman, a midwife--mind, avick, that\nI don\u2019t say _who_ she was--may be I know why too, an\u2019 may be it would be\nas much as my life is worth\u201d----\n\n\u201cAisey, Mrs. Moan! God presarve us! what is that tall thing there to the\nright!\u201d--and he commenced the Lord\u2019s Prayer in Irish as fast as he could\nget out the words.\n\n\u201cWhy, don\u2019t you see, boy, its a fir-tree, but sorra movin\u2019 it\u2019s movin.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, faix, an\u2019 so it is; bedad I thought it was gettin\u2019 taller an\u2019\ntaller. Ay!--hut! it _is_ only a tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, dear, there was a woman, an\u2019 she was called away one night by\na little gentleman dressed in green. I\u2019ll tell you the story some\ntime--only this, that havin\u2019 done her _duty_, an\u2019 tuck no payment, she\nwas called out the same night to a neighbour\u2019s wife, an\u2019 a purtier boy\nyou couldn\u2019t see than she left behind her. But it seems she happened to\ntouch one of his eyes wid a hand that had a taste of _their_ panado an\nit; an\u2019 as the child grew up, every one wondhered to hear him speak of\nthe multitudes o\u2019 thim that he seen in all directions. Well, my dear,\nhe kept never sayin\u2019 anything to them until one day when he was in the\nfair of Ballycomaisy, that he saw them whippin\u2019 away meal and cotton and\nbutther, an\u2019 everything that they thought serviceable to them; so you see\nhe could hould in no longer, an\u2019 says he to a little fellow that was very\nactive an\u2019 thievish among them, \u2018Why duv you take what doesn\u2019t belong to\nyou?\u2019 says he. The little fellow looked up at him\u201d--\u201cGod be about us,\nRose, what is that white thing goin\u2019 along the ditch to the left of us?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a sheep, don\u2019t you see? Faix, I believe you\u2019re cowardly at night.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, faix, an\u2019 so it is, but it looked very quare somehow.\u201d\n\n\u201c--An\u2019 says he, \u2018How do you know that?\u2019 \u2018Bekase I see you all,\u2019 says the\nother. \u2018An\u2019 which eye do you see us all wid?\u2019 says he again. \u2018Why, wid\nthe left,\u2019 says the boy. Wid that he gave a short whiff of a blast up\ninto the eye, an\u2019 from that day not a stime the poor boy was never able\nto see wid it. No, Phil, I didn\u2019t say it was _myself_--I named _nobody_.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019, Mrs Moan, is it thrue that you can put the dughaughs upon them that\ntrate their wives badly?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhisht, Phil. When you marry, keep your timper--that\u2019s all.--You knew\nlong Ned Donnelly?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, bedad, sure enough; there was quare things said about\u201d----\u201cPush an,\navick, push an; for who knows how some of us is wanted? You have a good\nmasther, I believe, Phil? It\u2019s poison the same Ned would give me if he\ncould. Push an, dear.\u201d\n\nPhil felt that he had got his answer. The abrupt mystery of her manner\nand her curt allusions left him little indeed to guess at. In this\nway did the conversation continue, Phil feloniously filching, as he\nthought, from her own lips, a corroboration of the various knowledge\nand extraordinary powers which she was believed to possess, and she\ningeniously feeding his credulity, merely by enigmatical hints and\nmasked allusions; for although she took care to affirm nothing directly\nor personally of herself, yet did she contrive to answer him in such a\nmanner as to confirm every report that had gone abroad of the strange\npurposes she could effect.\n\n\u201cPhil, wasn\u2019t there an uncle o\u2019 yours up in the Mountain Bar that didn\u2019t\nlive happily for some time wid his wife?\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe so, Rose; but it was before my time, or any way when I was\nonly a young shaver.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 did you ever hear how the reconcilement came betune them?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, bedad,\u201d replied Phil, \u201cI never did; an\u2019 that\u2019s no wondher, for it\nwas a thing they never liked to spake of.\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth, it\u2019s thrue for you, boy. Well, I brought about----Push an, dear,\npush an.--They\u2019re as happy a couple now as breaks bread, any way, and\nthat\u2019s all they wanted.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d wager a thirteen it was you did that, Rose.\u201d\n\n\u201cHut, gorsoon, hould your tongue. Sure they\u2019re happy now, I say,\nwhosomever did it. I named nobody, nor I take no pride to myself, Phil,\nout o\u2019 sich things. Some people\u2019s gifted above others, an\u2019 that\u2019s all.\nBut, Phil?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, ma\u2019am?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow does the Dandy an\u2019 his scald of a wife agree? for, throth, I\u2019m tould\nshe\u2019s nothing else.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, but middlin\u2019 itself. As I tould you, she often has us as empty as\na paper lanthern, wid divil a thing but the light of a good conscience\ninside of us. If we _pray_ ourselves, begorra she\u2019ll take care we\u2019ll have\nthe _fastin\u2019_ at first cost; so that you see, ma\u2019am, we hould a devout\nsituation undher her.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 so that\u2019s the way wid you?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, the downright thruth, an\u2019 no mistake. Why, the stirabout she makes\nwould run nine miles along a deal boord, an\u2019 scald a man at the far end\nof it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth, Phil, I never like to go next or near sich women or sich places,\nbut for the sake o\u2019 the innocent we must forget the guilty. So push an,\navick, push an. Who knows but it\u2019s life an\u2019 death wid us? Have you ne\u2019er\na spur on?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe divil a spur I tuck time to wait for.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, afther all, it\u2019s not right to let a messager come for a woman like\nme, widout what is called the Midwife\u2019s Spur--a spur in the head--for it\nhas long been said that one in the head is worth two in the heel, an\u2019 so\nindeed it is,--on business like this, any way.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs Moan, do you know the Moriartys of Ballaghmore, ma\u2019am?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich o\u2019 them, honey?\u201d\n\n\u201cMick o\u2019 the Esker Beg.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I do. A well-favoured dacent family they are, an\u2019 full o\u2019 the\nworld too, the Lord spare it to them.\u201d\n\n\u201cBedad, they are, ma\u2019am, a well-favoured[1] family. Well, ma\u2019am, isn\u2019t it\nodd, but somehow there\u2019s neither man, woman, nor child in the parish but\ngives you the good word above all the women in it; but as for a midwife,\nwhy, I heard my aunt say that if ever mother an\u2019 child owended their\nlives to another, she did her and the babby\u2019s to you.\u201d\n\nThe reader may here perceive that Phil\u2019s flattery must have had some\npeculiar design in it, in connection with the Moriartys, and such indeed\nwas the fact. But we had better allow him to explain matters himself.\n\n\u201cWell, honey, sure that was but my duty; but God be praised for all, for\nevery thing depinds on the Man above. She should call in one o\u2019 those\nnewfangled women who take out their Dispatches from the Lying-in College\nin Dublin below; for you see, Phil, there is sich a place there--an\u2019 it\nstands to raison that there should be a Fondlin\u2019 Hospital beside it,\nwhich there is too, they say; but, honey, what are these poor ignorant\ncratures but _new lights_, every one o\u2019 them, that a dacent woman\u2019s life\nisn\u2019t safe wid?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure, Mrs Moan; an\u2019 everyone knows they\u2019re not to be put in\ncomparishment wid a woman like you, that knows sich a power. But how does\nit happen, ma\u2019am, that the Moriartys does be spakin\u2019 but middlin\u2019 of you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf me, avick?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, faix; I\u2019m tould they spread the mouth at you sometimes, espishily\nwhen the people does be talkin\u2019 about all the quare things you can do.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, dear, let them have their laugh--they may laugh that win,\nyou know. Still one doesn\u2019t like to be provoked--no indeed.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix, an\u2019 Mick Moriarty has a purty daughther, Mrs Moan, an\u2019 a purty\npenny he can give her, by all accounts. The nerra one o\u2019 myself but\nwould be glad to put my comedher on her, if I knew how. I hope you find\nyourself aisey on your sate, ma\u2019am?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do, honey. Let them talk, Phil, let them talk; it may come their turn\nyet--only I didn\u2019t expect it from _them_. You! but, avick, what chance\nwould _you_ have with Mick Moriarty\u2019s daughther?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, every chance an\u2019 sartinty too, if some one that I know, and that\nevery one that knows her, respects, would only give me a lift. There\u2019s\nno use in comin\u2019 about the bush, Mrs Moan--bedad it\u2019s yourself I mane.\nYou could do it. An\u2019, whisper, betune you and me it would be only sarvin\u2019\nthem right, in regard of the way they spake of you--sayin\u2019, indeed, an\u2019\ngalivantin\u2019 to the world that you know no more than another woman, an\u2019\nthat ould Pol Doolin of Ballymagowan knows oceans more than you do.\u201d\n\nThis was perhaps as artful a plot as could be laid for engaging the\nassistance of Mrs Moan in Phil\u2019s design upon Moriarty\u2019s daughter. He\nknew perfectly well that she would not, unless strongly influenced, lend\nherself to any thing of the kind between two persons whose circumstances\nin life differed so widely as those of a respectable farmer\u2019s daughter\nwith a good portion, and a penniless labouring boy. With great\nadroitness, therefore, he contrived to excite her prejudices against\nthem by the most successful arguments he could possibly use, namely, a\ncontempt for her imputed knowledge, and praise of her rival. Still she\nwas in the habit of acting coolly, and less from impulse than from a\nshrewd knowledge of the best way to sustain her own reputation, without\nundertaking too much.\n\n\u201cWell, honey, an\u2019 so you wish me to assist you? Maybe I could do it, and\nmaybe--But push an, dear, move him an; we\u2019ll think of it, an\u2019 spake more\nabout it some other time. I must think of what\u2019s afore me now--so move,\nmove, acushla; push an.\u201d\n\nMuch conversation of the same nature took place between them, in which\neach bore a somewhat characteristic part; for to say truth, Phil was as\nknowing a \u201cboy\u201d as you might wish to become acquainted with. In Rose,\nhowever, he had a woman of no ordinary shrewdness to encounter; and the\nconsequence was, that each after a little more chat began to understand\nthe other a little too well to render the topic of the Moriartys, to\nwhich Phil again reverted, so interesting as it had been. Rose soon saw\nthat Phil was only a _plasthey_, or sweetener, and only \u201csoothered\u201d her\nfor his own purposes; and Phil perceived that Rose understood his tactics\ntoo well to render any further tampering with her vanity either safe or\nsuccessful.\n\nAt length they arrived at Dandy Keho\u2019s house, and in a moment the Dandy\nhimself took her in his arms, and, placing her gently on the ground,\nshook hands with and cordially welcomed her. It is very singular, but no\nless true, that the moment a midwife enters the house of her patient, she\nalways uses the plural number, whether speaking in her own person or in\nthat of the former.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re welcome, Rose, an\u2019 I\u2019m proud an\u2019 happy to see you here, an\u2019 it\u2019ll\nmake poor Bridget strong, an\u2019 give her courage, to know you\u2019re near her.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow are we, Dandy? how are we, avick?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, bedad, middlin\u2019, wishin\u2019 very much for you of coorse, as I hear\u201d----\n\n\u201cWell, honey, go away now. I have some words to say afore I go in,\nthat\u2019ll sarve us, maybe--a charm it is that has great vartue in it.\u201d\n\nThe Dandy then withdrew to the barn, where the male portion of the family\nwere staying until the _ultimatum_ should be known. A good bottle of\npotteen, however, was circulating among them, for every one knows that\noccasions of this nature usually generate a festive and hospitable spirit.\n\nRose now went round the house in the direction from east to west,\nstopping for a short time at each of the windows, which she marked with\nthe sign of the cross five times; that is to say, once at each corner\nand once in the middle. At each corner also of the house she signed the\ncross, and repeated the following words or charm:--\n\n      The four Evangels and the four Divines,\n      God bless the moon an us when it shines.\n      New moon,[2] true moon, God bless me,\n      God bless this house an\u2019 this family.\n      Matthew, Mark, Luke, an\u2019 John,\n      God bless the bed that she lies on.\n      God bless the manger where Christ was born,\n      An\u2019 lave Joy an\u2019 comfort here in the morn.\n      St Bridget an\u2019 St Patrick, an\u2019 the holy spouse,\n      Keep the fairies for ever far from this house. Amen.\n    Glora yea, Glora yea, Glora yea yeelish,\n    Glora n\u2019ahir, Glora n\u2019vac, Glora n\u2019spirid neev. Amen.\n\nThese are the veritable words of the charm, which she uttered in the\nmanner and with the forms aforesaid. Having concluded them, she then\nentered into the house, where we leave her for a time with our best\nwishes.\n\nIn the barn the company were very merry, Dandy himself being as pleasant\nas any of them, unless when his brow became shaded by the very natural\nanxiety for the welfare of his wife and child, which from time to time\nreturned upon him. Stories were told, songs sung, and jokes passed, all\nfull of good nature and not a little fun, some of it at the expense\nof the Dandy himself, who laughed at and took it all in good part. An\noccasional _bulletin_ came out through a servant maid, that matters were\njust the same way; a piece of intelligence which damped Keho\u2019s mirth\nconsiderably. At length he himself was sent for by the Midwife, who\nwished to speak with him at the door.\n\n\u201cI hope there\u2019s nothing like danger, Rose?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all, honey; but the truth is, we want a seventh son who isn\u2019t\nleft-handed.\u201d\n\n\u201cA seventh son! Why, what do you want him for?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, dear, just to give her three shakes in his arms;--it never fails.\u201d\n\n\u201cBedad, an\u2019 that\u2019s fortunate; for there\u2019s Mickey M\u2019Sorley of the Broad\nBog\u2019s a seventh son, an\u2019 he\u2019s not two gunshots from this.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, aroon, hurry off one or two o\u2019 the boys for him, and tell Phil,\nif he makes haste, that I\u2019ll have a word to say to him afore I go.\u201d This\nintimation to Phil put feathers to his heels; for from the moment that\nhe and Barny started, he did not once cease to go at the top of his\nspeed. It followed as a matter of course that honest Mickey M\u2019Sorley\ndressed himself and was back at Keho\u2019s house before the family believed\nit possible the parties could have been there. This ceremony of getting a\nseventh son to shake the sick woman, in cases where difficulty or danger\nmay be apprehended, is one which frequently occurs in remote parts of the\ncountry. To be sure, it is only a form, the man merely taking her in his\narms, and moving her gently three times. The writer of this, when young,\nsaw it performed with his own eyes, as the saying is; but in his case the\nman was not a seventh son, for no such person could be procured. When\nthis difficulty arises, any man who has the character of being lucky,\nprovided he is not married to a red-haired wife, may be called in to\ngive the three shakes. In other and more dangerous cases Rose would send\nout persons to gather half a dozen heads of blasted barley; and having\nstripped them of the black fine powder with which they were covered, she\nwould administer it in a little new milk, and this was always attended by\nthe best effects. It is somewhat surprising that the whole Faculty should\nhave adopted this singular medicine in cases of similar difficulty, for\nin truth it is that which is now administered under the more scientific\nname of _Ergot of rye_.\n\nIn the case before us, the seventh son sustained his reputation for good\nluck. In about three quarters of an hour Dandy was called in \u201cto kiss a\nstrange young gintleman that wanted to see him.\u201d This was an agreeable\nceremony to Dandy, as it always is, to catch the first glimpse of one\u2019s\nown first-born. On entering he found Rose sitting beside the bed in all\nthe pomp of authority and pride of success, bearing the infant in her\narms, and dandling it up and down, more from habit than any necessity\nthat then existed for doing so.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said she, \u201chere we are all safe and sound, God willin\u2019; an\u2019 if\nyou\u2019re not the father of as purty a young man as ever I laid eyes on, I\u2019m\nnot here. Corny Keho, come an\u2019 kiss your son, I say.\u201d\n\nCorny advanced, somewhat puzzled whether to laugh or cry, and taking\nthe child up with a smile, he kissed it five times--for that is the\nmystic number--and as he placed it once more in Rose\u2019s arms, there was a\nsolitary tear on its cheek.\n\n\u201cArra, go an\u2019 kiss your wife, man alive, an\u2019 tell her to have a good\nheart, an\u2019 to be as kind to all her fellow-creatures as God has been to\nher this night. It isn\u2019t upon this world the heart ought to be fixed, for\nwe see how small a thing an\u2019 how short a time can take us out of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, bedad,\u201d said Dandy, who had now recovered the touch of feeling\nexcited by the child, \u201cit would be too bad if I\u2019d grudge her a smack.\u201d\nHe accordingly stooped, and kissed her; but, truth to confess, he did it\nwith a very cool and business-like air. \u201cI know,\u201d he proceeded, \u201cthat\nshe\u2019ll have a heart like a jyant, now that the son is come.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure she will, an\u2019 she must; or if not, _I\u2019ll_ play the sorra,\nan\u2019 break things. Well, well, let her get strength a bit first, an\u2019\nrest and quiet; an\u2019 in the mean time get the groanin\u2019-malt ready, until\nevery one in the house drinks the health of the stranger. My sowl to\nhappiness, but he\u2019s a born beauty. The nerra Keho of you all ever was the\naiquails of what he\u2019ll be yet, plaise God. Troth, Corny, he has daddy\u2019s\nnose upon him, any how. Ay, you may laugh; but, faix, it\u2019s thrue. You\nmay take with him, you may own to him, any where. Arra, look at that! My\nsoul to happiness, if one egg\u2019s liker another! Eh, my posey! Where was\nit, alanna? Ay, you\u2019re there, my duck o\u2019 diamonds! Troth, you\u2019ll be the\nflower o\u2019 the flock, so you will. An\u2019 now, Mrs Keho, honey, we\u2019ll lave\nyou to yourself awhile, till we thrate these poor cratures of sarvints;\nthe likes o\u2019 them oughtn\u2019t to be overlooked; an\u2019 indeed they did feel\na great dale itself, poor things, about you; an\u2019 moreover they\u2019ll be\nlongin\u2019 of coorse to see the darlin\u2019 here.\u201d\n\nMrs Keho\u2019s mother and Rose superintended the birth-treat between them. It\nis unnecessary to say that the young men and girls had their own sly fun\nupon the occasion; and now that Dandy\u2019s apprehension of danger was over,\nhe joined in their mirth with as much glee as any of them. This being\nover, they all retired to rest; and honest Mickey M\u2019Sorley went home\nvery _hearty_,[3] in consequence of Dandy\u2019s grateful sense of the aid he\nhad rendered his wife. The next morning Rose, after dressing the infant\nand performing all the usual duties that one expected from her, took her\nleave in these words:--\n\n\u201cNow, Mrs Keho, God bless you an\u2019 yours, and take care of yourself. I\u2019ll\nsee you agin on Sunday next, when it\u2019s to be christened. Until then,\nthrow out no dirty wather before sunrise or afther sunset; an\u2019 when\nFather Molloy is goin\u2019 to christen it, let Corny tell him not to forget\nto christen it _against the fairies_, an\u2019 thin it\u2019ll be safe. Good bye,\nma\u2019am; an\u2019 look you to her, Mrs Finnegan,\u201d said she, addressing her\npatient\u2019s mother, \u201can\u2019 _banaght lath_ till I see all again.\u201d\n\n[1] This term in Ireland means \u201chandsome\u201d--\u201cgood-looking.\u201d\n\n[2] If it did not happen to be new moon, the words were \u201cgood moon,\u201d &c.\n\n[3] Tipsy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MINSTREL\u2019S WALK.\n\nBY J. U. U.\n\n(To the old Irish air of \u201cBidh mid a gol sa poga na mban.\u201d)\n\n\n    Green hills of the west, where I carolled along\n    In the Mayday of life with my harp and my song,\n    Though the winter of time o\u2019er my spirit hath rolled,\n    And the breast of the minstrel is weary and cold;\n    Though no more by those famous old haunts shall I stray,\n    Once the themes of my song, and the guides of my way,\n    That each had its story, and true-hearted friend,\n    Before I forget ye, life\u2019s journey shall end!\n\n    Oh, \u2019twas joy in the prime of life\u2019s morning to go\n    On the tracks of Clan Connell, led on by Hugh Roe,\n    O\u2019er the hill of Keiscorran, renowned Ballimote,\n    By the Boyle, or by Newport, all passes of note,\n    Where the foe their vain armaments haughtily kept;\n    But the foot of th\u2019 avenger went by while they slept:\n    The hills told no tale, but the night-cloud was red,\n    And the friends of the Sassenagh quaked at their tread.\n\n    By the plains of Rath Croghan, fields famous of yore,\n    Though stronghold and seat of the kingly no more,\n    By Tulsk and Tomona, hill, valley, and plain,\n    To grey Ballintubber, O\u2019Connors\u2019 domain;\n    While ages rolled backwards in lengthened array,\n    In song and old story, the long summer day;\n    And cloud-like the glories of Connaught rolled by,\n    Till they sank in the horrors of grim Athenry!\n\n    Through the heaths of Kiltullagh, kind, simple, though rude,\n    To Aeluin\u2019s bright waters, where Willesborough stood,\n    Ballinlough then spoke welcome from many a door,\n    Where smiles lit kind faces that now smile no more;\n    Then away to the Moyne, o\u2019er the moors of Mayo,\n    Still onward, still welcomed by high and by low,\n    Blake, Burke, and O\u2019Malley, Lynch, Kirwan, and Browne,\n    By forest, lake, mountain, through village and town.\n\n    Then kind were the voices that greeted my way,\n    \u2019Twas _Cead mille failte_ at closing of day,\n    When young hearts beat lightly, and labour was done,\n    For joy tracked my steps, as light follows the sun;\n    I had tales for the hamlet, and news for the hall,\n    And the tune of old times, ever welcome to all,\n    The praise of thy glory, dear land of the west;\n    But thy praises are still, and thy kind bosoms rest!\n\n    My blessing rest with you, dear friends, though no more\n    Shall the poor and the weary rejoice at your door;\n    Though like stars to your homes I have seen you depart,\n    Still ye live, O ye live in each vein of my heart.\n    Still the light of your looks on my darkness is thrown,\n    Still your voices breathe round me when weary and lone;\n    Like shades ye come back with each feeling old strain,\n    But the world shall ne\u2019er look on your equals again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe difference between a rich man and a poor man is this--the former eats\nwhen he pleases, the latter when he can get it.--_Sir W. Raleigh._\n\n\n\n\nAPOLOGUES AND FABLES FROM FOREIGN LANGUAGES.\n\n(_Translated for the Irish Penny Journal._)\n\n\nNo. VI.--THE REMORSE OF A NIGHT.\n\nThe last night of the year was about to expire; the winds, after a day\nof storminess, had subsided into slumber; the white earth lay outspread,\nlike a shrouded map, under the moon; and innumerable stars arose out from\nthe remotest abysses of heaven, twinkling as brightly as though they had\nbut then begun their existence, and were never to suffer impairment.\nEleven o\u2019clock had tolled from the tower of an ancient Gothic church; and\nas the vibrations died away on the transparent air, an Old Man drew nigh\nto the window of a dark room in the desolate dwelling of which he had\nlong been the solitary tenant, and cast his dull despairful eyes upwards\ntowards the immoveable firmament, and from thence down on the blank waste\nof the earth, and then breathed a groaning prayer, that those eyes might\nnever survey that firmament or that earth again. Wretched was he, in\ntruth, that Old Man, beyond all parallel and beyond all consolation--for\nhis grave lay open for him, as it seemed, by his side; it was thinly\ncovered over, not by the flowers of Youth, but by the snows of Age; and\nwhen, heartsick of the sight, he looked away from it into himself, he saw\nthat the sole fruits that he had gathered from a long and eventful life\nwere sins, regrets, and maladies--a decayed body, a plague-smitten soul,\na bosom full of bitterness, and an old age full of remorse. The beautiful\ndays of his youth now came again before him like ghosts, and resummoned\nto his remembrance the cheerful morning upon which his venerable father\nhad first placed him upon the great Cross-road of Life--a road which,\ntrodden on the right hand, conducts the pilgrim along the noonday path\nof Virtue into a spacious, joyous land, abounding in sunbeams, harvests,\nand angelic spirits, but which, followed on the left, betrays him through\nlampless and miry ways, into the rueful wildernesses of Vice, where\nserpents for ever swarm, and pestilence chokes the atmosphere, and to\nquench his burning thirst the sluggish black rivers yield him but slime\nand poison.\n\nAlas! the serpents were now coiled about him--the poison was rilling\nthrough his heart! Alas for him! he knew too well which road he had\nchosen--where he was--and what he must undergo--for eternity--for\neternity!\n\nWith an anguish, with an agony, with a despair, that language cannot even\nfaintly pourtray, he uplifted his withered arms towards heaven, clasped\nhis hands, and cried aloud, O! give me back, give me back my youth! O! my\nfather, lead me once more to the Cross-road, that I may once more choose,\nand this time choose with foreknowledge!\n\nBut his cries wasted themselves idly upon the frozen air, for his father\nwas no more, and his youth was no more--both had alike long, long ago\nevanished, never to reappear. He knew this, and he wept--yes, that\nmiserable old man wept; but his tears relieved him not; they were like\ndrops of hot lava, for they trickled from a burning brain.\n\nHe looked forth, and he saw flitting lights--wills-o\u2019-the-wisp--dancing\nover the morasses and becoming extinguished in the burial-grounds; and he\nsaid, Such were my riotous days of folly! He again looked forth, and he\nbeheld a star fall from heaven to earth, and there melt away in blackness\nthat left no trace behind, and he said, I am that star!--and with that\nwoeful thought were torn open anew the leprous wounds in his bosom which\nthe serpents that clung around him would never suffer to be healed.\n\nHis morbid imagination, wandering abroad till it touched on the confines\nof frenzy, showed him figures of sleep-walkers traversing like shadows\nthe roofs of the houses:--the chimneys widened into furnaces vomiting\nforth flames and monsters--the windmills lifted up their giant arms,\nand threatened to crush him--and a forgotten spectre, left behind in\na deserted charnel-house, glared on him with a horrible expression of\nmalignity, and then mocked his terror by assuming his features.\n\nOn a sudden there flowed out upon the air a deep, rich, and solemn stream\nof music. It came from the steeple of the old Gothic church, as the bells\nannounced the birth of the new year, for it was now the twelfth hour.\nIts cadences fell with a thrilling distinctness upon the ear and the\nheart of the Old Man; and every tone in the melody, through the agency\nof that mysterious power which sound possesses of re-assembling within\nthe forsaken halls of the soul images long departed, brought before his\nmind some past scene of his life, vivid as a panoramic picture. Again\nhe looked round upon the lucid horizon and over the frosted earth; and\nhe thought on the opportunities he had forfeited--the warnings he had\nslighted--the examples he had scoffed at. He thought upon the friends\nof his youth, and how they, better and more fortunate than he, were now\ngood men, at peace with themselves--teachers of wisdom to others, fathers\nof blessed families, torchlights for the world--and he exclaimed, Oh!\nand I also, had I but willed it, I also might, like them, have seen with\ntearless eyes, with tranquil heart, this night depart into eternity! Oh,\nmy dear father--my dear, dear mother! I, even I, might have been now\nhappy, had I but hearkened to your affectionate admonitions--had I but\nchosen to profit by the blessings which on every returning New Year\u2019s\nMorn like this your tenderness led you to invoke on my head!\n\nAmid these feverish reminiscences of his youth, it appeared to him as\nthough the spectre which had assumed his features in the charnel-house\ngradually approached nearer and nearer to him--losing, however, as it\nadvanced, one trait after another of its spectral character--till at\nlength, as if under the dominion of that supernatural influence which on\nthe last night of the old year is popularly said to compel even the Dead\nto undergo a change of form, it took the appearance of a living young\nman--the same young man that he had himself been fifty years before.\n\nHe was unable to gaze any longer: he covered his face with his hands;\nand, as the blistering tears gushed from his eyes, he sank down,\npowerless and trembling, on his knees--and again he cried out, as if his\nheart would break, O! come back to me, lost days of my youth!--come back,\ncome back to me once more!\n\nAnd the supplication of the Penitent was not made in vain, for they came\nback to him, those days of his youth, but not yet lost! He started from\nhis bed--the blue moonbeams were shining in through the windows--the\nmidnight chimes were announcing the beginning of a new year. Yes!--all\nhad been but an appalling dream--all, except his sins and transgressions:\nthese, alas! were but too real, for conscience, even in sleep, is a\nfaithful monitor. But he was still young--he had not grown old in\niniquity--and with tears of repentance he thanked God for having, even by\nmeans of so terrific a vision, awakened in his heart a feeling of horror\nfor the criminal career he had been pursuing, and for having revealed to\nhim in that glimpse of a land full of sunbeams, harvests, and angelic\nspirits, the blissful goal in which, if he pleased, the path of his\nexistence might yet terminate.\n\nYouthful reader! on which of these two paths art thou? On the right-hand\npath? Go forward, then, with the blessing of thy Maker, and fear nothing!\nOn the left-hand path? If so, pause: be forewarned--turn while yet thou\nmayest--retrace thy steps--make a happier choice! I will pray that the\nterrors of this ghastly Dream may not hereafter be arrayed in judgment\nagainst thee! Alas for thee, if the time ever come when thou shalt call\naloud in thy despair, Come back, ye precious days of my youth!--unlike\nthe dreamer, _thou_ wilt but be mocked by the barren echo of thine own\nlamentation--the precious days of thy youth will never, never come back\nto thee!\n\n                                                                       M.\n\n\n\n\nTEETOTALLERS AND TOPERS.\n\n\nIt is not a little curious, and perhaps not a little amusing in its\nway, to mark the feelings with which these two very different classes\ncontemplate each other. The introduction of teetotallism was a thing\nfor which the toper was wholly unprepared. It was a thing of which, _a\npriori_, he could have formed no conception--a thing of which he never\ndreamt. It therefore took him quite by surprise; and when it came, his\nopinion of it was, and to this good hour is, that it is one of the most\nabsurd and monstrous ideas that ever entered into the human head.\n\nThat a class of men should arise who would forswear the use of those\nexhilarating stimulants in which he himself so much delighted--that there\nshould ever appear on the face of the earth such an ass as the man who\nwould refuse a glass of generous liquor when offered him, is to him a\nthing surpassing belief; and in fact he does not, or rather will not,\nbelieve in it. He insists upon it that it is all humbug, and that its\nprofessors, the professors of teetotallism, may say what they please,\nbut that they can and do take their drink as freely as he does; the only\nreal difference being, that they take theirs secretly. No evidence\nwhatever will convince him that it is otherwise, or at least will induce\nhim to admit that it is so. He is, in short, determined not to believe\nin so monstrous a doctrine. But should conviction at any time be too\nstrong for him, he then falls back on the consolatory belief that it\ncannot long prevail--that it will not, can not stand. An association\nwhose rules should enjoin every member always to walk backwards instead\nof forwards, or which should enjoin any other equally ridiculous\nabsurdity, might live and prosper; but teetotallism, the abstaining from\nthe dear potations--no, no, _that_ cannot stand any time--ridiculous,\nimpossible--not in the nature of things.\n\nAs might be expected, the toper entertains a most cordial hatred of the\nteetotaller; he abhors him, and detests his principles--he in fact cannot\nhear him spoken of with any degree of patience. Oh, what a triumph to him\nwhen he catches a teetotaller tripping! With what delight he treasures\nup anecdotes of backsliding on the part of the professors of abstinence!\nAnd of such anecdotes he has a large store; for he is constantly on\nthe look-out for them, and is not very particular on the score of\nauthenticity. With what glee he relates these anecdotes to his club! and\nwith what glee his club listens to the edifying and refreshing relation!\nThey will chuckle over a story of this kind for a month. Nor, in the\nmatter of anecdote, is the teetotaller a whit behind his unregenerated\nbrother. The two parties, in fact, carry on a war of anecdote against\neach other--the teetotaller\u2019s being stories of ruin and misery resulting\nfrom dissipation--the toper\u2019s, facetious little tales of hypocrisy and\nbacksliding. Both collect their anecdotes with great industry, and\npropagate them with great zeal and diligence.\n\nThe toper\u2019s attitude, as regards the teetotaller, is of course a hostile\none. But it is not a bold one. There is nothing of defiance in it,\nalthough he sometimes affects it. For although he hates the teetotaller,\nhe also stands in awe of him; being oppressed with an awkward\nconsciousness that the latter has the right side of the argument, and the\nweight of general opinion is on his side--that, in short, the teetotaller\nis right and he is wrong.\n\nThis consciousness gives to his hostility a sneaking and timid character,\nand induces him to confine himself in the matter of retaliation to the\nfacetious joke and sly insinuation. On more open warfare he dare not\nventure. The teetotaller is thus the assailing party: he takes and keeps\nthe field manfully, and with bold front and loud voice dares the toper to\nthe combat. The latter, in conscious weakness, shrinks at the sound, as\ndo the small animals of the forest when they hear the roar of the lion;\nand getting out of his way as fast as he can, retires to his fastnesses,\nthe drinking-shops, and hedges himself round with bottles and quart-pots.\n\nThe toper always carefully eschews any thing like direct and open\npersonal contact with the enemy, in the shape of discussions on the\nmerits of the question of abstinence. There is, in fact, nothing he so\nmuch abominates as any attempt at reasoning on the subject, where such\nreasoning has for its object to show the advantages of temperance or\nintemperance. The toper thus at all times prefers keeping out of the\nteetotaller\u2019s way, and, although professing the most entire disregard of\nhim, will at any time go a mile about to avoid him. He has an instinctive\ndislike of him, and this because he is a living personified reflection on\nhimself.\n\nTurning now to the teetotaller, we find two or three things in his\nconduct, too, with reference to the toper, that are rather curious in\ntheir way. In the first place, it is curious to mark the deep interest he\ntakes in what may be called the tippling statistics of his neighbourhood;\nand the amount of knowledge which he contrives to acquire on this\nsubject is really amazing. He knows all the topers in his vicinity, and\nkeeps a sharp eye on their proceedings. He knows every one of their\nhaunts too--knows the different degrees of dissipation to which each\nhas attained, and could almost tell on any given day what quantity each\ndrank on the preceding night. In short, so vigilantly does he watch all\nthe outgoings and incomings of these marked men, and yet without seeming\nto notice them, that they can hardly swallow a single _cropper_ without\nhis knowing it. The whole thing, in fact, is a sort of private study of\nhis own, and one to which he devotes a great deal of quiet observation\nand secret reflection: he takes a deep interest in it, and hence the\nproficiency he makes out in the knowledge of its details.\n\nBut our teetotaller not only knows all the professed, undisguised\ntopers of his locality; he knows--much more striking proof of his\nvigilance--every man also whose habits, although not yet sufficiently\nintemperate to attract the attention of any one but a teetotaller,\nexhibit signs and symptoms of becoming gradually worse. The tippling\nprogress of these persons he watches with the deepest interest, and keeps\nhimself accurately informed regarding the extent and frequency of their\ndebauches. The teetotaller, in short, keeps a vigilant eye over the\nentire drinking system of his neighbourhood, and professes an astonishing\nknowledge of what every one is doing in this way. If the teetotaller\u2019s\nresidence be in a small town, his surveillance then embraces its whole\nextent, and hardly can a single bumper be swallowed within its limits, of\nwhich he does not, somehow or other, obtain notice.\n\nAbhorring dissipation itself, the teetotaller naturally extends that\nabhorrence to its signs and symptoms. On flushed and pimpled faces\nhe looks with aversion and distrust, but on a red nose with absolute\nhorror. We once saw a curious instance of this:--A gentleman with a\nhighly illumed proboscis one evening entered a teetotal coffee-room in\nwhich we happened to be seated. The nose--for we sink the gentleman,\nits owner, altogether, as an unnecessary incumbrance--passed, although\nwith deliberate movement, like a fiery meteor, up the entire length of\nthe room, exciting in its progress the utmost horror and dismay amongst\nthe teetotallers with whom the apartment was thronged. The sensation,\nin fact, created by the red nose was immense, although not noisy in its\nexpression.\n\nIt was indicated merely by an extensive and earnest whispering, by a\nshuffling of feet, and a general fidgetty sort of movement, giving,\nthough in an unobtrusive form, a very vivid idea of the presence of some\nexceedingly disagreeable object. The whole room, in short, was shocked\nby the red nose, although they refrained from expressing that feeling by\nany more marked demonstration than those we have mentioned. The red nose\nseemed for some time unconscious of the effects it was producing, but the\ndetection of a number of horror-stricken faces peering eagerly over the\nedges and round the corners of boxes, to get a glimpse of the detestable\nobject, betrayed the real state of the case. The red nose, however,\nevinced no emotion on making the discovery, but passed quietly into an\nunoccupied box, took up a paper, and ordered a glass of lemonade. The\nlandlord looked queer at the nose as he tabled the order, but of course\nsaid nothing.\n\nNow, we thought at the time, how different would have been the reception\nof the gentleman with the red nose by a club of topers! In such case, his\nnose, in place of being looked on with horror, would have been viewed\nwith respect. It would have been a passport to the highest favour of the\njolly fraternity, and would have at once admitted its owner to their\nconfidence and good-fellowship. We do not know, indeed, that its entrance\nwould not have been hailed by a shout of acclamation; for, viewed as one\nof the chief insignia of a boon companion, it was truly a splendid nose.\n\n                                                                       C.\n\n\n\n\nMORAL EVIL MAN\u2019S OWN CREATION.\n\n\nMan brings upon himself a thousand calamities, as consequences of his\nartifices and pride, and then, overlooking his own follies, gravely\ninvestigates the origin of what he calls evil:--\n\nHe compromises every natural pleasure to acquire fame among transient\nbeings, who forget him nightly in sleep, and eternally in death; and\nseeks to render his name celebrated among posterity, though it has no\nidentity with his person, and though posterity and himself can have no\ncontemporaneous feeling.\n\nHe deprives himself and all around him of every passing enjoyment, to\naccumulate wealth that he may purchase other men\u2019s labour, in the vain\nhope of adding happiness to his own.\n\nHe omits to make effective laws to protect the poor against the\noppressions of the rich, and then wears out his existence under the fear\nof becoming poor, and being the victim of his own neglect and injustice.\n\nHe arms himself with murderous weapons; and on the slightest instigation,\nand for hire, practises murder as a science, follows this science as\na regular profession, and honours its chiefs above benefactors and\nphilosophers, in proportion to the quantity of blood they have shed, or\nthe mischiefs they have perpetrated.\n\nHe disguises the most worthless of the people in showy liveries, and\nthen excites them to murder men whom they never saw, by the fear of being\nkilled if they do not kill.\n\nHe revels in luxury and gluttony, and then complains of the diseases\nwhich result from repletion.\n\nHe tries in all things to counteract or improve the provisions of nature,\nand then afflicts himself at his disappointments.\n\nHe multiplies the chances against his own life and health by his numerous\nartifices, and then wonders at their fatal results.\n\nHe shuts his eyes against the volume of truth as presented by Nature,\nand, vainly considering that all was made for him, founds on this false\nassumption various doubts in regard to the justice of eternal causation.\n\nHe interdicts the enjoyment of all other creatures, and regarding the\nworld as his property, in mere wantonness destroys myriads on whom have\nbeen bestowed beauties and perfections.\n\nHe forgets that to live and let live is a maxim of universal justice,\nextending not only to his fellow creatures, but to inferior ones, to whom\nhis moral obligations are greater, because they are more in his power.\n\nHe afflicts himself that he cannot live for ever, though his forefathers\nhave successively died to make room for him.\n\nHe repines at the thought of losing that life, the use of which he so\noften perverts: and though he began to exist but yesterday, thinks the\nworld was made for him, and that he ought to continue to enjoy it for\never.\n\nHe desires to govern others, but, regardless of their dependence upon his\nbenevolence, is commonly gratified in displaying the power entrusted to\nhim by a tyrannical abuse of it.\n\nHe makes laws, which, in the hands of mercenary lawyers, serve as snares\nto unwary poverty--but as shields to crafty wealth.\n\nHe acknowledges the importance of educating youth, yet teaches them any\nthing but their social duties in the political state in which they live.\n\nHe passes his days in questioning the providence of Nature, in ascribing\nevil to supernatural causes, in feverish expectation of results contrary\nto the necessary harmony of the world.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE LABOUR OF STUDY.--It is impossible for any man to be a determined\nstudent without endangering his health. Man was made to be active. The\nhunter who roams through the forest, or climbs the rocks of the Alps,\nis the man who is hardy, and in the most robust health. The sailor who\nhas been rocked by a thousand storms, and who labours day and night,\nis a hardy man, unless dissipation has broken his constitution. Any\nman of active habits is likely to enjoy good health, if he does not\ntoo frequently over-exert himself. But the student\u2019s habits are all\nunnatural, and by them nature is continually cramped and restrained.\nMen err in nothing more than in the estimate which they make of human\nlabour. The hero of the world is the man that makes a bustle--the man\nthat makes the road smoke under his chaise-and-four--the man that\nraises a dust about him--the man that ravages or devastates empires.\nBut what is the real labour of this man, compared with that of a silent\nsufferer? He lives on his projects: he encounters, perhaps, rough roads,\nincommodious inns, bad food, storms and perils; but what are these? His\nproject, his point, the thing that has laid hold on his heart--glory--a\nname--consequence--pleasure--wealth--these render the man callous to the\npains and efforts of the body. I have been in both states, and therefore\nunderstand them; and I know that men form this false estimate. Besides,\nthere is something in bustle, and stir, and activity, that supports\nitself. At one period I preached and read five times on a Sunday, and\nrode sixteen miles. But what did it cost me? Nothing! Yet most men would\nhave looked on, while I was rattling from village to village, with all\nthe dogs barking at my heels, and would have called me a hero; whereas,\nif they were to look at me now, they would call me an idle, lounging\nfellow. \u201cHe gets into his study (they would say)--he walks from end to\nend--he scribbles on a scrap of paper--he throws it away and scribbles\non another--he sits down--scribbles again--walks about!\u201d They cannot see\nthat here is an exhaustion of the spirit which, at night, will leave\nme worn to the extremity of endurance. They cannot see the numberless\nefforts of mind which are crossed and stifled, and recoil on the spirits\nlike the fruitless efforts of a traveller to get firm footing among the\nashes on the steep sides of Mount Etna.--_Rev. John Todd--Student\u2019s\nGuide._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNECESSITY OF A STEADFAST CHARACTER.--The man who is perpetually\nhesitating which of two things he will do first, will do neither. The\nman who resolves, but suffers his resolution to be changed by the first\ncounter-suggestion of a friend--who fluctuates from opinion to opinion,\nfrom plan to plan--and veers, like a weathercock, to every point of the\ncompass, with every breath of caprice that blows--can never accomplish\nanything great or useful. Instead of being progressive in anything, he\nwill be at best stationary, and more probably retrograde, in all. It is\nonly the man who first consults wisely, then resolves firmly, and then\nexecutes his purpose with inflexible perseverance, undismayed by those\npetty difficulties which daunt a weaker spirit--that can advance to\neminence in any line. Let us take, by way of illustration, the case of\na student. He commences the study of the dead languages; but presently\na friend comes, and tells him that he is wasting his time, and that,\ninstead of obsolete words, he had much better employ himself in acquiring\nnew ideas. He changes his plan, and sets to work at the mathematics.\nThen comes another friend, who asks him, with a grave and sapient face,\nwhether he intends to become a professor in a college; because, if he\ndoes not, he is misemploying his time; and that, for the business of\nlife, common mathematics is quite enough of mathematical science. He\nthrows up his Euclid, and addresses himself to some other study, which in\nits turn is again relinquished, on some equally wise suggestion: and thus\nlife is spent in changing his plans. You cannot but perceive the folly\nof this course; and the worse effect of it is, the fixing on your mind a\nhabit of indecision, sufficient of itself to blast the fairest prospects.\nNo--take your course wisely, but firmly: and having taken it, hold upon\nit with heroic resolution; and the Alps and Pyrenees will sink before\nyou--the whole empire of learning will lie at your feet; while those who\nset out with you, but stopped to change their plans, are yet employed in\nthe very profitable business of changing their plans. Let your motto be\n_Perseverance_. Practise upon it, and you will be convinced of its value\nby the distinguished eminence to which it will conduct you.--_Wirt\u2019s\nEssays._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nILL TEMPER.--Mankind are ignorant enough, both in the mass, about general\ninterests, and individually, about the things which belong to their\npeace; but of all mortals none perhaps are so awfully self-deluded as\nthe unamiable. They do not, any more than others, sin for the sake of\nsinning; but the amount of woe caused by their selfish unconsciousness\nis such as may well make their weakness an equivalent for other men\u2019s\ngravest crimes. There are great diversities of hiding-places for their\nconsciences--many mansions in the dim prison of discontent; but it may be\ndoubted whether, in the hour when all shall be uncovered to the eternal\nday, there will be revealed a lower deep than the hell which they have\nmade. They perhaps are the only order of evil ones who suffer hell\nwithout seeing and knowing that it is hell. But they are under a heavier\ncurse even than this; they inflict torments, second only to their own,\nwith an unconsciousness almost worthy of spirits of light. While they\ncomplacently conclude themselves the victims of others, or pronounce\nthat they are too singular, or too refined, for common appreciation,\nthey are putting in motion an enginery of torture whose aspect will one\nday blast their minds\u2019 sight. The dumb groans of their victims will\nsooner or later return upon their ears from the heights of the heaven\nto which the sorrows of men daily ascend. The spirit sinks under the\nprospect of the retribution of the unamiable; if there be indeed an\neternal record--an impress on some one or other human spirit--of every\nchilling frown, of every querulous tone, of every bitter jest, of every\ninsulting word--of all abuses of that tremendous power which mind has\nover mind. The throbbing pulses, the quivering nerves, the wrung hearts,\nthat surround the unamiable--what \u201ca cloud of witnesses\u201d is here!\nand what plea shall avail against them? The terror of innocents who\nshould know no fear--the vindictive emotions of dependents who dare not\ncomplain--the faintness of heart of life-long companions--the anguish\nof those who love--the unholy exultation of those who hate--what an\narray of judges is here! and where can an appeal be lodged against their\nsentence? Is pride of singularity a rational plea? Is super-refinement,\nor circumstance from God, or uncongeniality in man, a sufficient ground\nof appeal, when the refinement of one is a grace granted for the luxury\nof all, when circumstance is given to be conquered, and uncongeniality\nis appointed for discipline? The sensualist has brutified the seraphic\nnature with which he was endowed--the depredator has intercepted the\nrewards of toil, marred the image of justice, and dimmed the lustre of\nfaith in men\u2019s minds--the imperial tyrant has invoked a whirlwind to lay\nwaste, for an hour of God\u2019s eternal year, some region of society. But the\nunamiable--the domestic torturer--has heaped wrong on wrong and woe on\nwoe, through the whole portion of time that was given him, until it would\nbe rash to say that there are any others more guilty than he. If there be\nhope or solace for the domestic torturer, it is that there may have been\ntempers about him the opposite of his own. It is matter of humiliating\ngratitude that there were some which he could not ruin, and that he was\nthe medium of discipline by which they were exercised in forbearance, in\ndivine forgiveness and love. If there be solace in such an occasional\nresult, let it be made the most of by those who need it; for it is the\nonly possible alleviation to their remorse. Let them accept it as the\nfree gift of a mercy which they have insulted, and a long-suffering which\nthey have defied.--_From Deerbrook, a Tale, by Harriet Martineau._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSLANDER AND VINDICATION.--Vindication in some cases partakes of the same\nqualities that Homer ascribes to prayer. Slander, \u201cstrong, and sound of\nwing, flies through the world, afflicting men;\u201d but Vindication, lame,\nwrinkled, and imbecile, for ever seeking its object, and never obtaining\nit, follows after, only to make the person in whose behalf it is employed\nmore completely the scorn of mankind. The charge against him is heard by\nthousands, the vindication by few. Wherever Vindication comes, is not the\nfirst thing it tells of the unhappy subject of it, that his character\nhas been tarnished, his integrity suspected--that base motives and vile\nactions have been imputed to him--that he has been scoffed at by some,\nreviled by others, and looked at askance by all? Yes; the worst thing I\nwould wish to my worst enemy is, that his character should be the subject\nof vindication. And what is the well-known disposition of mankind in this\nparticular? All love the scandal. It constitutes a tale that seizes upon\nthe curiosity of our species; it has something deep and obscure, and\nmysterious in it; it has been whispered from man to man, and communicated\nby winks, and nods, and shrugs, the shaking of the head, and the speaking\nmotion of the finger. But Vindication is poor, and dry, and cold, and\nrepulsive. It rests in detections and distinctions, explanations to be\ngiven to the meaning of a hundred phrases, and the setting right whatever\nbelongs to the circumstances of time and place. What bystander will bend\nhimself to the drudgery of thoroughly appreciating it? Add to which, that\nall men are endowed with the levelling principle, as with an instinct.\nScandal includes in it, as an element, that change of fortune which is\nrequired by the critic from the writer of an epic poem or a tragedy.\nThe person respecting whom a scandal is propagated is of sufficient\nimportance, at least in the eyes of the propagator and the listener, to\nbe made a subject for censure. He is found, or he is erected into, an\nadequate centre of attack; he is first set up as a statue to be gazed\nat, that he may afterwards be thrown down and broken to pieces, crumbled\ninto dust, and made the prey of all the winds of heaven.--_Godwin\u2019s\nMandeville._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe weather is not a safe topic of discourse; your company may be\nhippish; nor is health; your associate may be a hypochondriac; nor is\nmoney; you may be suspected as a borrower.--_Zimmerman._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen all is done, human life is at the best but like a froward child,\nthat must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet till it\nfalls asleep, and then the care is over.--_Sir W. Temple._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTime runs on, and when youth and beauty vanish, a fine lady who had never\nentertained a thought into which an admirer did not enter, finds in\nherself a lamentable void.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe poorest of all family goods are indolent females. If a wife knows\nnothing of domestic duties beyond the parlour or the boudoir, she is a\ndangerous partner in these times of pecuniary uncertainty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFriendship, love, and piety, ought to be handled with a sort of\nmysterious secrecy; they ought to be spoken of only in the rare moments\nof perfect confidence--to be mutually understood in silence. Many things\nare too delicate to be thought--many more to be spoken.\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 & SIMMS, Leeds; FRASER and CRAWFORD,\n    George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate,\n    Glasgow.","title":"The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 27, January 2, 1841","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":11538}