The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 26, December 26, 1840

In Short

This periodical issue serves as a miscellany for the mid-19th-century Irish reader, functioning as both a gazetteer and a cultural repository. It preserves vanishing local lore—such as the rituals of rural midwives—alongside historical sketches of landmarks like the Castle of Termon Magrath. By documenting these fading customs and providing moral aphorisms, it attempts to anchor the reader in a rapidly changing environment. Its enduring value lies in its role as a primary source for the superstitions, landscapes, and social anxieties of pre-Famine Ireland.

The Story

The journal begins by grounding the reader in the physical geography of Ireland, specifically the vistas of Lough Erne. The text paints a picture of a region defined by its natural beauty and the historical weight of its architecture, such as the Castle of Termon Magrath. This historical thread introduces the figure of Myler Magrath, a complex, controversial character—a former Franciscan friar who became a Protestant bishop under Elizabeth I. His life, marked by political maneuvering and shifting religious allegiances, serves as a bridge between the medieval church and the colonial state, illustrating the personal and religious fractures that defined the era.

From the landscape and its history, the narrative shifts toward the social fabric of the peasantry. A lengthy examination of the Irish Midwife introduces her as the central, indispensable figure of rural life. She is portrayed as a woman of immense influence, wielding power not only through medical knowledge but through a complex system of charms, divination, and supernatural mediation. The text explores the superstitions surrounding her—her ability to use charms to protect infants from fairies or her role in interpreting omens—while acknowledging that these beliefs were already beginning to erode by 1840. This section highlights the midwife’s dual identity: a practical healer and a figure of mysterious, sometimes feared, authority.

The perspective then moves from the social to the sublime through a series of reflections on the Irish mountains. Here, the tone shifts from descriptive to elegiac. The narrator laments the modernization of the countryside—the arrival of the surveyor’s chain and the railway—which he views as a desecration of the pristine, "primeval" silence of the peaks. In the mountains, he finds a refuge where history and geography remain untouched by industrial progress. He identifies with a "devout Pagan" sensibility, seeing the mountains as a sacred space that transcends human labor and contemporary vice, connecting the observer to the timeless forces of the earth.

The final segments of the issue turn to instruction and philosophical reflection. A fable from La Fontaine provides a somber meditation on the vanity of youth and the inevitability of death, using a story of an old man planting trees to caution against the arrogance of those who believe they have a monopoly on the future. The issue concludes by juxtaposing this gravity with practical, somewhat bizarre advice on animal taming, suggesting that human control over wild beasts is a fragile art, constantly threatened by the "instinctive propensity" of the natural world. A final series of aphorisms serves as a moral summary, offering pithy observations on everything from the nature of philosophy to the character of a "snuff shop," which is metaphorically presented as a fatal trap for authors.

How It Unfolds

The topography of memory The reader is taken on a tour of Lough Erne, where the natural scenery is intertwined with the ruins of colonial-era castles. This opening establishes a theme of historical continuity and the lingering ghosts of the past.

The social architect The narrative focuses on the midwife, detailing the specific, often mystical, role she played in the lives of the peasantry. Her transition from an essential community leader to a fading figure of superstition is explored through her various charms and rituals.

The flight to the mountains A sudden shift occurs as the narrator escapes the "riot" of the city for the peaks. This section presents the mountains as an immutable sanctuary, contrasting the permanence of nature with the fleeting, destructive nature of modern industrial life.

The wisdom of the grave Through a retelling of La Fontaine, the text shifts to a didactic tone, emphasizing the brevity of life. The focus moves from external landscapes to the internal preparation for mortality.

The final manual The issue concludes with cold, practical instructions for taming wild animals and a series of sharp, detached aphorisms. This creates a jarring, final impression of a world where one must master both the beast and the mind to survive.

The People

Myler Magrath dominates the historical account as a figure of shifting loyalties. As a man who moved from Franciscan monk to Protestant bishop, he represents the pragmatic, often opportunistic, survival strategies required during the Reformation. His desire for status and security stands in opposition to the religious and political turmoil of his time, leaving him an isolated, complex legacy.

The Midwife, identified as a character type rather than a specific individual, is presented as the "great exponent of national temperament." She is driven by a need for social relevance and the maintenance of her professional mysteries. Her adversaries are the "scientific men" of the modern era and the fading belief systems of the peasantry, yet she persists by adapting her charms to meet the anxieties of her neighbors.

The narrator of the mountain sketches is a disillusioned observer, a man of "five-and-twenty" who views himself as an exile in his own country. He wants to return to a pre-industrial, "purer" Ireland, but his path is blocked by railways and urban sprawl. He ends up as a self-styled "devout Pagan," finding comfort in the silence of the mountains rather than the society of his peers.

The Old Man of the fable is the voice of patient, long-term wisdom. He wants to leave a legacy for his great-grandchildren, standing against the mockery of the village youths. His end—outliving his detractors—serves as a grim, final validation of his perspective.

In Its Own Voice

"The lands on which the castle is situated anciently constituted the Termon of St Daveog of Lough Derg, of which the Magraths were hereditarily the termoners or churchwardens; and of this family Myler Magrath was the head."

The text explains the ancestral connection between the land and the controversial figure who built the castle.

"There is not one so clear, distinct, and well traced, as that of the Midwife."

The author introduces the midwife as the most essential and colorful character in the Irish peasant tradition.

"The world is drunk, and raves. Come away from these reeling bacchanals, and let us fare among the hills!"

The narrator expresses his visceral rejection of modern, industrial society in favor of the serenity of the mountains.

What It's Really About

This book is fundamentally an exploration of the fragility of tradition. It captures a society aware that its foundations—its superstitions, its local legends, its ancient ways of life—are being dismantled by the "surveyor’s chain" and the march of industrial progress. The central question is how to hold onto an identity when the physical and cultural landscape is being rewritten. By documenting the "fading" powers of the midwife and the "primeval" nature of the mountains, the contributors are attempting a salvage operation, trying to preserve the dignity and mystery of an old world before it is entirely consumed by the new.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the history of folklore, the early 19th-century Irish psyche, or the transition from rural to industrial life will find this a fascinating document. It does not read like a modern history; it feels like a collection of voices from a living room in 1840. The prose is ornate, often pedantic, and occasionally humorous, offering an unfiltered look at the period's attitudes toward superstition, religion, and the "civilizing" mission of the Victorian era.

One must be prepared for the book's period-specific sensibilities, particularly its occasionally condescending view of "the peasantry" and its reliance on beliefs that were already considered archaic at the time of publication. The text can be dense, and its structure—jumping from local geography to French fables to animal-taming advice—can feel disjointed. However, these very qualities provide an authentic experience of 19th-century periodical culture. It is a work that lingers, not for its plot, but for its desperate, romantic insistence that the "skeleton of creation" remains visible to those who care to look, even while the world around them changes irrevocably.