



Produced by Brownfox and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by JSTOR www.jstor.org)










                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 27.       SATURDAY, JANUARY 2, 1841.       VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE IRISH MIDWIFE.--PART II.

BY WILLIAM CARLETON.]

The village of Ballycomaisy was as pleasant a little place as one
might wish to see of a summer’s day. To be sure, like all other Irish
villages, it was remarkable for a superfluity of “pigs, praties, and
childre,” which being the stock in trade of an Irish cabin, it is to be
presumed that very few villages either in Ireland or elsewhere could go
on properly without them. It consisted principally of one long street,
which you entered from the north-west side by one of those old-fashioned
bridges, the arches of which were much more akin to the Gothic than the
Roman. Most of the houses were of mud, a few of stone, one or two of
which had the honour of being slated on the front side of the roof, and
rustically thatched on the back, where ostentation was not necessary.
There were two or three shops, a liberal sprinkling of public-houses, a
chapel a little out of the town, and an old dilapidated market-house
near the centre. A few little bye-streets projected in a lateral
direction from the main one, which was terminated on the side opposite to
the north-west by a pound, through which, as usual, ran a shallow stream,
that was gathered into a little gutter as it crossed the road. A crazy
antiquated mill, all covered and cobwebbed with grey mealy dust, stood
about a couple of hundred yards out of the town, to which two straggling
rows of houses, that looked like an abortive street, led you. This mill
was surrounded by a green common, which was again hemmed in by a fine
river, that ran round in a curving line from under the hunchbacked arch
of the bridge we mentioned at the beginning. Now, a little behind, or
rather above this mill, on the skirt of the aforesaid common, stood a
rather neat-looking whitish cabin, with about half a rood of garden
behind it. It was but small, and consisted merely of a sleeping-room
and kitchen. On one side of the door there was a window, opening on
hinges; and on the outside, to the right as you entered the house, there
was placed a large stone, about four feet high, backed by a sloping
mound of earth, so graduated as to allow a person to ascend the stone
without any difficulty. In this cabin lived Rose Moan, the Midwife; and
we need scarcely inform our readers that the stone in question was her
mounting-stone, by which she was enabled to place herself on pillion or
crupper, as the case happened, when called out upon her usual avocation.

Rose was what might be called a _flahoolagh_, or portly woman, with a
good-humoured set of Milesian features; that is to say, a pair of red,
broad checks, a well-set nose, allowing for the disposition to turn up,
and two black twinkling eyes, with a mellow expression that betokened
good nature, and a peculiar description of knowing _professional_ humour
that is never to be met with in any _but_ a Midwife. Rose was dressed
in a red flannel petticoat, a warm cotton sack or wrapper, which pinned
easily over a large bust, and a comfortable woollen shawl. She always
wore a long-bordered morning cap, over which, while travelling, she
pinned a second shawl of Scotch plaid; and to protect her from the cold
night air, she enfolded her precious person in a deep blue cloak of the
true indigo tint. On her head, over cloak and shawl and morning cap, was
fixed a black “splush hat,” with the leaf strapped down by her ears on
each side, so that in point of fact she cared little how it blew, and
never once dreamed that such a process as that of Raper or Mackintosh was
necessary to keep the liege subjects of these realms warm and waterproof,
nor that two systems should exist in Ireland so strongly antithetical to
each other as those of Raper and Father Mathew.

Having thus given a brief sketch of her local habitation and personal
appearance, we shall transfer our readers to the house of a young
new-married farmer named Keho, who lived in a distant part of the parish.
Keho was a comfortable fellow, full of good nature and credulity; but his
wife happened to be one of the sharpest, meanest, most suspicious, and
miserable devils that ever was raised in good-humoured Ireland. Her voice
was as sharp and her heart as cold as an icicle; and as for her tongue,
it was incessant and interminable. Were it not that her husband, who,
though good-natured, was fiery and resolute when provoked, exercised a
firm and salutary control over her, she would have starved both him and
her servants into perfect skeletons. And what was still worse, with a
temper that was vindictive and tyrannical, she affected to be religious,
and upon those who did not know her, actually attempted to pass herself
off as a saint.

One night, about ten or twelve months after his marriage, honest Corny
Keho came out to the barn, where slept his two farm servants, named Phil
Hannigan and Barny Casey. He had been sitting by himself, composing his
mind for a calm night’s sleep, or probably for a curtain lecture, by
taking a contemplative whiff of the pipe, when the servant wench, with a
certain air of hurry, importance, and authority, entered the kitchen, and
informed him that Rose Moan must immediately be sent for.

“The misthress isn’t well, Masther, an’ the sooner she’s sint for, the
betther. So mind my words, sir, if you plaise, an’ pack aff either Phil
or Barny for Rose Moan, an’ I hope I won’t have to ax it again--hem!”

Dandy Keho--for so Corny was called, as being remarkable for his
slovenliness--started up hastily, and having taken the pipe out of his
mouth, was about to place it on the hob; but reflecting that the whiff
could not much <DW44> him in the delivery of his orders, he sallied out
to the barn, and knocked.

“Who’s there? Lave that, wid you, unless you wish to be shotted.” This
was followed by a loud laugh from within.

“Boys, get up wid all haste: it’s the misthress. Phil, saddle Hollowback
and fly--(puff)--fly in a jiffy for Rose Moan; an’ do you, Barny, clap
a back-sugaun--(puff)--an Sobersides, an’ be aff for the Misthress’s
mother--(puff.)”

Both were dressing themselves before he had concluded, and in a very few
minutes were off in different directions, each according to the orders
he had received. With Barny we have nothing to do, unless to say that he
lost little time in bringing Mrs Keho’s mother to her aid; but as Phil is
gone for a much more important character, we beg our readers to return
with us to the cabin of Rose Moan, who is now fast asleep; for it is
twelve o’clock of a beautiful moonlight night, in the pleasant month of
August. Tap-tap. “Is Mrs Moan at home?” In about half a minute her warm
good-looking face, enveloped in flannel, is protruded from the window.

“Who’s that, _in God’s name_?” The words