Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. I.

Engraved by J. Heath, from a drawing from life by Commerford.
Sir Jonah Barrington, K.C.
London. Pub^d by Colburn & Bentley New Burlington Str.^t 1830.

PERSONAL SKETCHES

OF

HIS OWN TIMES,

BY

SIR JONAH BARRINGTON,

JUDGE OF THE HIGH COURT OF ADMIRALTY IN IRELAND,

&c. &c. &c.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

SECOND EDITION,

REVISED AND IMPROVED.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,

NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1830.

PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES KENDAL BUSHE,

CHIEF JUSTICE OF IRELAND,

This trifle, the pastime of a winter’s evening, is presented—to a person of whom I have long held the highest opinion among the circle of my friends and the crowd of my contemporaries, and for whom my regards have been disinterested and undeviating.

The work is too trivial to be of any weight, and I offer it only as a Souvenir, which may amuse one who can be constant to friendship at all periods, and knows how to appreciate a gift, not by its value, but by the feelings of the heart which sends it.

Jonah Barrington, K. C.

INTRODUCTION

TO THE FIRST EDITION.

The compilation by me of a medley of this description may appear rather singular. Indeed, I myself think it so, and had got nearly half-way through it before I could reasonably account for the thing;—more especially as it was by no means commenced for mercenary purposes. The fact is, I had long since engaged my mind and time on a work of real public interest; and so far as that work was circulated, my literary ambition was more than gratified by the approbation it received. But it has so happened, that my publishers, one after another, have been wanting in the qualification of stability; and hence, my “Historic Memoirs of Ireland” have been lying fast asleep, in their own sheets, on the shelves of three successive booksellers or their assignees; and so ingeniously were they scattered about, that I found it impossible for some years to collect them. This was rather provoking, as there were circumstances connected with the work, which (be its merits what they may) would, in my opinion, have ensured it an extensive circulation. However, I have at length finished the Memoirs in question, which I verily believe are now about to be published in reality,[^[1]] and will probably excite sundry differences of opinion and shades of praise or condemnation (both of the book and the author) among His Majesty’s liege subjects.

[1]. See the Prospectus, published with the present work.

For the purpose of completing that work, I had lately re-assumed my habit of writing; and being tired of so serious and responsible a concern as “Memoirs of Ireland and the Union,” I began to consider what species of employment might lightly wear away the long and tedious winter evenings of a demi-invalid; and recollecting that I could neither live for ever nor was sure of being the “last man,” I conceived the idea of looking over and burning a horse-load or two of letters, papers, and fragments of all descriptions, which I had been carrying about in old trunks (not choosing to leave them at any body’s mercy), and to which I had been perpetually adding.

The execution of this inflammatory project I immediately set about with vast assiduity and corresponding success; and doubtless, with very great advantage to the literary reputation of an immense number of my former correspondents as well as my own. After having made considerable progress, I found that some of the fragments amused myself, and I therefore began to consider whether they might not also amuse other people. I was advised to make selections from my store, particularly as I had, for near half a century, kept—not a diary—but a sort of rambling chronicle, wherein I made notes of matters which, from time to time, struck my fancy. Some of these memoranda were illegible; others just sufficient to set my memory working; some were sad, and some were cheerful; some very old, others recent. In fine, I began to select: but I soon found that any thing like a regular series was out of the question; so I took a heap indiscriminately, picked out the subjects that amused me most, wrote a list of their several headings, which were very numerous; and, as his Majesty pricks for sheriffs, so did I for subjects, and thereby gathered as many as I conceived would make two or three volumes. My next process was to make up court-dresses for my Sketches and Fragments, such as might facilitate their introduction into respectable company, without observing strict chronological sequence, to which I am aware light readers have a rooted aversion.

This laudable occupation served to amuse me and to fill up the blanks of a winter’s evening; and being finished, the residue of the papers re-deposited, and the trunks locked again, I requested the publisher of my “Historic Memoirs” also to set my “Personal Sketches” afloat. This he undertook to do: and they are now sent out to the public—the world, as it is called; and the reader (gentle reader is too hackneyed a term, and far too confident an anticipation of good temper) will of course draw from them whatever deductions he pleases, without asking my permission. All I have to say is, that the several matters contained herein are neither fictions nor essays, but relate to real matters of fact, and personages composed of flesh and blood. I have aimed at no display of either fancy or imagination; nor have I set down long dialogues or soliloquies which could not possibly be recorded except when heroes and heroines carried short-hand writers in their pockets, which must have been peculiarly inconvenient. In speaking of fanciful matters, I may as well except my own opinions on certain subjects here and there interspersed, which I freely leave to the mercy of any one who is disposed to esteem them visionary.

However, be it understood, that I by no means intend this disclaimer as an assault on—but on the contrary as a distinguished compliment to—writers and works of pure imagination—of improbability and impossibility!—inasmuch as such works prove an unlimited range of intellect and talent, on the part of the authors, for inventing matters of fact that never could have occurred, and conversations that never could have taken place;[^[2]] a talent which, when duly cultivated and practised for the use of friends and private families, seldom fails to bring an author’s name into most extensive circulation; and if perchance he should get himself into any scrape by it, nothing is so likely as the exercise of the same talent of invention to get him out of it again.

[2]. I have seen in a new novel a minute recital of a very affecting soliloquy pronounced with appropriate gesticulation by a fine young man while he was “pacing about” a large room in a castle; the thunder meanwhile roaring, and the rain pattering at the casements. In this castle there was at the time no other living person; and the soliloquy was so spoken as his dying words immediately before he shot himself. As there was nobody else in the castle during the catastrophe, his affecting words were never divulged till this novel made its appearance—leaving the ingenious reader to infer the many invisible spies and tell-tales that survey our most secret movements.

On the other hand, I must own (even against myself) that the writing of mere common-place truths requires no talent whatsoever! it is quite a humdrum, straight-forward, dull custom, which any person may attain. Besides, matter of fact is not at all in vogue just now: the disrepute under which truth in general at present labours, in all departments and branches of literature, has put it quite out of fashion even among the savans:—so that chemistry and mathematics are almost the only subjects, on the certainty of which the “nobility, gentry, and public at large,” appear to place any very considerable reliance.

Having thus, I hope, proved my candour at my own cost, the deduction is self-evident—namely, that the unfortunate authenticity of these sketches must debar them from any competition with the tales and tattle of unsophisticated invention: when, for instance, scandal is true, it is (as some ladies have assured me) considered by the whole sex as scarcely worth listening to, and actually requiring at least very considerable exaggeration to render it at all amusing! I therefore greatly fear I may not, in this instance, experience so much of their favour as I am always anxious to obtain: my only consolation is, that when their desire to indulge an amiable appetite for scandal is very ardent, they may find ample materials in every bookseller’s shop and haut-ton society to gratify the passion.

I feel now necessitated to recur to another point, and I do it at the risk of being accused of egotism. I hope, however, I can advance a good reason for my proceeding; namely, that, on reading over some of the articles whereof this mélange is composed, I freely admit, that if I were not very intimately acquainted with myself, I might be led at least into a puzzle as to the writer’s genuine sentiments on many points of theology and politics. Now, I wish, seriously speaking, to avoid, on these subjects, all ambiguity; and therefore, as responsible for the opinions put forth in the following Sketches, I beg to state, that I consider myself strictly orthodox both in politics and theology: that is to say, I profess to be a sound Protestant, without bigotry; and an hereditary royalist, without ultraism. Liberty I love—Democracy I hate: Fanaticism I denounce! These principles I have ever held and avowed, and they are confirmed by time and observation. I own that I have been what is generally called a courtier, and I have been also what is generally called a patriot; but I never was either unqualifiedly. I always thought, and I think still, that they never should, and never need be (upon fair principles) opposed to each other. I can also see no reason why there may not be patriot kings as well as patriot subjects—a patriot minister, indeed, may be more problematical.

In my public life, I have met with but one transaction that even threatened to make my patriotism overbalance my loyalty: I allude to the purchase and sale of the Irish Parliament, called a Union, which I ever regarded as one of the most flagrant public acts of corruption on the records of history, and certainly the most mischievous to this empire. I believe very few men sleep the sounder for having supported the measure; though some, it is true, went to sleep a good deal sooner than they expected when they carried it into execution.

I must also observe that, as to the detail of politics, I feel now very considerable apathy. My day for actual service is past; and I shall only further allude, as a simple casuist, to the slang terms in which it has become the fashion to dress up the most important subjects of British statistics—subjects on which certain of these Sketches appear to have a remote bearing, and on which my ideas might possibly be misunderstood.

I wish it therefore to be considered as my humble opinion, that what, in political slang, is termed Radical Reform, is, in reality, proximate revolution:—Universal Suffrage, inextinguishable uproar:—and Annual Parliaments, periodical bloodshed.[^[3]] My doubts as a casuist, with these impressions on my mind, must naturally be, how the orderly folks of Great Britain would relish such pastimes?—I do not extend the query to the natives of my own country, because, since His Majesty was there, nobody has taken much notice of them: besides, the poor people in Ireland having very little to eat and no amusement at all, the aforesaid entertainments might divert them, or at least their hunger, and of course be extremely acceptable to a great body of the population.

[3]. I apprehend that there were more persons killed at the late elections in Ireland than there were members elected at the contested places; and I have no doubt that annual parliaments would give more employment to the coroners in Ireland than any species of riot that has yet been invented for that pugnacious population. In truth, what I have mentioned in another work as being the proofs of pleasure in Ireland, were also generally the termination of contested elections: the gradation was always the same: viz. “an illumination, a bonfire, a riot,” and “other demonstrations of joy!”—N.B. Where candles to illuminate with were not to be had, burning a house was not unfrequently substituted!

As I also perceive some articles in these Sketches touching upon matters relative to Popes, Cardinals, Catholics, &c.; lest I may be misconstrued or misrepresented on that head, I beg to observe, that I meddle not at all in the controversy of Catholic Emancipation. The Doctors employed differ so essentially in opinion, that, as it frequently falls out on many other consultations, they may lose their patient while debating on the prescription:—in truth, I don’t see how the Doctors can ever agree, as the prescribers must necessarily take the assay; and one half of them verily believe that they should be poisoned thereby!—“Among ye be it, blind harpers!”

I apprehend I have now touched on most of the topics which occurred to me as requiring a word of explanation. I repeat that this book is only to be considered as a desultory mélange—the whim of a winter’s evening—a mere chance-selection. I shall therefore make no sort of apology for inaccuracies as to unity of time, for defective connexion, or the like. It amused my leisure hours; and if it fortunately amuses those of other people, I shall receive a great deal of satisfaction.

Jonah Barrington.

May 28th, 1827.

CONTENTS

OF

THE FIRST VOLUME.

PERSONAL SKETCHES.

MY FAMILY CONNEXIONS.

Family mansion described—Library—Garden—Anecdotes of my family—State of landlord and tenant in 1760—The gout—Ignorance of the peasantry; extraordinary anomaly in the loyalty and disloyalty of the Irish country gentlemen as to James I., Charles I., Charles II., James II., and William—Ancient toasts—My great-grandfather, Colonel John Barrington, hanged on his own gate; but saved by Edward Doran, trooper of King James—Irish customs, anecdotes, &c.

I was born at Knapton, near Abbeyleix, in the Queen’s County,—at that time the seat of my father, but now of Sir George Pigott. I am the third son and fourth child of John Barrington, who had himself neither brother nor sister; and at the period of my birth, my immediate connexions were thus circumstanced.

My family, by ancient patents, by marriages, and by inheritance from their ancestors, possessed very extensive landed estates in Queen’s County, and had almost unlimited influence over its population, returning two members to the Irish Parliament for Ballynakill, counties of Kilkenny and Galway.

Cullenaghmore, the mansion where my ancestors had resided from the reign of James the First, was then occupied by my grandfather, Colonel Jonah Barrington. He had adopted me as soon as I was born, brought me to Cullenaghmore, and with him I resided until his death.

That old mansion (the Great House as it was called) exhibited altogether an uncouth mass, warring with every rule of symmetry in architecture. The original castle had been demolished, and its materials converted to a much worse purpose: the edifice which succeeded it was particularly ungraceful; a Saracen’s head (our crest) in coloured brick-work being its only ornament. Some of the rooms inside were wainscoted with brown oak, others with red deal, and some not at all. The walls of the large hall were decked (as was customary) with fishing-rods, fire-arms, stags’ horns, foxes’ brushes, powder-flasks, shot-pouches, nets, and dog-collars; here and there relieved by the extended skin of a kite or a king-fisher, nailed up in the vanity of their destroyers: that of a monstrous eagle, (which impressed itself indelibly on my mind,) surmounted the chimney-piece, accompanied by a card announcing the name of its assassin—“Alexander Barrington;”—who, not being a rich relation, was subsequently entertained in the Great House two years, as a compliment for his present. A large parlour on each side of the hall, the only embellishments of which were some old portraits, and a multiplicity of hunting, shooting, and racing prints, with red tape nailed round them by way of frames, completed the reception-rooms; and as I was the only child in the house, and a most inquisitive brat, every different print was explained to me.

I remained here till I was near nine years old; I had no play-fellows to take off my attention from whatever I observed or was taught; and so strongly do those early impressions remain engraven on my memory, (naturally most retentive,) that even at this long distance of time I fancy I can see the entire place as it stood then, with its old inhabitants moving before me:—their faces I most clearly recollect.

The library was a gloomy closet, and rather scantily furnished with every thing but dust and cobwebs: there were neither chairs nor tables; but I cannot avoid recollecting many of the principal books, because I read such of them as I could comprehend, or as were amusing; and looked over all the prints in them a hundred times. While trying to copy these prints, they made an indelible impression upon me; and hence I feel confident of the utility of embellishments in any book intended for the instruction of children. I possessed many of the books long after my grandfather’s death, and have some of them still. I had an insatiable passion for general reading from my earliest days, and it has occupied the greater proportion of my later life. Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson Crusoe, Fairy Tales, and The History of the Bible, all with numerous plates, were my favourite authors and constant amusement: I believed every word of them except the fairies, and was not entirely sceptical as to those “good people” neither.

I fancy there was then but little variety in the libraries of most country gentlemen; and I mention as a curiosity, the following volumes, several of which, as already stated, I retained many years after my grandfather and grandmother died:—The Journals of the House of Commons; Clarendon’s History; The Spectator and Guardian; Killing no Murder; The Patriot King; Bailey’s Dictionary; some of Swift’s Works; George Falkner’s Newspapers; Quintus Curtius in English; Bishop Burnet; A Treatise on Tar-water, by some other bishop; Robinson Crusoe; Hudibras; History of the Bible, in folio; Nelson’s Fasts and Feasts; Fairy Tales; The History of Peter Wilkins; Glums and Gouries; somebody’s Justice of Peace; and a multiplicity of Farriery, Sporting, and Gardening Books, &c. which I lost piecemeal, when making room for law-books—probably not half so good, but at least much more experimental.

Very few mirrors in those days adorned the houses of the country gentlemen:—a couple or three shaving-glasses for the gentlemen, and a couple of pretty large dressing-glasses, in black frames, for the ladies’ use, composed, I believe, nearly the entire stock of reflectors at my grandfather’s, except tubs of spring water, which answered for the maid-servants.

A very large and productive, but not dressed-up garden, adjoined the house. The white-washed stone images; the broad flights of steps up and down; the terraces, with the round fish-pond,—rivetted my attention, and gave an impressive variety to this garden, which I shall ever remember, as well as many curious incidents which I witnessed therein.

At the Great House, where the Courts Leet and Baron were duly held, all disputes among the tenants were then settled,—quarrels reconciled,—old debts arbitrated: a kind Irish landlord then reigned despotic in the ardent affections of the tenantry, their pride and pleasure being to obey and to support him.

But there existed a happy reciprocity of interests. The landlord of that period protected the tenant by his influence—any wanton injury to a tenant being considered as an insult to the lord; and if the landlord’s sons were grown up, no time was lost by them in demanding satisfaction from any gentleman for maltreating even their father’s blacksmith.

No gentleman of this degree ever distrained a tenant for rent: indeed the parties appeared to be quite united and knit together. The greatest abhorrence, however, prevailed as to tithe proctors, coupled with no great predilection for the clergy who employed them. These certainly were, in principle and practice, the real country tyrants of that day, and first caused the assembling of the White Boys.

I have heard it often said that, at the time I speak of, every estated gentleman in the Queen’s County was honoured by the gout. I have since considered that its extraordinary prevalence was not difficult to be accounted for, by the disproportionate quantity of acid contained in their seductive beverage, called rum-shrub—which was then universally drunk in quantities nearly incredible, generally from supper-time till morning, by all country gentlemen—as they said, to keep down their claret.

My grandfather could not refrain, and therefore he suffered well:—he piqued himself on procuring, through the interest of Batty Lodge, (a follower of the family who had married a Dublin grocer’s widow,) the very first importation of oranges and lemons to the Irish capital every season. Horse-loads of these, packed in boxes, were immediately sent to the Great House of Cullenaghmore; and no sooner did they arrive, than the good news of fresh fruit was communicated to the Colonel’s neighbouring friends, accompanied by the usual invitation for a fortnight.

Night after night the revel afforded uninterrupted pleasure to the joyous gentry; the festivity being subsequently renewed at some other mansion, till the gout thought proper to put the whole party hors de combat; having the satisfaction of making cripples for a few months such as he did not kill.

Whilst the convivials bellowed with only toe or finger agonies, it was a mere bagatelle; but when Mr. Gout marched up the country, and invaded the head or the stomach, it was then called no joke; and Drogheda usquebaugh, the hottest-distilled drinkable liquor ever invented, was applied to for aid, and generally drove the tormentor in a few minutes to his former quarters. It was, indeed, counted a specific; and I allude to it the more particularly, as my poor grandfather was finished by over-doses thereof.

It was his custom to sit under a very large branching bay-tree in his arm-chair, placed in a fine sunny aspect at the entrance of the garden. I particularly remember his cloak, for I kept it twelve years after his death: it was called a cartouche cloak, from a famous French robber who, it was said, invented it for his gang for the purposes of evasion. It was made of very fine broad-cloth; of a bright blue colour on one side, and a bright scarlet on the other: so that on being turned, it might deceive even a vigilant pursuer.

There my grandfather used to sit of a hot sunny day, receive any rents he could collect, and settle any accounts which his indifference on that head permitted him to think of.

At one time he suspected a young rogue of having slipped some money off his table when paying rent; afterward, when the tenants began to count out their money, he threw the focus of his large reading-glass upon their hands:—the smart, without any visible cause, astonished the ignorant creatures!—they shook their hands, and thought it must be the devil who was scorching them. The priest was let into the secret: he seriously told them all it was the devil sure enough, who had mistaken them for the boy that stole the money from the Colonel; but that if he (the priest) was properly considered, he would say as many masses as would bother fifty devils, were it necessary. The priest got his fee; and another farthing never was taken from my grandfather.

My grandfather was rather a short man, with a large red nose—strong made; and wore an immense white wig, such as the portraits give to Dr. Johnson. He died at eighty-six years of age, of shrub-gout and usquebaugh, beloved and respected. I cried heartily for him; and then became the favourite of my grandmother, the best woman in the world, who went to reside in Dublin, and prepare me for college.

Colonel John Barrington, my great-grandfather, for some time before his death, and after I was born, resided at Ballyroan. My grandfather having married Margaret, the daughter of Sir John Byrne, Bart., had taken the estates and mansion, and given an annuity to my great-grandfather, who died, one hundred and four years old, of a fever, having never shown any of the usual decrepitudes or defects of age: he was the most respectable man by tradition of my family, and for more than seventy years a parliament man.

Sir Daniel Byrne, Bart. my great grandfather, lived at his old castle of Timogrie, almost adjoining my grandfather Barrington: his domains, close to Stradbally, were nearly the most beautiful in the Queen’s County. On his decease, his widow, Lady Dorothea Byrne, an Englishwoman, whose name had been Warren, (I believe a grand-aunt to the late Lady Bulkley,) resided there till her death; having previously seen her son give one of the first and most deeply to be regretted instances of what is called forming English connexions. Sir John Byrne, my grand-uncle, having gone to England, married the heiress of the Leycester family:—the very name of Ireland was then odious to the English gentry; and previous terms were made with him, that his children should take the cognomen of Leycester, and drop that of Byrne; that he should quit Ireland, sell all his paternal estates there, and become an Englishman. He assented; and the last Lord Shelburne purchased, for less than half their value, all his fine estates, of which the Marquis of Lansdown is now proprietor.

After the father’s death, his son, Sir Peter Leycester, succeeded, and the family of Byrne, descended from a long line of Irish princes and chieftains, condescended to become little amongst the rank of English Commoners; and so ended the connexion between the Byrnes and Barringtons.

My mother was the only daughter of Patrick French, of Peterwell, county Galway, wherein he had large estates: my grandmother (his wife) was one of the last remaining to the first house of the ancient O’Briens. Her brother, my great-uncle, Donatus, also emigrated to England, and died fifteen or sixteen years since, at his mansion, Blatherwick, in Cheshire, in a species of voluntary obscurity, inconsistent with his birth and large fortune. He left great hereditary estates in both countries to the enjoyment of his mistress and natural children, excluding the legitimate branches of his family from all claims upon the manors or demesnes of their ancestors. The law enabled him to do what a due sense of justice and pride would have interdicted.

The anomaly of political principles among the country gentlemen of Ireland at that period was very extraordinary. They professed what they called “unshaken loyalty;” and yet they were unqualified partisans of Cromwell and William, two decided usurpers—one of them having dethroned his father-in-law, and the other decapitated his king.

The fifth of November was always celebrated in Dublin for the preservation of James, a Scottish king, (after Queen Elizabeth had cut his mother’s head off) from Guy Fawkes and a barrel of gunpowder in London; then the thirtieth of January was highly approved of by a great number of Irish, as the anniversary of making Charles the First, the son and heir of the said James, shorter by his head. Then the very same Irish celebrated the restoration of Charles the Second, the son of the shortened king, and who was twice as bad as his father; and whilst they rejoiced in putting a crown upon the head of the son of the king who could not keep his own head on, they never failed to drink bumpers to the memory of Old Noll, who had cut that king’s head off; and in order to commemorate the whole story, and make their children remember it, they dressed up a fat calf’s-head, whole and white, on every anniversary of King Charles’s throat being cut, and with a red-smoked ham, which they called “Bradshaw,” placed by the side of it, all parties partook thereof most happily; washing down the emblem and its accompaniment with as much claret as they could hold, in honour of Noll the regicide!

Having thus proved their loyalty to James the First, and their attachment to his son’s murderer, and then their loyalty to the eldest of his grandsons, they next proceeded to celebrate the birth-day of William of Orange, a Dutchman, who had kicked their king, (his father-in-law) the second grandson, out of the country, and who in all probability would have given the Irish another calf’s head for their celebration, if the said king, his father-in-law, had not got out of the way with the utmost expedition, and gone to live upon charity in France, the then mortal enemy of the British nation; and as they dressed a calf’s head for the son’s murder, so they dressed sheeps’ trotters every first of July, to commemorate the grandson’s running away at the Boyne Water, in the year 1690.

One part of the Irish people then invented a toast, called, “The glorious, pious, and immortal memory of William, the Dutchman;” whilst another raised a counter-toast, called “The memory of the chesnut horse,” that broke the neck of the same King William.[^[4]] But in my mind, (if I am to judge of past times by the corporation of Dublin) it was only to coin an excuse for getting loyally drunk as often as possible, that they were so enthusiastically fond of making sentiments, as they called them.[^[5]]

[4]. King William’s neck was not broken, only his collar-bone; his fall from a chesnut horse, however, hastened his dissolution.

[5]. Could his majesty, King William, learn in the other world that he has been the cause of more broken heads and drunken men, since his departure, than all his predecessors, he must be the proudest ghost and most conceited skeleton that ever entered the gardens of Elysium.

As to the politics of my family, we had (no doubt) some very substantial reasons for being both Cromwellians and Williamites; the one confirmed our grants, and the other preserved them for us; my family, indeed, had certainly not only those, but other very especial reasons to be pleased with King William; and though he gave them nothing, they kept what they had, which might have been lost but for his usurpation.

During the short reign of James the Second in Ireland, those who were not for him were considered to be against him, and of course were subjected to the severities and confiscations usual in all civil wars. Amongst the rest, my great-grandfather, Colonel John Barrington, being a Protestant, and having no predilection for King James, was ousted from his mansion and estates at Cullenaghmore by one O’Fagan, a Jacobite wig-maker and violent partizan, from Ballynakill. He was, notwithstanding, rather respectfully treated, and was allowed forty pounds a year by his said wig-maker, so long as he behaved himself.

However, he only behaved well for a couple of months; at the end of which time, with a party of his faithful tenants, he surprised the wig-maker, drove him out of possession in his turn, and repossessed himself of his mansion and estates.

The wig-maker, having escaped to Dublin, laid his complaint before the authorities; and a party of soldiers were ordered to make short work of it, if the colonel did not submit on the first summons.

The party demanded entrance, but were refused; and a little firing from the windows of the mansion took place. Not being, however, tenable, it was successfully stormed—the old gamekeeper, John Neville, killed, and my great-grandfather taken prisoner, conveyed to the drum-head at Raheenduff, tried as a rebel by a certain Cornet M‘Mahon, and in due form ordered to be hanged in an hour.

At the appointed time, execution was punctually proceeded on; and so far as tying up the colonel to the cross-bar of his own gate, the sentence was actually put in force. But at the moment the first haul was given to elevate him, Ned Doran, a tenant of the estate, who was a trooper in King James’s army, rode up to the gate—himself and horse in a state of complete exhaustion. He saw with horror his landlord strung up, and exclaimed,—

“Holloa! holloa! blood and ouns, boys! cut down the colonel! cut down the colonel! or ye’ll be all hanged yeerselves, ye villains of the world, ye! I am straight from the Boyne Water, through thick and thin: Ough, by the hokys! we’re all cut up and kilt to the devil and back agin—Jemmy’s scampered, bad luck to him, without a ‘good bye to yees!’—or, ‘kiss my r—p!’—or the least civility in life!”

My grandfather’s hangmen lost no time in getting off, leaving the colonel slung fast by the neck to the gate-posts. But Doran soon cut him down, and fell on his knees to beg pardon of his landlord, the holy Virgin, and King William from the Boyne Water.

The colonel obtained the trooper’s pardon, and he was ever after a faithful adherent. He was the grandfather of Lieutenant-colonel Doran, of the Irish brigade, afterward, (if I recollect right,) of the 47th regiment—the officer who cut a German colonel’s head clean off in the mess-room at Lisbon, after dinner, with one stroke of his sabre.[^[6]] He dined with me repeatedly at Paris about six years since, and was the most disfigured warrior that could possibly be imagined. When he left Cullenagh for the continent, in 1784, he was as fine, clever-looking a young farmer as could be seen; but he had been blown up once or twice in storming batteries, which, with a few sabre-gashes across his features, and the obvious aid of numerous pipes of wine, or something not weaker, had so spoiled his beauty, that he had become of late absolutely frightful.

[6]. Sir Neil O’Donnel, who was present, first told me the anecdote. They fought with sabres: the whole company were intoxicated, and nobody minded them much till the German’s head came spinning like a top on the mess-table, upsetting their bottles and glasses. He could not remember what they quarrelled about. Colonel Doran himself assured me that he had very little recollection of the particulars. The room was very gloomy:—what he best remembered was, a tolerably effective gash which he got on his left ear, and which nearly eased him of that appendage:—it was very conspicuous.

This occurrence of my great-grandfather fixed the political creed of my family. On the 1st of July, the orange lily was sure to garnish every window in the mansion: the hereditary patereroes scarcely ceased cracking all the evening, to glorify the victory of the Boyne Water, till one of them burst, and killed the gardener’s wife, who was tying an orange ribbon round the mouth of it, which she had stopped for fear of accidents.

The tenantry, though to a man Papists, and at that time nearly in a state of slavery, joined heart and hand in these rejoicings, and forgot the victory of their enemy while commemorating the rescue of their landlord. A hundred times have I heard the story repeated by the “Cotchers,”[^[7]] as they sat crouching on their hams, like Indians, around the big turf fire. Their only lament was for the death of old John Neville, the game-keeper. His name I should well remember; for it was his grandson’s wife, Debby Clarke, who nursed me.

[7]. A corruption of “Cottager;” the lowest grade of the Irish peasants, but the most cheerful, humorous, and affectionate. The word is spelt differently and ad libitum. Though the poorest, they were formerly the most happy set of vassals in Europe.

This class of stories and incidents was well calculated to make indelible impression on the mind of a child, and has never left mine.—The old people of Ireland (like the Asiatics) took the greatest delight in repeating their legendary tales to the children, by which constant, unvarying repetition, their old stories became hereditary, and I dare say neither gained nor lost a single sentence in the recital, for a couple of hundred years. The massacres of Queen Elizabeth and Cromwell were quite familiar to them; and by an ancient custom of every body throwing a stone on the spot where any celebrated murder had been committed, upon a certain day every year, or whenever a funeral passed by, it is wonderful what mounds were raised in numerous places, which no person, but such as were familiar with the customs of the poor creatures, would ever be able to account for.

I have often thought that people, insulated and shut out from society and external intercourse, ignorant of letters and all kinds of legends save their own local traditions, are as likely to be faithful historians as the plagiarists and compilers of the present day.

I have heard the same stories of old times told in different parts of the country by adverse factions and cotchers, with scarcely a syllable of difference as to time or circumstance. They denote their periods, not by “the year of our Lord,” or reigns, or months; but by seasons and festivals, and celebrated events or eras,—such as “the Midsummer after the great frost”—“the All-hallow eve before the Boyne Water”—“the Candlemas that Squire Conolly had all the hounds at Bally Killeavan”—“the time the English Bishop[^[8]] was hanged,” &c. &c.

[8]. Arthur, Bishop of Waterford, was hung at Dublin for an unnatural crime—a circumstance which the prejudiced Irish greatly rejoiced at, and long considered as forming an epocha.

ELIZABETH FITZGERALD.

My great-aunt, Elizabeth—Besieged in her castle of Moret—My uncle seized and hanged before the walls—Attempted abduction of Elizabeth, whose forces surprise the castle of Reuben—Severe battle.

A great-aunt of mine, Elizabeth Fitzgerald, was married to Stephen Fitzgerald, who possessed the castle of Moret, near Bally-Brittis, not very far from Cullenagh.[^[9]] She and her husband held their castle firmly during the troubles. They had above forty good warders; their local enemies had no cannon, and but few guns. The warders, protected by the battlements, pelted their adversaries with large stones, when they ventured to approach the walls; and in front of each of that description of castle, there was a hole perpendicularly over the entrance, wherefrom any person, himself unseen, could drop down every species of defensive material upon assailants.

[9]. I have heard the battle of Moret told a hundred times, and never with one variation of fact or incident. It was a favourite legend with the old people, and affords a good idea of the habits and manners of those lawless times.

About the year 1690, when Ireland was in a state of great disorder, and no laws were regarded, numerous factious bodies were formed in every part of the country to claim old rights, and re-take possession of forfeited estates, by mere force, when their factions were strong enough.

My uncle and aunt, or rather my aunt and uncle (for she was said to be far the most effective of the two), at one time suffered the enemy, who were of the faction of the O’Cahils of Timagho, and who claimed my uncle’s property, (which they said—very truly—Queen Elizabeth had turned them out of,) to approach the gate in the night-time. There were neither outworks nor wet fosse; the assailants therefore, counting upon victory, brought fire to consume the gate, and so gain admittance. My aunt, aware of their designs, drew all her warders to one spot, large heaps of great stones being ready to their hands at the top of the castle.

When the O’Cahils, in great numbers, had got close to the gate, and were directly under the loop-hole, on a sudden streams of boiling water, heated in the castle coppers, came showering down upon the heads of the crowd below: this extinguished their fire, and cruelly scalded many of the besiegers.

The scene may be conceived which was presented by a multitude of scalded wretches, on a dark night, under the power and within the reach of all sorts of offensive missiles. They attempted to fly; but whilst one part of the warders hurled volleys of weighty stones beyond them, to deter them from retreating, another party dropped stones more ponderous still on the heads of those who, for protection, crouched close under the castle-walls: the lady of the castle herself, meantime, and all her maids, assisting the chief body of the warders in pelting the Jacobites with every kind of destructive missile, till all seemed pretty still; and wherever a groan was heard, a volley of stones quickly ended the troubles of the sufferer.

The old traditionists of the country say, that at day-break there were lying one hundred of the assailants under the castle-walls—some scalded, some battered to pieces, and many lamed so as to have no power of moving off; but my good aunt kindly ordered them all to be put out of their misery, as fast as ropes and a long gallows, erected for their sakes, could perform that piece of humanity:—her faithful old partizan, Keeran Karry, always telling them how sorry the lady was that she had no doctor in the castle, she being so tender-hearted that she could not bear to hear their groaning under the castle-walls, and so had them hanged out of pure good-nature.

After the victory, the warders had a feast on the castle-top, whereat each of them recounted his own feats. Squire Fitzgerald, who was a quiet easy man, and hated fighting, and who had told my aunt, at the beginning, that they would surely kill him, having seated himself all night peaceably under one of the parapets, was quite delighted when the fray was over. He walked out into his garden outside the walls to take some tranquil air, when an ambuscade of the hostile survivors surrounded and carried him off. In vain his warders sallied—the squire was gone past all redemption!

It was supposed he had paid his debts to Nature—if any he owed—when, next day, a large body of the O’Cahil faction appeared near the castle. Their force was too great to be attacked by the warders, who durst not sally; and the former assault had been too calamitous to the O’Cahils to warrant them in attempting another. Both were therefore standing at bay, when, to the great joy of the garrison, Squire Fitzgerald was produced, and one of the assailants, with a white cloth on a pike, advanced to parley.

The lady on the castle-top attended his proposals, which were very laconic. “I am a truce, lady!—Look here, (showing the terrified squire) we have your husband in hault—yee’s have yeer castle sure enough. Now we’ll change, if you please: we’ll render the squire, and you’ll render the keep; and if yees won’t do that same, the squire will be throttled before your two eyes in half an hour.”

“Flag of truce!” said the heroine, with due dignity and without hesitation; “mark the words of Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle: they may serve for your own wife upon some future occasion.—Flag of truce! I won’t render my keep, and I’ll tell you why: Elizabeth Fitzgerald may get another husband, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald may never get another castle; so I’ll keep what I have; and if you don’t get off faster than your legs can readily carry you, my warders will try which is hardest, your skull or a stone bullet.”

The O’Cahils kept their word, and old Squire Stephen Fitzgerald, in a short time, was seen dangling and performing various evolutions in the air, to the great amusement of the Jacobites, the mortification of the warders, and chagrin (which however was not without a spice of consolation) of my great-aunt, Elizabeth.

This magnanimous lady, after Squire Stephen had been duly cut down, waked, and deposited in his garden, conceived that she might enjoy her castle with tranquillity; but, to guard against every chance, she replenished her stony magazine; had a wide trench dug before the gate of the castle; and pit-falls, covered with green sods, having sharp stakes driven within, scattered round it on every side—the passage through these being only known to the faithful warders. She contrived, besides, a species of defence that I have not seen mentioned in the Pacata Hibernia, or any of the murderous annals of Ireland: it consisted of a heavy beam of wood, well loaded with iron at the bottom, and suspended by a pulley and cord from the top of the castle, and which, on any future assault, she could let down through the projecting hole over the entrance;—alternately, with the aid of a few strong warders above, raising and letting it drop smash among the enemy who attempted to gain admittance below,—thereby pounding them as if with a pestle and mortar, without the power of resistance on their part.

The castle-vaults were well victualled, and at all events could safely defy any attacks of hunger; and as the enemy had none of those despotic engines called cannon, my aunt’s garrison were at all points in tolerable security. Indeed, fortunately for Elizabeth, there was not a single piece of ordnance in the country, except those few which were mounted in the Fort of Dunrally, or travelled with the king’s army; and, to speak truth, fire-arms then would have been of little use, since there was not sufficient gunpowder among all the people to hold an hour’s fighting.

With these and some interior defences, Elizabeth imagined herself well armed against all marauders, and quietly awaited a change of times and a period of general security.

Close to the castle there was, and I believe still remains, a shallow swamp and a dribbling stream of water, in which there is a stone with a deep indenture on the top. It was about three feet high—very like a short joint of one of the pillars of the Giant’s Causeway. This stone was always full of limpid water, called St. Bridget’s water,—that holy woman having been accustomed daily to kneel in prayer on one knee, till she wore a hole in the top of the granite by the cap of her pious joint. She then filled it with water, and vanished from that country. It took the saint a full month, however, to bore the hole to her satisfaction.

To this well, old Jug Ogie, the oldest piece of furniture in Moret Castle, (she was an hereditary cook,) daily went for the purpose of drawing the most sacred crystal she could, wherewith to boil her mistress’s dinner; and also, as the well was naturally consecrated, it saved the priest a quantity of trouble in preparing holy water for the use of the warders. It was then also found to boil vastly quicker, and ten times hotter, than any common water, with a very small modicum of any kind of fuel. But the tradition ran that it would not boil at all for a year and a day after Madam Elizabeth died. It was believed, also, that a cow was poisoned, which had the presumption to drink some of it, as a just judgment for a beast attempting to turn Christian.

On one of these sallies of old Jug, some fellows (who, as it afterward appeared, had with a very deep design lain in ambush) seized and were carrying her off, when they were perceived by one of the watchmen from the tower, who instantly gave an alarm, and some warders sallied after them. Jug was rescued, and the enemy fled through the swamp; but not before one of them had his head divided into two equal parts by the hatchet of Keeran Karry, who was always at the head of the warders, and the life and soul of the whole garrison.

The dead man turned out to be a son of Andrew M‘Mahon, a faction-man of Reuben; but nobody could then guess the motive for endeavouring to carry off old Jug, the most ancient hag in that country. However, the matter soon became developed.

Elizabeth was accounted to be very rich,—the cleverest woman of her day,—and she had a large demesne into the bargain: and finding the sweets of independence, she refused matrimonial offers from many quarters; but as her castle was, for those days, a durably safe residence, such as the auctioneers of the present time would denominate a genuine undeniable mansion, the country squires determined she should marry one of them, since marry willingly she would not—but they nearly fell to loggerheads who should run away with her. Almost every one of them had previously put the question to her by flag of truce, as they all stood in too much awe of the lady to do it personally: till at length, teased by their importunities, she gave notice of her fixed intention to hang the next flag of truce who brought any such impudent proposals of marriage.

Upon this information, it was finally agreed to decide by lot, at a full meeting of her suitors, who should be the hero to surprise and carry off Elizabeth by force, which was considered a matter of danger on account of the warders, who would receive no other commandant, were well fed, and very ferocious.

Elizabeth got wind of their design and place of meeting, which was to be in the old castle of Reuben, near Athy. Eleven or twelve of the squires privately attended at the appointed hour, and it was determined, that whoever should be the lucky winner was to receive the aid and assistance of the others in bearing away the prize, and gaining her hand. To this effect, a league offensive and defensive was entered into between them—one part of which went to destroy Elizabeth’s warders root and branch; and to forward their object, it was desirable, if possible, to procure some inmate of the castle, who, by fair or foul means, might be induced to inform them of the best mode of entry: this caused the attempt to carry off old Jug Ogie.

However, they were not long in want of a spy; for Elizabeth, hearing of their plan from the gossoon[^[10]] of Reuben (a nephew of Jug’s), determined to take advantage of it. “My lady,” said Jug Ogie, “pretend to turn me adrift in a dark night, and give out that my gossoon here was found robbing you—they’ll soon get wind of it, and I’ll be the very person the squires want—and then you’ll hear all.”

[10]. A gossoon was then, and till very lately, an indispensable part of a country gentleman’s establishment;—a dirty, bare-legged boy, who could canter six miles an hour on all sorts of errands and messages—carry turf—draw water—light the fires—turn the spit, when the dog was absent, &c. tell lies, and eat any thing. One of these gossoons took a run (as they call it) of ten miles and back for some person, and only required a large dram of whiskey for his payment.

The matter was agreed on, and old Jug Ogie and the gossoon were turned out, as thieves, to the great surprise of the warders and the country. But Jug was found and hired, as she expected; and soon comfortably seated in the kitchen at Castle Reuben, with the gossoon, whom she took in as kitchen-boy. She gave her tongue its full fling,—told a hundred stories about her “devil of a mistress,”—and undertook to inform the squires of the best way to get to her apartment.

Elizabeth was now sure to learn every thing so soon as determined on. The faction had arranged all matters for the capture:—the night of its execution approached: the old cook prepared a good supper for the quality:—the squires arrived, and the gossoon had to run only three miles to give the lady the intelligence. Twelve cavaliers attended, each accompanied by one of the ablest of his faction—for they were all afraid of each other, whenever the wine should rise upwards; and they did not take more for fear of discovery.

The lots, being formed of straws of different lengths, were held by M‘Mahon, the host, who was disinterested; and the person of Elizabeth, her fortune, and Moret castle, fell to the lot of M‘Carthy O’Moore, one of the Cremorgan squires, and, according to tradition, as able-bodied, stout a man as any in the whole country. The rest all swore to assist him till death; and one in the morning was the time appointed for the surprise of Elizabeth and her castle—while in the mean time they began to enjoy the good supper of old Jug Ogie.

Castle Reuben had been one of the strongest places in the county, situated on the river Barrow, in the midst of a swamp, which rendered it nearly inaccessible. It had belonged to a natural son of one of the Geraldines, who had his throat cut by Andy M‘Mahon, a game-keeper of his own; and nobody choosing to interfere with the sportsman, he, with his five sons, (all rapparees well-armed and wicked) remained peaceably in possession of the castle, and now accommodated the squires during their plot against Elizabeth.

That heroic dame, on her part, was not inactive; she informed her warders of the scheme to force a new master on her and them; and many a round oath she swore (with corresponding gesticulations, the description of which would not be over agreeable to modern readers,) that she never would grant her favours to mortal man, but preserve her castle and her chastity to the last extremity.

The warders took fire at the attempt of the squires. They always detested the defensive system; and probably to that hatred may be attributed a few of the robberies, burglaries, and burnings, which in those times were considered in that neighbourhood as little more than occasional pastimes.

“Arrah! lady,” said Keeran Karry, “how many rogues ’ill there be at Reuben, as you larn, to-night?—arrah!”

“I hear four-and-twenty,” said Elizabeth, “besides the M‘Mahons.”

“Right, a’nuff,” said Keeran: “the fish in the Barrow must want food this hard weather; and I can’t see why the rump of a rapparee may not make as nice a tit-bit for them as any thing else: four-and-twenty!—phoo!”

All then began to speak together, and join most heartily in the meditated attack on Reuben.

“Arrah! run for the priest,” says Ned Regan; “maybe yee’d like a touch of his reverence’s office first, for fear there might be any sin in it.”

“I thought you’d like him with your brandy, warders,” said Elizabeth with dignity: “I have him below: he’s praying a little, and will be up directly. The whole plan is ready for you, and Jug Ogie has the signal. Here, Keeran,” giving him a green ribbon with a daub of old Squire Fitzgerald, (who was hanged,) dangling therefrom, “if you and the warders do not bring me the captain’s ear, you have neither the courage of a weazel, nor—nor” (striking her breast hard with her able hand) “even the revenge of a woman in yees.”

“Arrah, be asy, my lady!” said Keeran, “be asy! by my sowl, we’ll bring you four-and-twenty pair, if your ladyship have any longing for the ears of such villains, my lady!”

“Now, warders,” said Elizabeth, who was too cautious to leave her castle totally unguarded, “as we are going to be just, let us also be generous; only twenty-four of them, besides five or six of the M‘Mahons, will be there. Now it would be an eternal disgrace to Moret, if we went to overpower them by numbers: twenty-four chosen warders, Father Murphy and the corporal, the gossoon and the piper, are all that shall leave this castle to-night; and if Reuben is not a big bonfire by day-break to-morrow, I hope none of you will come back to me again.”

The priest now made his appearance; he certainly seemed rather as if he had not been idle below during the colloquy on the leads; and the deep impressions upon the bottle which he held in his hand, gave ground to suppose that he had been very busy and earnest in his devotions.

“My flock!” said Father Murphy,—somewhat lispingly,—“my flock”—

“Arrah!” said Keeran Karry, “we’re not sheep to-night: never mind your flocks just now. Father! give us a couple of glasses a piece!—time enough for mutton-making.”

“You are right, my chickens!” bellowed forth Father Murphy, throwing his old black surtout over his shoulder, leaving the empty sleeves dangling at full liberty, and putting a knife and fork in his pocket for ulterior operations:—“I forgive every mother’s babe of you every thing you choose to do till sun-rise: but if you commit any sin after that time, as big even as the blacks of my nele, I can’t take charge of yeer sowls, without a chance of disappointing you.”

All was now in a bustle:—the brandy circulated merrily, and each warder had in his own mind made mince-meat of three or four of the Reuben faction, whose ears they fancied already in their pockets. The priest, spitting on his thumb, marked down the “De profundis” in the leaves of his double manual, to have it ready for the burials:—every man took his long skeen in his belt—had a thick club, with a strong spike at the end of it, slung with a stout leather thong to his wrist; and under his coat, a sharp broad hatchet with a black blade and a crooked handle. And thus, in silence, the twenty-five Moret warders, commanded by Keeran Karry, set out with their priest, the piper, and the gossoon with a copper pot slung over his shoulders as a drum, and a piece of a poker in his hand, to beat it with, on their expedition to the castle of Reuben.

Before twelve o’clock, the warders, the priest, Keeran Karry, and the castle piper, had arrived in the utmost silence and secrecy. In that sort of large half-inhabited castle, the principal entrance was through the farm-yard, which was, indeed, generally the only assailable quarter. In the present instance, the gate was half open, and the house lights appeared to have been collected in the rear, as was judged from their reflection in the water of the Barrow, which ran close under the windows. A noise was heard, but not of drunkenness;—it was a sound as of preparation for battle. Now and then a clash of steel, as if persons were practising at the sword or skeen for the offensive, was going forward in the back hall; and a loud laugh was occasionally heard. The warders foresaw it would not be so easy a business as they had contemplated, and almost regretted that they had not brought a less chivalrous numerical force.

It was concerted that ten men should creep upon their hands and feet to the front entrance, and await there until, by some accident, it might be sufficiently open for the ferocious rush which was to surprise their opponents.

But Keeran, always discreet, had some forethought that more than usual caution would be requisite. He had counted on dangers which the others had never dreamt of, and his prudence, in all probability, saved the lives of many of the warders. He preceded his men, crawling nearly on his breast; he had suspected that a dog overheard them, and a bark soon confirmed the truth of that suspicion, and announced the possibility of discovery. Keeran, however, was prepared for this circumstance; he had filled his pockets with pieces of bacon impregnated with a concentrated preparation of nux vomica, then, and at a much later period, well known to the clergy and spirituals on the continent.[^[11]] Its fatal effect on dogs was instantaneous; and the savoury bacon having rendered them quite greedy to devour it, it had now an immediate influence on two great mastiffs and a wolf-dog who roamed about the yard at nights. On taking each a portion, they resigned their share of the contest without further noise.

[11]. It was formerly used by nuns, monks, &c. in the warm climates to temper their blood withal. There is a sort of cooling root sold at the herbalists in Paris at present, of which the young religieuses of both sexes are said to make a cheap, palatable, and powerful anti-satanic ptisan. It is displayed in the shops on strings, like dried lemon-peel.

Keeran thus advanced crawling to the door; he found it fast, but on listening, soon had reason to conjecture that the inmates were too numerous and well armed to make the result of the battle at all certain. He crept back to the hedge; and having informed the warders of the situation in which they were placed, one and all swore that they would enter or die. The priest had lain himself down under a hay-stack in the outer yard, and the piper had retired nobody knew where, nor in fact did any body care much about him, as he was but a very indifferent chanter.

Keeran now desired the warders to handle their hatchets, and be prepared for an attack so soon as they should see the front door open, and hear three strokes on the copper kettle. The gossoon had left that machine on a spot which he had described near the gate, and Keeran requested that, in case of any fire, they should not mind it till the kettle sounded. He then crawled away, and they saw no more of him.

The moments were precious, and seemed to advance too fast. At one o’clock, a body armed possibly better than themselves, and probably much more numerous, would issue from the castle on their road to Moret, prepared for combat. The result in such a case might be very precarious. The warders by no means felt pleased with their situation; and the absence of their leader, priest, and piper gave no additional ideas of conquest or even security. In this state of things near half an hour had elapsed, when of a sudden they perceived, on the side of the hay-yard toward their own position, a small blaze of fire issue from a corn-stack—in a moment another, and another! The conflagration was most impetuous; it appeared to be devouring every thing, but as yet was not perceived by the inmates at the rear of the house. At length volumes of flame illuminated by reflection the waters of the river under the back windows. The warders now expecting the sally, rubbed their hands well with bees’ wax, and grasped tightly their hatchets, yet moved not:—breathless, with a ferocious anxiety, they awaited the event in almost maddening suspense. A loud noise now issued from the interior of the house; the fire was perceived by the garrison—still it might be accidental—the front door was thrown open, and above thirty of the inmates poured out, some fully, others not fully armed. They rushed into the hay-yard—some cried out it was “treachery!” whilst others vociferated “accident! accident!”—All was confusion, and many a stout head afterward paid for its incredulity.

At that moment the copper kettle was beaten rapidly and with force:—a responsive sound issued from the house—the garrison hesitated, but hesitation was quickly banished; for on the first blow of the kettle, the warders, in a compact body, with hideous yells, rushed on the astonished garrison, who had no conception who their enemies could be. Every hatchet found its victim; limbs, features, hands, were chopped off without mercy—death or dismemberment followed nearly every blow of that brutal weapon, whilst the broad sharp skeens soon searched the bodies of the wounded, and almost half the garrison were annihilated before they were aware of the foe by whom they had been surprised. The survivors, however, soon learned the cause (perhaps merited) of their comrades’ slaughter. The war cry of “A Gerald!—a Gerald!—a Gerald!”—which now accompanied every crash of the murderous hatchet, or every plunge of the broad-bladed skeen, informed them who they were fighting with:—fifteen or sixteen still remained unwounded of the garrison—their case was desperate. Keeran Karry now headed his warders. The gossoon rapidly and fiercely struck the copper, in unison with the sound of the fatal weapons, whilst the old and decrepit Jug Ogie, within the castle, repeated the same sound, thereby leading the garrison to believe that to retreat inside the walls would only be to encounter a fresh enemy.

The affair, however, was far from being finished;—the survivors rapidly retired, and got in a body to the position first occupied by Keeran’s warders. They were desperate—they knew they must die, and determined not to go alone to the other regions. The flames still raged with irresistible fury in the hay-yard. It was Keeran who had set fire to the corn and hay, which materials produced an almost supernatural height of blaze and impetuosity of conflagration. The survivors of the garrison were at once fortified, and concealed from view, by a high holly hedge, and awaited their turn to become assailants:—it soon arrived.

From the midst of the burning ricks in the hay-yard a shrill and piercing cry was heard to issue, of “Ough, murther—murther!—the devil—the devil! ough Holy Virgin, save me! if there is any marcy, save me!” The voice was at once recognised by the warriors of Moret as that of their priest Ned Murphy, who had fallen asleep under a hay-stack, and never awakened till the flames had seized upon his cloak. Bewildered, he knew not how to escape, being met, wherever he ran, by crackling masses. He roared and cursed to the full extent of his voice; and gave himself up for lost, though fortunately, as the materials of his habit did not associate with flame, he was not dangerously burned, although suffering somewhat in his legs. No sooner did they perceive his situation, than the warders, each man forgetting himself, rushed to save their clergy, on whom they conceived the salvation of their souls entirely to depend. They imagined that the fight was ended, and prepared to enjoy themselves by the plunder of Castle Reuben.

This was the moment for the defeated garrison:—with a loud yell of “a Moore! a Moore! a Moore!” they fell in their turn upon the entangled warders in the hay-yard, five of whose original number had been wounded, and one killed, in the first fray; whilst many had subsequently thrown down their hatchets, to rescue their pastor, and had only their spikes and skeens wherewith to defend themselves. The battle now became more serious, because more doubtful, than at its commencement. Several of the warders were wounded, and four more lay dead at the entrance to the hay-yard; their spirit was dashed, and their adversaries laid on with the fury of desperation. Keeran Karry had received two sword-thrusts through his shoulder, and could fight no more; but he could do better—he could command. He called to the warders to retreat and take possession of the castle, which was now untenanted: this step saved them; they retired thither with all possible rapidity, pursued by the former garrison of the place, who however were not able to enter with them, but killed another man before the doors were fast closed. Keeran directed the thick planks and flag-stones to be torn up, thereby leaving the hall open to the cellar beneath, as had been done at Moret. The enemy were at bay at the door, and could not advance, but, on the other hand, many of the warders having, as we before stated, flung away their hatchets, were ill armed. The moment was critical: Keeran, however, was never at a loss for some expedient; he counted his men; five had been killed in the hay-yard, and one just outside the walls; several others were wounded, amongst whom was the piper, who had been asleep. Keeran told the warders that he feared the sun might rise on their total destruction, if something were not immediately done. “Are there,” said he, “five among ye, who are willing to swap your lives for the victory?” Every man cried out at once—and, I!—I!—I!—echoed through the hall. “It is well!” said Keeran, who without delay directed five men, and the gossoon with the copper kettle, to steal out at the back of the castle, creep through the hedges, and get round directly into the rear of the foe before they attacked; having succeeded in which, they were immediately to advance, beating the vessel strongly.—“They will suppose,” said the warlike Keeran, “that it is a reinforcement, and we shall then return the sound from within. If they believe it to be a reinforcement, they will submit to mercy: if not, we’ll attack them front and rear—and as our numbers are pretty equal, very few of us on either side will tell the story to our childer! but we’ll have as good a chance, at any rate, as them villains.”

This scheme was carried into immediate execution, and completely succeeded. The enemy, who were now grouped outside the door, hearing the kettle in their rear, supposed that they should be at once attacked by sally and from behind. Thinking they had now only to choose between death and submission, the mercy, which was offered, they accepted; and peep-o’day being arrived, the vanquished agreed to throw their arms into the well,—to swear before the priest that they never would disturb, or aid in disturbing, Lady Elizabeth or the castle of Moret,—that no man on either side should be called upon by law for his fighting that night; and finally, that the person who had succeeded in drawing the lot for Elizabeth, should deliver up the lock of his hair that grew next his ear, to testify his submission: this latter clause, however, was stipulated needlessly, as M‘Carthy O’Moore was discovered in the farm-yard, with nearly all his face sliced off, and several skeen wounds in his arms and body. Early in the morning, the dead were buried without noise or disturbance in a consecrated gravel-pit, and both parties breakfasted together in perfect cordiality and good-humour: those who fell were mostly tenants of the squires. The priest, having had his burnt legs and arm dressed with chewed herbs[^[12]] by Jug Ogie, said a full mass, and gave all parties double absolution, as the affair was completed by the rising of the sun. The yard was cleared of blood and havock; the warders and garrison parted in perfect friendship; and the former returned to Moret Castle, bringing back Jug Ogie to her impatient mistress. Of the warders, thirteen returned safe; six remained behind badly wounded, and six were dead. Keeran’s wounds were severe, but they soon healed; and Elizabeth afterward resided at Moret to a very late period in the reign of George the First. Reuben soon changed its occupant, M‘Mahon, who, in the sequel, was hanged for the murder of his master; and that part of the country has since become one of the most civilized of the whole province.

[12]. I believe that most countries produce simple herbs, of a nature adapted to the cure of diseases prevalent in their respective climates. The old Irishwomen formerly had wonderful skill in finding and applying such remedies; they chewed the herbs into a sort of pap, and then extracted the juice, for the patient to take inwardly—whilst the substance was applied as a poultice.

Many of the rebels told me, after 1798, that having no doctors, the country bone-setters and the “Colloughs” (old women) soon cured their flesh-wounds and broken limbs: “but,” added they, “when a boy’s skull was smash’d, there was no more good in him.”

I have given the foregoing little history in full, inasmuch as it is but little known—is, I believe, strictly matter of fact, and exhibits a curious picture of the state of Irish society and manners in or about the year 1690. A small part of Moret castle is still standing, and presents a very great curiosity. One single ivy tree has, for a period beyond the memory of man, enveloped the entire ruins; has insinuated its tendrils through the thick walls; penetrated every seam and aperture; and now contributes to display one solid mass of combined masonry and foliage. It stands on the old Byrne (now Lansdowne) estate, about a mile from the great heath, Queen’s County.

IRISH GENTRY AND THEIR RETAINERS.

Instances of attachment formerly of the lower orders of Irish to the gentry—A field of corn of my father’s reaped in one night without his knowledge—My grandfather’s servants cut a man’s ears off by misinterpretation—My grandfather and grandmother tried for the fact—Acquitted—The colliers of Donane—Their fidelity at my election at Ballynakill, 1790.

The numerous and remarkable instances, which came within my own observation, of mutual attachment between the Irish peasantry and their landlords in former times, would, were I to detail them, fill volumes. A few only will suffice, in addition to what has already been stated, to show the nature of that reciprocal good-will, which, on many occasions, was singularly useful to both parties; and in selecting these instances from such as occurred in my own family, I neither mean to play the vain egotist, nor to determine generals by particulars, since good landlords and attached peasantry were then spread over the entire face of Ireland, and bore a great proportion to the whole country. Were that the case at present, Ireland would be an aid, and a substantial friend, instead of a burthen and a troublesome neighbour to her sister island. He must be a good prophet that can even now foresee the final results of the Union.

I remember that a very extensive field of corn of my father’s had once become too ripe, inasmuch as all the reapers in the country were employed in getting in their own scanty crops before they shedded. Some of the servants had heard my father regret that he could not by possibility get in his reapers without taking them from these little crops, and that he would sooner lose his own.

This field was within full view of our windows. My father had given up the idea of being able to cut his corn in due time. One morning, when he rose, he could not believe his sight:—he looked—rubbed his eyes—called the servants, and asked them if they saw any thing odd in the field:—they certainly did—for, on our family retiring to rest the night before, the whole body of the peasantry of the country, after their hard labour during the day, had come upon the great field, and had reaped and stacked it before dawn! None of them would even tell him who had a hand in it. Similar instances of affection repeatedly took place; and no tenant on any of the estates of my family was ever distrained, or even pressed, for rent. Their gratitude for this knew no bounds; and the only individuals who ever annoyed them were the parsons, by their proctors, and the tax-gatherers for hearth-money; and though hard cash was scant with both landlord and tenant, and no small bank-notes had got into circulation, provisions were plentiful, and but little inconvenience was experienced by the peasantry from want of a circulating medium. There was constant residence and work—no banks and no machinery; and though the people might not be quite so refined, most undoubtedly they were vastly happier.

But a much more characteristic proof than the foregoing of the extraordinary devotion of the lower to the higher orders of Ireland, in former times, occurred in my family, and is publicly on record.

My grandfather, Mr. French, of County Galway, was a remarkably small, nice little man, but of extremely irritable temperament. He was an excellent swordsman, and proud to excess: indeed, of family pride, Galway County was at that time the focus, and not without some reason.

Certain relics of feudal arrogance frequently set the neighbours and their adherents together by the ears:—my grandfather had conceived a contempt for, and antipathy to, a sturdy half-mounted gentleman, one Mr. Dennis Bodkin, who, having an independent mind, entertained an equal aversion to the arrogance of my grandfather, whom he took every possible opportunity of irritating and opposing.

My grandmother, an O’Brien, was high and proud—steady and sensible—but disposed to be rather violent at times in her contempts and animosities; and entirely agreed with her husband in his detestation of Mr. Dennis Bodkin.

On some occasion or other, Mr. Dennis had outdone his usual outdoings, and chagrined the squire and his lady most outrageously. A large company dined at my grandfather’s, and my grandmother launched out in her abuse of Dennis, concluding her exordium by an hyperbole of hatred expressed, but not at all meant, in these words:—“I wish the fellow’s ears were cut off! that might quiet him.”

It passed over as usual: the subject was changed, and all went on comfortably till supper; at which time, when every body was in full glee, the old butler, Ned Regan (who had drunk enough), came in:—joy was in his eye; and whispering something to his mistress which she did not comprehend, he put a large snuff-box into her hand. Fancying it was some whim of her old domestic, she opened the box and shook out its contents:—when, lo! a considerable portion of a pair of bloody ears dropped upon the table!—The horror and surprise of the company may be conceived: on which Ned exclaimed—“Sure, my lady, you wished that Dennis Bodkin’s ears were cut off; so I told old Gahagan (the game-keeper), and he took a few boys with him, and brought back Dennis Bodkin’s ears—and there they are; and I hope you are plazed, my lady!”

The scene may be imagined;—but its results had like to have been of a more serious nature. The sportsman and the boys were ordered to get off as fast as they could; but my grandfather and grandmother were held to heavy bail, and tried at the ensuing assizes at Galway. The evidence of the entire company, however, united in proving that my grandmother never had an idea of any such order, and that it was a misapprehension on the part of the servants. They were, of course, acquitted. The sportsman never re-appeared in the county till after the death of Dennis Bodkin, which took place three years subsequently, when old Gahagan was reinstated as game-keeper.

This anecdote may give the reader an idea of the devotion of servants, in those days, to their masters. But the order of things is reversed—and the change of times cannot be better illustrated than by the propensity servants now have to rob (and, if convenient, murder) the families from whom they derive their daily bread. Where the remote error lies, I know not; but certainly the ancient fidelity of domestics seems to be totally out of fashion with those gentry at present.

A more recent instance of the same feeling as that indicated by the two former anecdotes,—namely, the devotion of the country people to old settlers and families,—occurred to myself; and, as I am upon the subject, I will mention it. I stood a contested election, in the year 1790, for the borough of Ballynakill, for which my ancestors had returned two members to Parliament during nearly 200 years. It was usurped by the Marquis of Drogheda, and I contested it.

On the day of the election, my eldest brother and myself being candidates, and the business preparing to begin, a cry was heard that the whole colliery was coming down from Donane, about eight miles off. The returning officer, Mr. Trench, lost no time: six voters were polled against me; mine were refused generally in mass; the books were repacked, and the result of the poll declared—the election ended, and my opponents just retiring from the town,—when seven or eight hundred colliers were seen entering it with colours flying and pipers playing; their faces were all blackened, and a more tremendous assemblage was scarce ever witnessed. After the usual shoutings, they all rushed into the town with loud cries of “A Barrinton! a Barrinton! Who dares say black is the white of his eye? Down with the Droghedas!—We don’t forget Ballyragget yet!—Oh, cursed Sandy Cahill!—High for Donane!” &c.

The chief captain came up to me:—“Counsellor, dear!” said he, “we’re all come from Donane to help your honour against the villains that oppose you:—we’re the boys that can tittivate!—Barrinton for ever! hurra!”—Then coming close to me, and lowering his tone, he added,—“Counsellor, jewel! which of the villains shall we settle first?”

To quiet him, I shook his black hand, told him nobody should be hurt, and that the gentlemen had all left the town.

“Left the town?” said he, quite disappointed: “Why then, counsellor, we’ll be after overtaking them. Barrinton for ever!—Donane, boys!—Come on, boys! we’ll be after the Droghedas.”

I feared that I had no control over the riotous humour of the colliers, and knew but one mode of keeping them quiet. I desired Billy Howard, the innkeeper, to bring out all the ale he had; and having procured many barrels in addition, together with all the bread and cheese in the place, I set them at it as hard as might be. I told them I was sure of being elected in Dublin, and “to stay azy” (their own language); and in a little time I saw them as tractable as lambs. They made a bonfire in the evening, and about ten o’clock I left them as happy and merry a set of colliers as ever existed. Such as were able strolled back in the night; the others next morning; and not the slightest injury was done to any body or any thing.

The above was a totally unexpected and voluntary proof of the disinterested and ardent attachment of the Irish country people to all who they thought would protect or procure them justice.[^[13]]

[13]. Here I wish to observe the distinction which occurs to me as existing between the attachment of the Scottish Highlanders to their lairds and the ardent love of the Irish peasantry to their landlords—(I mean, in my early days, when their landlords loved them.)

With the Highlanders—consanguinity, a common name, and the prescriptive authority of the Scottish chief over his military clan, (altogether combining the ties of blood and feudal obedience) exerted a powerful and impetuous influence on the mind of the vassal. Yet their natural character—fierce though calculating—desperate and decisive—generated a sort of independent subserviency, mingled with headstrong propensities which their lairds often found it very difficult to moderate, and occasionally impossible to restrain when upon actual service.

The Irish peasantry, more witty and less wise, thoughtless, enthusiastically ardent, living in an unsophisticated way but at the same time less secluded than the Highlanders, entertained an hereditary, voluntary, uninfluenced love for the whole family of their landlords. Though no consanguinity bound the two classes to each other, and no feudal power enforced the fidelity of the inferior one, their chiefs resided in their very hearts:—they obeyed because they loved them: their affection, founded on gratitude, was simple and unadulterated, and they would count their lives well lost for the honour of their landlords. In the midst of the deepest poverty, their attachment was more cheerful, more free, yet more cordial and generous, than that of any other peasantry to any chiefs in Europe.

The Irish modes of expressing fondness for any of the family of the old landlords (families which, alas! have now nearly deserted their country) are singular and affecting. I witnessed, not long since, a genuine example of this, near the old mansion of my family.—“Augh then! Musha! Musha! the owld times!—the owld times!—Ough! then my owld eyes see a B—— —before I die. ’Tis I that loved the breed of yees—ough! ’tis myself that would kiss the track of his honour’s feet in the guther, if he was alive to lead us! Ough! God rest his sowl! any how! Ough! a-vourneen! a-vourneen!”

Yet these peasants were all papists, and their landlords all protestants:—religion, indeed, was never thought of in the matter. If the landlords had continued the same, the tenantry would not have altered. But under the present system, the populace of Ireland will never long remain tranquil, whilst at the same time it is increasing in number—an increase that cannot be got rid of:—hang, shoot, and exile five hundred thousand Irish, the number will scarcely be missed, and in two years the country will be as full as ever again.

It is not my intention to enumerate the several modes recommended for reducing the Irish population, by remote and recent politicians; from Sir William Petty’s project for transporting the men,—to Dean Swift’s scheme of eating the children, and the modern idea of famishing the adults. A variety of plans may yet, I conceive, be devised, without applying to either of these remedies.

MY EDUCATION.

My godfathers—Lord Maryborough—Personal description and extraordinary character of Mr. Michael Lodge—My early education—At home—At school—My private tutor, Rev. P. Crawley, described—Defects of the University course—Lord Donoughmore’s father—Anecdote of the Vice-Provost—A country sportsman’s education.

A christening was, formerly, a great family epocha:—my godfathers were Mr. Pool of Ballyfin, and Captain Pigott of Brocologh Park; and I must have been a very pleasant infant, for Mr. Pool, having no children, desired to take me home with him, in which case I should probably have cut out of feather a very good person and a very kind friend—the present Lord Maryborough, whom Mr. Pool afterwards adopted whilst a midshipman in the navy, and bequeathed him a noble demesne and a splendid estate near my father’s. My family have always supported Lord Maryborough for Queen’s County, and his lordship’s tenants supported me in my hard-contested election for Maryborough in 1800.

No public functionary could act more laudably than Mr. Pool did whilst secretary in Ireland; and it must be a high gratification to him to reflect that, in the year 1800, he did not sell his vote, nor abet the degradation of his country.

Captain Pigott expressed the same desire to patronise me as Mr. Pool;—received a similar refusal, and left his property, I believe, to a parcel of hospitals: whilst I was submitted to the guardianship of Colonel Jonah Barrington, and the instructions of Mr. Michael Lodge, a person of very considerable consequence in my early memoirs, and to whose ideas and eccentricities I really believe I am indebted for a great proportion of my own, and certainly not the worst of them.

Mr. George Lodge had married a love-daughter of old Stephen Fitzgerald, Esq. of Bally Thomas, who by affinity was a relative of the house of Cullenaghmore, and from this union sprang Mr. Michael Lodge.

I never shall forget his figure!—he was a tall man with thin legs and great hands, and was generally biting one of his nails whilst employed in teaching me. The top of his head was half bald: his remaining hair was clubbed with a rose-ribbon; a tight stock, with a large silver buckle to it behind, appeared to be almost choking him: his chin and jaws were very long: and he used to hang his under jaw, shut one eye, and look up to the ceiling, when he was thinking, or trying to recollect any thing.

Mr. Michael Lodge had been what is called a Matross in the artillery service. My grandfather had got him made a gauger; but he was turned adrift for letting a poor man do something wrong about distilling. He then became a land-surveyor and architect for the farmers:—he could farry, cure cows of the murrain, had numerous secrets about cattle and physic, and was accounted the best bleeder and bone-setter in that county—all of which healing accomplishments he exercised gratis. He was also a famous brewer and accountant—in fine, was every thing at Cullenagh: steward, agent, caterer, farmer, sportsman, secretary, clerk to the colonel as a magistrate, and also clerk to Mr. Barret as the parson: but he would not sing a stave in church, though he’d chant indefatigably in the hall. He had the greatest contempt for women, and used to beat the maid-servants; whilst the men durst not vex him, as he was quite despotic! He had a turning-lathe, a number of grinding-stones, and a carpenter’s bench, in his room. He used to tin the saucepans, which act he called chymistry; and I have seen him, like a tailor, putting a new cape to his riding-coat! He made all sorts of nets, and knit stockings; but above all, he piqued himself on the variety and depth of his learning.

Under the tuition of this Mr. Michael Lodge, who was surnamed the “wise man of Cullenaghmore,” I was placed at four years of age, to learn as much of the foregoing as he could teach me in the next five years: at the expiration of which period he had no doubt of my knowing as much as himself, and then (he said) I should go to school “to teach the master.”

This idea of teaching the master was the greatest possible incitement to me; and as there was no other child in the house, I never was idle, but was as inquisitive and troublesome as can be imagined. Every thing was explained to me; and I not only got on surprisingly, but my memory was found to be so strong, that Mr. Michael Lodge told my grandfather half learning would answer me as well as whole learning would another child. In truth, before my sixth year, I was making a very great hole in Mr. Lodge’s stock of information (fortification and gunnery excepted), and I verily believe he only began to learn many things himself when he commenced teaching them to me.

He took me a regular course by Horn-book, Primer, Spelling-book, Reading-made-Easy, Æsop’s Fables, &c.: but I soon aspired to such of the old library books as had pictures in them; and particularly, a very large History of the Bible with cuts was my constant study. Hence I knew how every saint was murdered; and Mr. Lodge not only told me that each martyr had a painter to take his portrait before death, but also fully explained to me how they had all sat for their pictures, and assured me that most of them had been murdered by the Papists. I recollect at this day the faces of every one of them at their time of martyrdom; so strongly do youthful impressions sink into the mind, when derived from objects which at the time were viewed with interest.[^[14]]

[14]. Formerly the chimneys were all covered with tiles, having scripture-pieces, examples of natural history, &c. daubed on them; and there being a great variety, the father or mother (sitting of a winter’s evening round the hearth with the young ones) explained the meaning of the tiles out of the Bible, &c.; so that the impression was made without being called a lesson, and the child acquired knowledge without thinking that it was being taught. So far as it went, this was one of the best modes of instruction.

Be this as it may, however, my wise man, Mr. Michael Lodge, used his heart, head, and hands, as zealously as he could to teach me most things that he did know, and many things he did not know; but with a skill which none of our schoolmasters practise, he made me think he was only amusing instead of giving me a task. The old man tried to make me inquisitive, and inclined to ask about the thing which he wanted to explain to me; and consequently, at eight years old I could read prose and poetry,—write text,—draw a house, a horse, and a game-cock,—tin a copper saucepan, and turn my own tops. I could do the manual exercise with my grandfather’s crutch; and had learnt, besides, how to make bullets, pens, and black-ball; to dance a jig, sing a cronaune,[^[15]] and play the Jew’s harp. Michael also showed me, out of scripture, how the world stood stock still whilst the sun was galloping round it; so that it was no easy matter at college to satisfy me as to the Copernican system. In fact, the old Matross gave me such a various and whimsical assemblage of subjects to think about, that my young brain imbibed as many odd, chivalrous, and puzzling theories as would drive some children out of their senses; and, truly, I found it no easy matter to get rid of several of them when it became absolutely necessary, whilst some I shall certainly retain till my death’s day.

[15]. The Cronaune had no words; it was a curious species of song, quite peculiar, I believe, to Ireland, and executed by drawing in the greatest possible portion of breath, and then making a sound like a humming-top:—whoever could hum the longest, was accounted the best Cronauner. In many country gentlemen’s houses, there was a fool kept for the express purpose, who also played the trump, or Jews’-harp; some of them in a surprising manner.

This course of education I most sedulously followed, until it pleased God to suspend my learning by the death of my grandfather, on whom I doted. He had taught me the broad-sword exercise with his cane, how to snap a pistol, and shoot with the bow and arrow; and had bespoken a little quarter-staff, to perfect me in that favourite exercise of his youth, by which he had been enabled to knock a gentleman’s brains out for a wager, on the ridge of Maryborough, in company with the great grandfather of the present Judge Arthur Moore, of the Common Pleas of Ireland. It is a whimsical gratification to me, to think that I do not at this moment forget much of the said instruction which I received either from Michael Lodge, the Matross, or from Colonel Jonah Barrington,—though after a lapse of nearly sixty years!

A new scene was now to be opened to me. I was carried to Dublin, and put to the famous schoolmaster of that day, Dr. Ball, of St. Michael-a-Powell’s, Ship-street;—one of the old round towers still stands in the yard—towers which defy all tradition. Here my puzzling commenced in good earnest. I was required to learn the English Grammar in the Latin tongue; and to translate languages without understanding any of them. I was taught prosody without verse, and rhetoric without composition; and before I had ever heard any oration, except a sermon, I was flogged for not minding my emphasis in recitation. To complete my satisfaction,—for fear I should be idle during the course of the week, castigation was regularly administered every Monday morning, to give me, by anticipation, a sample of what the repetition day might produce.

However, notwithstanding all this, I worked my way, got two premiums, and at length was reported fit to be placed under the hands of a private tutor, by whom I was to be finished for the University.

That tutor was well known many years in Digges-street, Dublin, and cut a still more extraordinary figure than the Matross. He was the Rev. Patrick Crawly, Rector of Killgobbin, whose son was hanged a few years ago for murdering two old women with a shoemaker’s hammer. My tutor’s person was, in my imagination, of the same genus as that of Caliban. His feet covered a considerable space of any room wherein he stood, and his thumbs were so large that he could scarcely hold a book without hiding more than half the page of it:—though bulky himself, his clothes doubled the dimensions proper to suit his body; and an immense frowzy wig, powdered once a week, covered a head which, for size and form, might vie with a quarter-cask.

Vaccination not having as yet plundered horned cattle of their disorders, its predecessor had left evident proofs of attachment to the rector’s countenance. That old Christian malady, the small-pox, which had resided so many centuries amongst our ancestors, and which modern innovations have endeavoured to undermine, had placed his features in a perfect state of compactness and security—each being sewed quite tight to its neighbour, every seam appearing deep and gristly, so that the whole visage appeared to defy alike the edge of the sharpest scalpel and the skill of the most expert anatomist.

Yet this was as good-hearted a parson as ever lived:—affectionate, friendly, and, so far as Greek, Latin, Prosody, and Euclid went, excelled by few: and under him I acquired, in one year, more classical knowledge than I had done during the former six,—whence I was enabled, out of thirty-six pupils, to obtain an early place in the University of Dublin, at entrance.

The college course, at that time, though a very learned one, was ill arranged, pedantic, and totally out of sequence. Students were examined in “Locke on the Human Understanding,” before their own had arrived at the first stage of maturity; and Euclid was pressed upon their reason before any one of them could comprehend a single problem. We were set to work at the most abstruse sciences before we had well digested the simpler ones, and posed ourselves at optics, natural philosophy, ethics, astronomy, mathematics, metaphysics, &c. &c. without the least relief from belles-lettres, modern history, geography, or poetry; in short, without regard to any of those acquirements—the classics excepted,—which form essential parts of a gentleman’s education.[^[16]]

[16]. Mr. Hutchinson, a later provost, father of Lord Donoughmore, went into the opposite extreme; a most excellent classical scholar himself, polished and well read, he wished to introduce every elegant branch of erudition:—to cultivate the modern languages,—in short, to adapt the course to the education of men of rank as well as men of science. The plan was most laudable, but was considered not monastic enough: indeed, a polished gentleman would have operated like a ghost among those pedantic Fellows of Trinity College. Dr. Waller was the only Fellow of that description I ever saw.

Mr. Hutchinson went too far in proposing a riding-house. The scheme drew forth from Dr. Duigenan a pamphlet called “Pranceriana,” which turned the project and projector into most consummate, but very coarse and ill-natured ridicule.

Doctor Barrett, late vice-provost, dining at the table of the new provost, who lived in a style of elegance attempted by none of his predecessors, helped himself to what he thought a peach, but which happened to be a shape made of ice. On taking it into his mouth, never having tasted ice before, he supposed, from the pang given to his teeth and the shock which his tongue and mouth instantly received, that the sensation was produced by heat. Starting up, therefore, he cried out (and it was the only oath he ever uttered), “I’m scalded, by G—d!”—ran home, and sent for the next apothecary!

Nevertheless, I jogged on with bene for the classics—satis for the sciences—and mediocriter for mathematics. I had, however, the mortification of seeing the stupidest fellows I ever met, at school or college, beat me out of the field in some of the examinations, and very justly obtain premiums for sciences which I could not bring within the scope of my comprehension.

My consolation is, that many men of superior talent to myself came off no better; and I had the satisfaction of hearing that some of the most erudite, studious, and pedantic of my contemporary collegians, who entertained an utter contempt for me, went out of their senses; and I do believe that there are at this moment some of the most eminent of my academic rivals amusing themselves in mad-houses. One of them I lamented much—he still lives; his case is a most extraordinary one, and I shall mention it hereafter:—’twill puzzle the doctors.

Whenever, indeed, I seek amusement by tracing the fate of such of my school and college friends as I can get information about, I find that many of the most promising and conspicuous have met untimely ends; and that most of those men whose great talents distinguished them first in the university and afterward at the bar, had entered, as sizers, for provision as well as for learning:—indigence and genius were thus jointly concerned in their merited elevation; and I am convinced that the finest abilities are frequently buried alive in affluence and in luxury: revolutions are sometimes their hot-bed, and at other times their grave.

The death of my grandmother, which now took place, made a very considerable change in my situation, and I had sense enough, though still very young, to see the necessity of turning my mind toward a preparation for some lucrative profession—either law, physic, divinity, or war.

I debated on all these, as I thought, with great impartiality:—the pedantry of the book-worms had disgusted me with clericals; wooden legs put me out of conceit with warfare; the horrors of death made me shudder at medicine; the law was but a lottery-trade, too precarious for my taste; and mercantile pursuits were too humiliating for my ambition. Nothing, on the other hand, could induce me to remain a walking gentleman: and so, every occupation that I could think of having its peculiar disqualification, I remained a considerable time in a state of uncertainty and disquietude.

Meanwhile, although my choice had nothing to do with the matter, by residing at my father’s I got almost imperceptibly engaged in that species of profession exercised by young sportsmen, whereby I was initiated into a number of accomplishments ten times worse than the negative ones of the walking gentleman:—namely,—riding, drinking, dancing, carousing, hunting, shooting, fishing, fighting, racing, cock-fighting, &c. &c.

After my grandmother’s death, as my father’s country-house was my home, so my two elder brothers became my tutors—the rustics my precedents—and a newspaper my literature. However, the foundation for my propensities had been too well laid to be easily rooted up; and whilst I certainly, for awhile, indulged in the habits of those around me, I was not at all idle as to the pursuits I had been previously accustomed to. I had a pretty good assortment of books of my own, and seldom passed a day without devoting some part of it to reading or letter-writing; and though I certainly somewhat mis-spent, I cannot accuse myself of having lost, the period I passed at Blandsfort—since I obtained therein a full insight into the manners, habits, and dispositions of the different classes of Irish, in situations and under circumstances which permitted nature to exhibit her traits without restraint or caution: building on which foundation, my greatest pleasure has ever been that of decyphering character, adding to and embellishing the superstructure which my experience and observation have since conspired to raise.

It is quite impossible I can give a better idea of the dissipation of that period, into which I was thus plunged, than by describing an incident I shall never forget, and which occurred very soon after my first entrée into the sporting sphere.—It happened in the year 1778, and was then no kind of novelty:—wherever there were hounds, a kennel, and a huntsman, there was the same species of scena, (with variations, however, ad libitum,) when the frost and bad weather put a stop to field avocations.

IRISH DISSIPATION IN 1778.

The huntsman’s cottage—Preparations for a seven days’ carousal—A cock-fight—Welsh main—Harmony—A cow and a hogshead of wine consumed by the party—Comparison between former dissipation and that of the present day—A dandy at dinner in Bond-street—Captain Parsons Hoye and his nephew—Character and description of both—The nephew disinherited by his uncle for dandyism—Curious anecdote of Dr. Jenkins piercing Admiral Cosby’s fist.

Close to the kennel of my father’s hounds, he had built a small cottage, which was occupied solely by an old huntsman, (Matthew Querns,) his older wife, and his nephew, a whipper-in. The chase, the bottle, and the piper, were the enjoyments of winter; and nothing could recompense a suspension of these enjoyments.

My elder brother, justly apprehending that the frost and snow of Christmas might probably prevent their usual occupation of the chase, on St. Stephen’s day, (26th Dec.) determined to provide against any listlessness during the shut-up period, by an uninterrupted match of what was called hard going, till the weather should break up.

A hogshead of superior claret[^[17]] was therefore sent to the cottage of old Querns the huntsman; and a fat cow, killed, and plundered of her skin, was hung up by the heels. All the windows were closed, to keep out the light. One room, filled with straw and numerous blankets, was destined for a bed-chamber in common; and another was prepared as a kitchen for the use of the servants. Claret,—cold, mulled, or buttered,[^[18]]—was to be the beverage for the whole company; and in addition to the cow above mentioned, chickens, bacon, and bread were the only admitted viands. Wallace and Hosey, my father’s and my brother’s pipers, and Doyle, a blind but famous fiddler, were employed to enliven the banquet, which it was determined should continue till the cow became a skeleton, and the claret should be on its stoop.

[17]. Claret was at that time about 18l. the hogshead, if sold for ready rhino; if on credit, the law, before payment, generally mounted it to 200l.; besides bribing the sub-sheriff to make his return, and swear that Squire * * * * had “neither body nor goods.” It is a remarkable fact, that formerly scarce a hogshead of claret crossed the bridge of Banaghu, for a country gentleman, without being followed, within two years, by an attorney, a sheriff’s officer, and a receiver of all his rents, who generally carried back securities for 500l.

[18]. Buttered claret was then a favourite beverage—viz. claret boiled with spice and sugar, orange-peel, and a glass of brandy; four eggs, well beat up, were then introduced, and the whole poured in a foaming state from one jug into another, till all was frothy and cream-coloured. ’Twas “very savoury!”

My two elder brothers;—two gentlemen of the name of Taylor (one of them afterward a writer in India);—Mr. Barrington Lodge, a rough songster;—Frank Skelton, a jester and a butt;—Jemmy Moffat, the most knowing sportsman of the neighbourhood;—and two other sporting gentlemen of the county,—composed the permanent bacchanalians. A few visitors were occasionally admitted.

As for myself, I was too unseasoned to go through more than the first ordeal, which was on a frosty St. Stephen’s day, when the hard goers partook of their opening banquet, and several neighbours were invited, to honour the commencement of what they called their shut-up pilgrimage.

The old huntsman was the only male attendant; and his ancient spouse, once a kitchen-maid in the family, (now somewhat resembling the amiable Leonarda in Gil Blas,) was the cook; whilst the drudgery fell to the lot of the whipper-in. A long knife was prepared, to cut collops from the cow; a large turf fire seemed to court the gridiron on its cinders; the pot bubbled up as if proud of its contents, whilst plump white chickens floated in crowds upon the surface of the water; the simmering potatoes, just bursting their drab surtouts, exposed the delicate whiteness of their mealy bosoms; the claret was tapped, and the long earthen wide-mouthed pitchers stood gaping under the impatient cock, to receive their portions. The pipers plied their chants; the fiddler clasped his cremona; and never did any feast commence with more auspicious appearances of hilarity and dissipation—anticipations which were not doomed to be falsified.

I shall never forget the attraction this novelty had for my youthful mind. All thoughts but those of good cheer were for the time totally obliterated. A few curses were, it is true, requisite to spur on old Leonarda’s skill, but at length the banquet entered: the luscious smoked bacon, bedded on its cabbage mattress, and partly obscured by its own savoury steam, might have tempted the most fastidious of epicures; whilst the round trussed chickens, ranged by the half dozen on hot pewter dishes, turned up their white plump merry-thoughts exciting equally the eye and appetite: fat collops of the hanging cow, sliced indiscriminately from her tenderest points, grilled over the clear embers upon a shining gridiron, (half drowned in their own luscious juices, and garnished with little pyramids of congenial shalots,) smoked at the bottom of the well-furnished board. A prologue of cherry-bounce (brandy) preceded the entertainment, which was enlivened by hob-nobs and joyous exclamations.

Numerous toasts, as was customary in those days, intervened to prolong and give zest to the repast: every man shouted forth the name of his fair favourite, and each voluntarily surrendered a portion of his own reason, in bumpers to the beauty of his neighbour’s mistress. The pipers jerked from their bags appropriate planxties to every jolly sentiment: the jokers cracked the usual jests and ribaldry: one songster chanted the joys of wine and women; another gave, in full glee, “stole away” and “the pleasures of the fox-chase:” the fiddler sawed his merriest jigs: the old huntsman sounded his long cow’s horn, and thrusting his fore-finger into his ear (to aid the quaver,) gave the view holloa! of nearly ten minutes’ duration; to which melody tally ho! was responded by every stentorian voice. A fox’s brush stuck into a candlestick, in the centre of the table, was worshipped as a divinity! Claret flowed—bumpers were multiplied—and chickens, in the garb of spicy spitchcocks, assumed the name of devils to whet the appetites which it was impossible to conquer.

For some hours my jollity kept pace with that of my companions: but at length reason gradually began to lighten me of its burden, and in its last efforts kindly suggested the straw-chamber as an asylum. Two couple of favourite hounds had been introduced to share the joyous pastime of their friends and master; and the deep bass of their throats, excited by the shrillness of the huntsman’s tenor, harmonized by two rattling pipers, a jigging fiddler, and twelve voices, in twelve different keys, all bellowing in one continuous unrelenting chime—was the last point of recognition which Bacchus permitted me to exercise: my eyes now began to perceive a much larger company than the room actually contained;—the lights were more than doubled, without any real increase of their number; and even the chairs and tables commenced dancing a series of minuets before me. A faint tally ho! was attempted by my reluctant lips; but I believe the effort was unsuccessful, and I very soon lost, in the straw-room, all that brilliant consciousness of existence, in the possession of which the morning had found me so happy.

Just as I was closing my eyes to a twelve hours’ slumber, I distinguished the general roar of “stole away!” which seemed almost to raise up the very roof of old Matt Querns’s cottage.

At noon, next day, a scene of a different nature was exhibited. I found, on waking, two associates by my side, in as perfect insensibility as that from which I had just aroused. Our pipers appeared indubitably dead! but the fiddler, who had the privilege of age and blindness, had taken a hearty nap, and seemed as much alive as ever.

The room of banquet had been re-arranged by the old woman: spitchcocked chickens, fried rashers, and broiled marrowbones appeared struggling for precedence. The clean cloth looked fresh and exciting: jugs of mulled and buttered claret foamed hot upon the refurnished table; and a better or heartier breakfast I never enjoyed in my life.

A few members of the jovial crew had remained all night at their posts; but I suppose alternately took some rest, as they seemed not at all affected by their repletion. Soap and hot water restored at once their spirits and their persons; and it was determined that the rooms should be ventilated and cleared out for a cock-fight, to pass time till the approach of dinner.

In this battle-royal, every man backed his own bird; twelve of which courageous animals were set down together to fight it out—the survivor to gain all. In point of principle, the battle of the Horatii and Curiatii was re-acted; and in about an hour, one cock crowed out his triumph over the mangled body of his last opponent;—being himself, strange to say, but little wounded. The other eleven lay dead; and to the victor was unanimously voted a writ of ease, with sole monarchy over the hen-roost for the remainder of his days; and I remember him, for many years, the proud and happy commandant of his poultry-yard and seraglio. They named him “Hyder Ally;”—and I do not think a more enviable two-legged animal existed.

Fresh visitors were introduced each successive day, and the seventh morning had arisen before the feast broke up. As that day advanced, the cow was proclaimed to have furnished her full quantum of good dishes; the claret was upon its stoop; and the last gallon, mulled with a pound of spices, was drunk in tumblers to the next merry meeting!—All now retired to their natural rest, until the evening announced a different scene.

An early supper, to be partaken of by all the young folks, of both sexes, in the neighbourhood, was provided in the dwelling-house, to terminate the festivities. A dance, as usual, wound up the entertainment; and what was then termed a “raking pot of tea,”[^[19]] put a finishing stroke, in jollity and good-humour, to such a revel as I never saw before, and, I am sure, shall never see again.

[19]. A raking pot of tea always wound up an Irish jollification. It consisted of a general meeting about day-break, in the common hall, of all the “young people” of the house—mothers and old aunts of course excluded; of a huge hot cake well buttered—strong tea—brandy, milk, and nutmeg, amalgamated into syllabubs—the fox-hunter’s jig, thoroughly danced—a kiss all round, and a sorrowful “good-morning.”

When I compare with the foregoing the habits of the present day, and see the grandsons of those joyous and vigorous sportsmen mincing their fish and tit-bits at their favourite box in Bond-street; amalgamating their ounce of salad on a silver saucer; employing six sauces to coax one appetite; burning up the palate to make its enjoyments the more exquisite; sipping their acid claret, disguised by an olive or neutralized by a chesnut; lisping out for the scented waiter, and paying him the price of a feast for the modicum of a Lilliputian, and the pay of a captain for the attendance of a blackguard;—it amuses me extremely, and makes me speculate on what their forefathers would have done to those admirable Epicenes, if they had had them at the “Pilgrimage” in the huntsman’s cottage.

To these extremes of former roughness and modern affectation, it would require the pen of such a writer as Fielding to do ample justice. It may, however, afford our reader some diversion to trace the degrees which led from the grossness of the former down to the effeminacy of the latter; and these may, in a great measure, be collected from the various incidents which will be found scattered throughout these sketches of sixty solar revolutions.

Nothing indeed can better illustrate the sensation which the grandfathers, or even aged fathers, of these slim lads of the Bond-street and St. James’s-street establishments, must have felt upon finding their offspring in the elegant occupations I have just mentioned, than an incident relating to Captain Parsons Hoye, of County Wicklow, who several years since met with a specimen of the kind of lad at Hudson’s, in Covent-Garden.

A nephew of his, an effeminate young fellow, who had been either on the Continent or in London a considerable time, and who expected to be the Captain’s heir, (being his sister’s son) accidentally came into the coffee-room. Neither uncle nor nephew recollected each other; but old Parsons’ disgust at the dandified manners, language, and dress of the youth, gave rise to an occurrence which drew from the bluff seaman epithets wonderfully droll, but rather too coarse to record:—the end of it was, that, when Parsons discovered the relationship of the stranger, (by their exchanging cards in anger,) he first kicked him out of the coffee-room, and then struck him out of a will which he had made,—and died very soon after, as if on purpose to mortify the macaroni!

Commodore Trunnion was a civilized man, and a beauty (but a fool), compared to Parsons Hoye,—who had a moderate hereditary property near Wicklow; had been a captain in the royal navy; was a bad farmer, a worse sportsman, and a blustering justice of peace: but great at potation! and what was called, “in the main, a capital fellow.” He was nearly as boisterous as his adopted element: his voice was always as if on the quarter-deck; and the whistle of an old boatswain, who had been decapitated by his side, hung as a memento, by a thong of leather, from his waistcoat button-hole. It was frequently had recourse to, and, whenever he wanted a word, supplied the deficiency.

In form, the Captain was squat, broad, and coarse: a large purple nose, with a broad crimson chin to match, were the only features of any consequence in his countenance, except a couple of good-enough bloodshot eyes, screened by most exuberant grizzle eye-brows. His powdered wig had behind it a queue in the form of a hand-spike,—and a couple of rolled-up paste curls, like a pair of carronades, adorned its broad-sides; a blue coat, with slash cuffs and plenty of navy buttons, surmounted a scarlet waistcoat with tarnished gold binding—the skirts of which, he said, he would have of their enormous length because it assured him that the tailor had put all the cloth in it; a black Barcelona adorned his neck; while a large old round hat, bordered with gold lace, pitched on his head, and turned up on one side, with a huge cockade stuck into a buttonless loop, gave him a swaggering air. He bore a shillelagh, the growth of his own estate, in a fist which would cover more ground than the best shoulder of wether mutton in a London market.[^[20]] Yet the Captain had a look of generosity, good nature, benevolence, and hospitality, which his features did their very best to conceal, and which none but a good physiognomist could possibly discover.

[20]. I once saw the inconvenience of that species of fist strongly exemplified. The late Admiral Cosby, of Stradbally Hall, had as large and as brown a fist as any admiral in His Majesty’s service. Happening one day unfortunately to lay it on the table during dinner, at Colonel Fitzgerald’s, Merrion Square, a Mr. Jenkins, a half-blind doctor, who chanced to sit next to the admiral, cast his eye upon the fist: the imperfection of his vision led him to believe it was a roll of French bread, and, without further ceremony, the doctor thrust his steel fork plump into the admiral’s fist. The confusion which resulted may be easily imagined:—indeed, had the circumstance happened any where but at a private table, the doctor would probably never have had occasion for another crust. As it was, a sharp fork, sticking a sailor’s fist to the table, was rather too irritating an accident for an admiral of the blue to pass over very quietly.

MY BROTHER’S HUNTING-LODGE.

Waking the piper—Curious scene at my brother’s hunting-lodge—Joe Kelly’s and Peter Alley’s heads fastened to the wall—Operations practised in extricating them.

I met with another ludicrous instance of the dissipation of even later days, a few months after my marriage. Lady B— and myself took a tour through some of the southern parts of Ireland, and among other places visited Castle Durrow, near which place my brother, Henry French Barrington, had built a hunting cottage, wherein he happened to have given a house-warming the previous day.

The company, as might be expected at such a place and on such an occasion, was not the most select:—in fact, they were hard-going sportsmen, and some of the half-mounted gentry were not excluded from the festival.

Amongst others, Mr. Joseph Kelly, of unfortunate fate, brother to Mr. Michael Kelly, (who by the bye does not say a word about him in his Reminiscences,) had been invited, to add to the merriment by his pleasantry and voice, and had come down from Dublin solely for the purpose of assisting at the banquet.

It may not be amiss to say something here of this remarkable person. I knew him from his early youth. His father was a dancing-master in Mary-street, Dublin; and I found in the newspapers of that period a number of puffs, in French and English, of Mr. O’Kelly’s abilities in that way—one of which, a certificate from a French artiste of Paris, is curious enough.[^[21]] What could put it into his son’s head, that he had been Master of the Ceremonies at Dublin Castle is rather perplexing! He became a wine-merchant latterly, dropped the O which had been placed at the beginning of his name, and was a well-conducted and respectable man.[^[22]]

[21]. Mr. O’Kelly is just returned from Paris. Ladies and gentlemen, who are pleased to send their commands to No. 30, Mary-street, will be most respectfully attended to.

Je certifie que M. Guillaume O’Kelly est venu à Paris pour prendre de moi leçons, et qu’il est sorti de mes mains en état de pouvoir enseigner la danse avec succès.

Gardel, Maître à Danser de la Reine,

et Maître des Ballets du Roi.

À Paris, le 20ème Août, 1781.

[22]. But as he was a Roman Catholic, and as no Roman Catholic could then hold any office in the vice-regal establishment of Dublin Castle, Mr. M. Kelly must have been misinformed on that point as to his father, whom I have often seen. Mr. Gofton, a dancing-master of Anne-street, Linen Hall, and uncle to Doctor Barrett, the late extraordinary vice-provost of Trinity College, was a friend of Mr. O’Kelly’s, and taught me to the day of his death, which was sudden. Under his tuition, I beat time and danced minuets for four years. Doctor Barrett used to carry his uncle’s kit till he entered Dublin College, of which he died vice-provost. He had two brothers; the most promising one was eaten by a tiger in Dublin, the other died a pawnbroker.

Joe was a slender young man, remarkably handsome; but what, in that part of the country, they emphatically styled “the devil!” I recollect his dancing a hornpipe upon the stage in a sailor’s costume most admirably. He also sang the songs of Young Meadows, in “Love in a Village,” extremely well, as likewise those of Macheath and other parts; but he could never give the acting any effect. He was, strictly speaking, a bravura singer;—there was no deep pathos—nothing touchant in his cadences;—but in drinking-songs, &c. he was unrivalled. As his brother has not thought proper to speak about him, it might be considered out of place for me to go into his history, all of which I know, and many passages whereof might probably be both entertaining and instructive. Some parts of it however are already on record, and others I hope will never be recorded. The Duke of Wellington knew Joe Kelly extremely well; and if he had merited advancement, I dare say he would have received it. The last conversation I had with him was on the Boulevard Italien, in Paris. I was walking with my son, then belonging to the 5th Dragoon Guards. Kelly came up and spoke to us. I shook him by the hand, and he talked away:—spoke to my son—no answer;—he tried him again—no reply. Kelly seemed surprised, and said, “Don’t you know me, Barrington? why don’t you speak to me?”—“’Tis because I do know you that I do not speak to you,” replied my son.—Kelly blushed, but turned it off with a laugh. I could not then guess the reason for this cut direct; and my son refused to tell me: I have since, however, become acquainted with it, and think the sarcasm well merited. It was indeed the bitterer, from its being the only one I ever heard my son utter. Joe Kelly killed his man in a duel, for which he was tried, and narrowly escaped. According to his own account indeed, he killed plenty at the battle of Waterloo, and in other actions. He was himself shot at Paris by a commissary with whom he had quarrelled, and the Irish humorists remarked thereupon that Joe had “died a natural death.”

Of this convivial assemblage at my brother’s, he was, I take it, the very life and soul. The dining-room (the only good one) had not been finished when the day of the dinner-party arrived, and the lower parts of the walls having only that morning received their last coat of plaster, were, of course, totally wet.

We had intended to surprise my brother; but had not calculated on the scene I was to witness. On driving to the cottage-door, I found it open, whilst a dozen dogs, of different descriptions, showed themselves ready to receive us not in the most polite manner. My servant’s whip, however, soon sent them about their business, and I ventured into the parlour to see what cheer. It was about ten in the morning: the room was strewed with empty bottles—some broken—some interspersed with glasses, plates, dishes, knives, spoons, &c.—all in glorious confusion. Here and there were heaps of bones, relics of the former day’s entertainment, which the dogs, seizing their opportunity, had cleanly picked. Three or four of the Bacchanalians lay fast asleep upon chairs—one or two others on the floor, among whom a piper lay on his back, apparently dead, with a table-cloth spread over him, and surrounded by four or five candles, burnt to the sockets; his chanter and bags were laid scientifically across his body, his mouth was quite open, and his nose made ample amends for the silence of his drone. Joe Kelly, and a Mr. Peter Alley, from the town of Durrow, (one of the half-mounted gentry,) were fast asleep in their chairs, close to the wall.

Had I never viewed such a scene before, it would have almost terrified me; but it was nothing more than the ordinary custom which we called waking the piper.[^[23]]

[23]. Waking the piper was an ancient usage. When he had got too drunk to play any more, he was treated as a corpse—stretched out, and candles placed round him: while in this insensible state, they put the drone of his pipe into his mouth, and blew the bellows till he was bloated. This was called blowing-up the piper with false music. It did him no bodily harm, as burnt whiskey and plenty of pepper soon sent the wind about its business, to the no small amusement of the company.

I sent away my carriage and its fair inmate to Castle Durrow, whence we had come, and afterward proceeded to seek my brother. No servant was to be seen, man or woman. I went to the stables, wherein I found three or four more of the goodly company, who had just been able to reach their horses, but were seized by Morpheus before they could mount them, and so lay in the mangers awaiting a more favourable opportunity. I apprehend some of the horses had not been as considerate as they should have been to tipsy gentlemen, since two or three of the latter had their heads cut by being kicked or trampled on. Returning hence to the cottage, I found my brother, also asleep, on the only bed which it then afforded: he had no occasion to put on his clothes, since he had never taken them off.

I next waked Dan Tyron, a wood-ranger of Lord Ashbrook, who had acted as maître d’hôtel in making the arrangements, and providing a horse-load of game to fill up the banquet. I then inspected the parlour, and insisted on breakfast. Dan Tyron set to work: an old woman was called in from an adjoining cabin, the windows were opened, the room cleared, the floor swept, the relics removed, and the fire lighted in the kitchen. The piper was taken away senseless, but my brother would not suffer either Joe or Alley to be disturbed till breakfast was ready. No time was lost; and, after a very brief interval, we had before us abundance of fine eggs, and milk fresh from the cow, with brandy, sugar and nutmeg in plenty;—a large loaf, fresh butter, a cold round of beef, (which had not been produced on the previous day,) red herrings, and a bowl-dish of potatoes roasted on the turf ashes;—in addition to which, ale, whiskey, and port made up the refreshments. All being duly in order, we at length awakened Joe Kelly, and Peter Alley, his neighbour: they had slept soundly, though with no other pillow than the wall; and my brother announced breakfast with a view holloa![^[24]]

[24]. The shout of hunters when the game is in view.

The twain immediately started and roared in unison with their host most tremendously! it was however in a very different tone from the view holloa,—and continued much longer.

“Come boys,” says French, giving Joe a pull—“come!”

“Oh, murder!” says Joe, “I can’t!”—“Murder!—murder!” echoed Peter. French pulled them again, upon which they roared the more, still retaining their places. I have in my lifetime laughed till I nearly became spasmodic; but never were my risible muscles put to greater tension than upon this occasion. The wall, as I said before, had but just received a coat of mortar, and of course was quite soft and yielding when Joe and Peter, having no more cellarage for wine, and their eyesight becoming opake, thought proper to make it their pillow; it was nevertheless setting fast from the heat and lights of an eighteen hours’ carousal; and, in the morning, when my brother awakened his guests, the mortar had completely set, and their hair being the thing best calculated to amalgamate therewith, the entire of Joe’s stock, together with his queue, and half his head, was thoroughly and irrecoverably bedded in the greedy and now marble cement;—so that if determined to move, he must have taken the wall along with him, for separate it would not. One side of Peter’s head was in the same state of imprisonment, so as to give his bust the precise character of a bas-relief. Nobody could assist them, and there they both stuck fast.

A consultation was now held on this pitiful case, which I maliciously endeavoured to protract as long as I could, and which was every now and then interrupted by a roar from Peter or Joe, as each made fresh efforts to rise. At length, it was proposed by Dan Tyron to send for the stone-cutter, and get him to cut them out of the wall with a chisel. I was literally unable to speak two sentences for laughing. The old woman meanwhile tried to soften the obdurate wall with melted butter and new milk—but in vain. I related the school story how Hannibal had worked through the Alps with vinegar and hot irons:—this experiment likewise was made, but to no purpose; the hot irons touching the raw, only added a new octave to the roars of the captives, and the Carthaginian solvent had no better success than the old crone’s. Peter being of a more passionate nature, grew ultimately quite outrageous: he bellowed, gnashed his teeth, and swore vengeance against the mason;—but as he was only held by one side, a thought at last struck him: he asked for two knives, which being brought, he whetted one against the other, and introducing the blades close to his skull, sawed away at cross corners for half an hour, cursing and crying out during the whole operation, till at length he was liberated, with the loss only of half his hair, the skin of one jaw, and a piece of his scalp, which he had sliced off in zeal and haste for his liberty. I never saw a fellow so extravagantly happy! Fur was scraped from the crown of a new hat, to stop the bleeding; his head was duly tied up with the old woman’s praskeen;[^[25]] and he was soon in a state of bodily convalescence. Our solicitude was now required solely for Joe, whose head was too deeply buried to be exhumated with so much facility. At this moment Bob Casey, of Ballynakill, a very celebrated wig-maker, just dropped in, to see what he could pick up honestly in the way of his profession, or steal in the way of any thing else; and he immediately undertook to get Mr. Kelly out of the mortar by a very ingenious but tedious process, namely,—clipping with his scissors and then rooting out with an oyster knife. He thus finally succeeded, in less than an hour, in setting Joseph Kelly, Esq. once more at liberty, at the price of his queue, which was totally lost, and of the exposure of his raw and bleeding occiput. The operation was, indeed, of a mongrel description—somewhat between a complete tonsure and an imperfect scalping, to both of which denominations it certainly presented claims. However, it is an ill wind that blows nobody good! Bob Casey got the making of a skull-piece for Joe, and my brother French had the pleasure of paying for it, as gentlemen in those days honoured any order given while enjoying their hospitality, by a guest, to the family shop-keeper or artizan.

[25]. A coarse dirty apron, worn by working women in a kitchen, in the country parts of Ireland, and exhibiting an assemblage of every kind of filth. Were you to ask a “Collough” why she keeps it so dirty, her reply would be—“Sure nobody never heard of washing a praskeen, plaze your honor’s honor!”

I ate a hearty breakfast, returned to Durrow, and, having rejoined my companion, we pursued our journey to Waterford,—amusing ourselves the greater part of the way with the circumstances just related, which, however, I do not record merely as an abstract anecdote, but, as I observed in starting, to show the manners and habits of Irish country society and sportsmen,[^[26]] even so recently as thirty-five years ago; and to illustrate the changes of those habits and manners, and the advances toward civilization, which, coupled with the extraordinary want of corresponding prosperity, present phenomena I am desirous of impressing upon my reader’s mind, throughout the whole of this miscellaneous collection of original anecdotes and observations.

[26]. Pipers at that time formed an indispensable part of every sporting gentleman’s establishment. My father always had two—the ladies’ piper for the dance, the gentlemen’s piper for occasions of drinking. These men rendered that instrument the most expressive imaginable:—with a piece of buff leather on their thigh, they made the double chanter almost speak words, and by a humorous mode of jerking the bag, brought out the most laughable species of chromatic conceivable.

They were in the habit of playing a piece called “the wedding,” in which words were plainly articulated. The wedding-dinner, the dancing, drinking, &c. all was expressed in a surprising manner. They also played “the Hunt, or Hare in the Corn” through all its parts—the hounds, the horns, the shouts, the chase, the death, &c. If the German who composed the Battle of Prague had heard an old Irish piper, he never would have attempted another instrumental imitation of words.

CHOICE OF PROFESSION.

The Army—Irish volunteers described—Their military ardour—The author inoculated therewith—He grows cooler—The Church—The Faculty—The Law—Objections to each—Colonel Barrington removes his establishment to the Irish capital—A country gentleman taking up a city residence.

My veering opinion as to a choice of profession was nearly decided by that military ardour which seized all Ireland, when the whole country had entered into a resolution to free itself for ever from English domination. The entire kingdom took up arms—regiments were formed in every quarter—the highest, the lowest, and the middle orders, all entered the ranks of freedom, and every corporation, whether civil or military, pledged life and fortune to attain and establish Irish independence, but with the same constitution, and under the same king as England, inseparably and for ever united. England tried to evade, as she could not resist this; but in 1782 Ireland was pronounced a free and independent nation.

My father had raised and commanded two corps—a dragoon troop called the Cullenagh Rangers, and the Ballyroan Light Infantry. My elder brother commanded the Kilkenny Horse, and the Durrow Light Dragoons. The general enthusiasm caught me; and before I well knew what I was about, I found myself a martinet and a red-hot patriot. Having been a university man, I was also considered to be of course a writer, and was accordingly called on to draw up resolutions for volunteer regiments all over the county. This was my first attempt at political subjects; and a general declaration which I wrote being short enough and warm enough to be comprehended by all the parties, it was unanimously adopted—every man swearing, as he kissed the blade of his sword, that he would adhere to these resolutions to the last drop of his blood, which he would by no means spare, till we had finally achieved the independence of our country. We were very sincere, and really, I think, determined to perish, (if necessary) in the cause—at least, I am sure, I was.

The national point was gained, but not without much difficulty and danger. The Irish parliament had refused to grant supplies to the crown or pass a mutiny bill for more than six months. The people had entered into resolutions to prevent the importation of any British merchandise or manufactures. The entire kingdom had disavowed all English authority or jurisdiction, external or internal; the judges and magistrates had declined to act under British statutes:—the flame had spread rapidly, and had become irresistible.

The British Government saw that either temporising or an appeal to force would occasion the final loss of Ireland: 150,000 independent soldiers, well armed, well clothed, and well disciplined, were not to be coped with,—and England yielded.[^[27]] Thus the volunteers kept their oaths: they redeemed their pledge, and did not lay down their arms until the independence of Ireland had been pronounced from the throne, and the distinctness of the Irish nation promulgated in the government gazette of London.

[27]. The Irish patriots demanded 30,000 stand of arms from Government, which the latter not being so circumstanced as to enable them to refuse with safety, they were delivered to the volunteers, from the ordnance stores in Dublin Castle, and distributed among those corps which were least able to purchase arms.

Having carried our point with the English, and proposed to prove our independence by going to war with Portugal about our linens, we completely set up for ourselves, except that Ireland was bound, as I before said, constitutionally and irrevocably, never to have any king but the King of Great Britain—whether de jure or de facto, however, was not specified.

We were now, in fact, regularly in a fighting mood; and being quite in good humour with England, determined to fight the French, who had threatened to invade us. I recollect a volunteer belonging to one of my father’s corps, (a schoolmaster of the name of Beal,) proposing a resolution to the Ballyroan Infantry, which purported, “that they would never stop fighting the French till they had flogged every sowl of them into mincemeat!” This magnanimous resolution was adopted with cheers, and was, as usual, sworn to, each hero kissing the muzzle of his musket. In truth, the whole nation being well prepared for blows; and disappointed, as a fellow-countryman gravely observed to me at the period, of fighting the English, were quite anxious to have a bout with the French: so long, indeed, as they could get a good meal of fighting, they were just then no great epicures as to who were served up.

I am not going any further into a history of those times, to which I have alluded only to show what, for the moment, excited my warlike ardour, and fixed my determination, although but temporarily, to adopt the military profession.

On communicating this decision to my father, he procured me, from a friend and neighbour, General Hunt Walsh, a commission in that officer’s own regiment, the 30th. The style of the thing pleased me very well:—but, upon being informed that I should immediately join the regiment, in America, my heroic tendencies received a serious check. I had not contemplated transatlantic emigration; and feeling that I could get my head broken just as well in my own country, I, after a few days’ mature consideration, perceived my military ardour grow cooler and cooler every hour—until, at length, it was obviously defunct. I therefore wrote to the General a most thankful letter, at the same time “begging the favour of him to present my commission in his regiment to some hardier soldier, who could serve his majesty with more vigour; as I, having been brought up by my grandmother, felt as yet too tender to be any way effective on foreign service—though I had no objection to fight as much as possible in Ireland, if necessary.” General Walsh accepted my resignation, and presented my commission to a young friend of his, (an only son) whose brains were blown out in the very first engagement.

Having thus rejected the army, I next turned my thoughts to that very opposite profession—the church. But though preaching was certainly a much safer and more agreeable employment than bush-fighting, yet a curacy and a wooden leg being pretty much on a parallel in point of remuneration, and as I had the strongest objection to be either dismembered or half starved, in the service of the king or the altar, I also declined the cassock, assuring my father that “I felt I was not steady enough to make an ‘exemplary parson;’ and as any other kind of parson generally did more harm than good in a country, I could not, in conscience, take charge of the morals of a flock of men, women, and children, when I should have quite enough to do to manage my own; and should therefore leave the church to some more orthodox graduate.”

Medicine was next in the list of professions to which I had, abstractedly, some liking. I had attended several courses of anatomical lectures at Dublin; and although with very repugnant feelings had studied that most sublime of all sciences, human organization, by a persevering attention to the celebrated wax-works of that university. Yet my horror and disgust of animal putridity in all its branches was so great, (inclusive even of stinking venison, which most people admire,) that all surgical practice by me was necessarily out of the question; and medicine, without a touch of surgery, presenting no better chance of making a fortune, shared a similar fate with the sword and the pulpit.

Of the liberal and learned professions, there remained but one, namely, the law. Now, as to this, I was told by several old practitioners, who had retired into the country, (as I afterward found, from having no business to do in town,) that if I were even as wise as Alfred, as learned as Lycurgus, or as vociferous as Serjeant Toler,—nobody would give me sixpence for all my law (if I had a hundred weight of it), until I had spent at least ten years in watching the manufacture. However, they consoled me by saying, that if I could put up with light eating during that period, I might then have a very reasonable chance of getting some briefs, particularly after inviting a gang of attorneys to dine with me.—Here I was damped again! and though I should have broken my heart if condemned to remain much longer a walking gentleman, I determined to wait awhile, and see if nature would open my propensities a little wider, and give me some more decisive indication of what she thought me fittest for.

While in this comfortless state of indecision, my father, like other country gentlemen, to gratify his lady under the amiable pretence of educating the children, gave his consent to be launched into the new scenes and pleasures of a city residence. He accordingly purchased an excellent house in Clare-street, Merrion-square; left a steward in the country to mismanage his concerns there; made up new wardrobes for the servants; got a fierce three-cocked hat, with a gold button and loop to it, for himself; and removed his establishment (the hounds excepted) to the metropolis of Ireland.

Here my good and well-bred mother (for such she was) had her Galway pride revived and gratified; the old green coach de cérémonie was regilt and regarnished, and four black geldings, with two postilions and a sixteen-stone footman (in white, scarlet, and laced liveries) completed her equipage.

I had my bit of blood in the stable; my elder brother, who had been in the First Horse, had plenty of them:—my father had his old hunter “brown Jack;” and we set out at what is commonly called a great rate—but which great rates are generally, like a fox-chase, more hot than durable. However, the thing went on well enough; and during our city residence many pleasurable and many whimsical incidents occurred to me and other individuals of my family; one of which was most interesting to myself, and will form a leading feature in my subsequent Sketches.

Before adverting to this, however, I will mention a lamentable event which occurred during our stay in Clare-street, to a neighbour of ours, Captain O’Flaherty, brother to Sir John, whom I shall hereafter notice. The captain resided nearly facing us; and though the event I speak of, and the very extraordinary incident which succeeded it, are clearly digressions, yet the whole story is so singular, that I will, without further apology, introduce it.

MURDER OF CAPTAIN O’FLAHERTY.

Murder of Captain O’Flaherty by Mr. Lanegan, his sons’ tutor, and Mrs. O’Flaherty—The latter, after betraying her accomplice, escapes—Trial of Lanegan—He is hanged and quartered at Dublin—Terrific appearance of his supposed ghost to his pupil, David Lauder, and the author, at the Temple, in London—Lauder nearly dies of fright—Lanegan’s extraordinary escape; not even suspected in Ireland—He gets off to France, and enters the Monastery of La Trappe—All-Hallow Eve—A church-yard anecdote—My own superstition nearly fatal to me.

Captain O’Flaherty, a most respectable gentleman, resided in Clare-street, Dublin, opposite my father’s house. He had employed a person of the name of Lanegan, as tutor to the late John Burke O’Flaherty, and his other sons. But after some little time Lanegan became more attentive to Mrs. O’Flaherty, the mother, than to her boys.

This woman had certainly no charms either of appearance or address, which might be thought calculated to captivate any one; and there was a something indescribably repulsive in her general manners, in consequence whereof all acquaintance between her and our family soon terminated. She was not satisfied with the occasional society of Mr. Lanegan, whilst he continued in the house as tutor, but actually proceeded to form a criminal intercourse with him; and, in order to free herself from all restraint, meditated the very blackest of human crimes, which she determined to perpetrate by giving the unfortunate captain a rice-pudding for his dinner, by virtue whereof she might at any rate be saved the trouble of ever making another for him.

Mr. Lanegan was with this view sent by her to several apothecaries’ shops; at each of which, to avoid suspicion, he asked for a very little stuff to kill the rats; and thus, by small portions, they ultimately procured a sufficient quantity to kill not only the rats, but the husband into the bargain.

The murderous scheme was carried into execution by Mrs. O’Flaherty herself, and the captain was found dead in his bed! Some misgivings, however, were generated from the appearance of the body, which swelled and exhibited black spots: and these, with other unequivocal signs, conspired to prove that the rats (for they were actually dealt with) had not been the only sufferers. The Coroner’s Inquest, indeed, soon decided the matter, by a verdict of “Poisoned by Arsenic.”

Mrs. O’Flaherty and Mr. Lanegan began now to suspect that they were in rather a ticklish situation, and determined to take a private journey into the country until they should discover how things were likely to go. The adulterous wife, full of crime and terror, conceived a suspicion that Lanegan, who had only purchased the poison by her directions, and had not administered it (except to the rats), might turn king’s evidence, get the reward, and save himself by convicting her. Such a catastrophe she therefore determined, if possible, to prevent.

On their journey she told him that, upon full consideration, she conceived there could be no possibility of bringing conclusive evidence against them, inasmuch as it would appear most probable that the captain had, by accident, taken the poison himself—and that she was determined to surrender and take her trial as soon as possible, recommending Mr. Lanegan to do the same. In pursuance of this decision, as they passed near the town of Gowran, County Kilkenny, she said, “There is the gate of a magistrate: do you go up first, put on a bold face, assure him of your entire innocence, and say that, as infamous and false reports have been spread, both of yourself and me, you came expressly to surrender and take your trial;—for that you could not live in society under such vile imputations! Say, also, that you hear Mrs. O’Flaherty intends likewise to surrender herself in the evening, and request that he will be at home to receive her.”

Lanegan, suspecting no fraud, followed these instructions literally;—he was secured, though without roughness, and preparations were made for his being taken to Dublin next day in custody. The magistrate waited for Mrs. O’Flaherty, but she did not appear: he sent down to his gate-house to know if any lady had passed by: the porter informed him that a lady and gentleman had been near the gate in a carriage, in the morning, and that the gentleman got out and went up the avenue to the house, after which the lady had driven away.

It now appearing that they had been actually together, and that Lanegan had been telling falsehoods respecting his companion, strong suspicions arose in the mind of the magistrate. His prisoner was confined more closely, sent under a strong guard to Dublin, indicted for murder, and tried at the ensuing commission.

Positive evidence was given of Lanegan’s criminal connexion with Mrs. O’Flaherty, coupled with the strongest circumstantial proof against him. He had not the courage boldly to deny the fact, and being found guilty, was sentenced to be hanged and quartered; the former part of which sentence having been carried into execution, his body, after a cut on each limb, was delivered to his mother for burial.—Mrs. O’Flaherty escaped beyond sea, and has, I believe, never since been heard of in the country.

Such is the history which forms the prelude to an occurrence some time afterward in which I was a party, and which may be regarded as a curious illustration of stories of supposed ghosts.

A templar and a friend of mine, Mr. David Lauder, a soft, fat, good-humoured, superstitious young fellow, was sitting in his lodgings, (Devereux-court, London,) one evening at twilight. I was with him, and we were agreeably employed in eating strawberries and drinking Madeira. While chatting away in cheerful mood, and laughing loudly at some remark made by one of us, my back being toward the door, I perceived my friend’s colour suddenly change—his eyes seemed fixed and ready to start out of his head—his lips quivered convulsively—his teeth chattered—large drops of perspiration flowed down his forehead, and his hair stood nearly erect.

As I saw nothing calculated to excite these emotions, I naturally conceived my friend was seized with a fit, and rose to assist him. He did not regard my movements in the least, but seizing a knife which lay on the table, with the gait of a palsied man retreated backward—his eyes still fixed—to a distant part of the room, where he stood shivering, and attempting to pray; but not at the moment recollecting any prayer, he began to repeat his catechism, thinking it the next best thing he could do: as—“What is your name? David Lauder! Who gave you that name? My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism!” &c. &c.

I instantly concluded the man was mad; and turning about to go for some assistance, was myself not a little startled at sight of a tall, rough-looking personage, many days unshaved, in a very shabby black dress, and altogether of the most uncouth appearance. The stranger and I stood for a moment opposite each other, staring and motionless: at length he broke silence, and addressing my friend, said, in a low croaking voice, “Don’t be frightened, Mr. Lauder; sure ’tis me that’s here.”

When Davy heard the voice, he fell on his knees, and subsequently flat upon his face, in which position he lay motionless.

The spectre (as I now began to imagine it was) stalked toward the door, and I was in hopes he intended to make his exit thereby; instead of which, however, having deliberately shut and bolted it, he sat himself down in the chair I had previously occupied, with a countenance nearly as full of horror as that of Davy Lauder himself.

I was now totally bewildered; and scarce knowing what to do, was about to throw a jug of water over my friend, to revive him if possible, when the stranger, in his croaking voice, cried—

“For the love of God, give me some of that,—for I am perishing!”—I hesitated, but at length did so: he took the jug and drank immoderately.

My friend Davy now ventured to look up a little, and perceiving that I was becoming so familiar with the goblin, his courage somewhat revived, although his speech was still confused:—he stammered, rose upon his knees, held up his hands as if in supplication, and gazed at the figure for some time, but at length made up his mind that it was tangible and mortal. The effect of this decision on the face of Davy was as ludicrous as the fright had been. He seemed quite ashamed of his former terror, and affected to be stout as a lion! though it was visible that he was not at his ease. He now roared out in the broad, cursing Kerry dialect: “Why then, blood and thunder! is that you, Lanegan?”

“Ah, Sir, speak low!” said the wretched being.

“How the devil,” resumed Davy, “did you get your four quarters stitched together again, after the hangman cut them off of you at Stephen’s Green!”

“Ah, Gentlemen!” exclaimed the poor culprit, “speak low: have mercy on me, Master Davy; you know it was I taught you your Latin.—I’m starving to death!”

“You shall not die in that way, you villanous schoolmaster!” said Davy, pushing toward him a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine that stood on the table,—but standing aloof himself, as though not yet quite decided as to the nature of the intruder.

The miserable creature having eaten the bread with avidity, and drunk two or three glasses of wine, the lamp of life once more seemed to brighten up. After a pause, he communicated every circumstance relating to his sudden appearance before us. He confessed having bought the arsenic at the desire of Mrs. O’Flaherty, and that he was aware of the application of it, but solemnly protested that it was she who had seduced him; he then proceeded to inform us that after having been duly hanged, the sheriff had delivered his body to his mother, but not until the executioner had given a slight cut on each limb, just to save the law; which cuts bled profusely, and were probably the means of preserving his life. His mother, conceiving that the vital spark was not extinct, had put him into bed, dressed his wounded limbs, and rubbed his neck with hot vinegar. Having steadily pursued this process, and accompanied it by pouring warm brandy and water down his throat, in the course of an hour he was quite sensible, but experienced horrid pains for several weeks before his final recovery. His mother filled the coffin he was brought home in with bricks, and got some men to bury it the same night in Kilmainham burial-ground, as if ashamed to inter him in open day. For a long time he was unable to depart, being every moment in dread of discovery:—at length, however, he got off by night in a smuggling boat, which landed him on the Isle of Man, and from thence he contrived to reach London, bearing a letter from a priest at Kerry to another priest who had lived in the Borough, the purport of which was to get him admitted into a monastery in France. But finding the Southwark priest was dead, he then went to Scotland, using various disguises; and returning to town, was afraid, though possessing some little money sent him by his mother, even to buy food, for fear of detection! but recollecting that Mr. Lauder, his old scholar, lived somewhere in the Temple, he had got directed by a porter to the lodging the night before.

My friend Davy, though he did not half like it, suffered this poor devil to sit in the chamber till the following evening. He then procured him a place in the night coach to Rye, from whence he got to St. Vallery, and was received, as I afterward learnt from a very grateful letter which he sent to Lauder, into the monastery of La Trappe, near Abbeville, where he lived in strict seclusion, and died, as I heard, some years since.

This incident is not related as a mere isolated anecdote, unconnected with any serious general considerations; but rather with a view to show how many deceptions a man’s imagination may hastily subject him to; and to impress the consideration that nothing should be regarded as supernatural, which can by possibility be the result of human interference.

In the present case, if Lanegan had withdrawn before Lauder had arisen and spoken to him, no reasoning upon earth could ever have convinced the Templar of the materiality of the vision. As Lanegan’s restoration to life after execution had not at that time been spoken of, nor even suspected, Lauder would have willingly deposed, upon the Holy Evangelists, that he had seen the actual ghost of the schoolmaster who had been hanged and quartered in Dublin a considerable time before; his identification of the man’s person being rendered unequivocal from the circumstance of his having been formerly Lanegan’s pupil. And I must confess that I should myself have seen no reason to doubt Lauder’s assertions, had the man withdrawn from the chamber before he spoke to me—to do which, under the circumstances, it was by no means improbable fear might have induced him.

Thus one of the “best authenticated ghost stories ever related” has been lost to the history of supernatural occurrences. The circumstance, however, did not cure Davy Lauder in the least of his dread of apparitions, which was excessive.

Nor have I much right to reproach my friend’s weakness in this particular. I have, on the other hand, throughout my observations admitted—nay, I fear, occasionally boasted—that I was myself superstitious. The species of reading I adopted and ardently pursued from my infancy upward may, I admit, have impressed my mind indelibly; and the consciousness of this fact should have served to render me rather sceptical than credulous upon any subject that bore a mysterious character.

My relations, whilst I was a boy, took it into their heads that I was a decided coward in this way, which though I in round terms denied, I freely admitted at the same time my coyness with regard to trying any unnecessary experiments or making any superstitious invocations, particularly on Allhallow-eve,[^[28]] or other mysterious days, whereupon a sort of bastard witchcraft is always practised in Ireland.

[28]. The pranks formerly played in Ireland on Allhallow-eve, were innumerable. The devil was supposed to be at large on that night, and permitted to make what prey he could among the human species, by bringing them together. His principal occupation was therefore thought to be match-making, and it was whispered that he got more subjects, and set more Christians by the ears, through the sacrament of matrimony, than all his other schemes put together. Matches were then frequently made by burning nuts, turning shifts, &c.

Hence I was universally ridiculed on those anniversaries for my timidity; and, one Allhallow-eve, my father proposed to have a prayer-book, with a £5 bank-note in it, left on a certain tomb-stone in an old catholic burial-ground quite apart from any road, and covered with trees. It was two or three fields’ distance from the dwelling-house; and the proposal was, that if I would go there at twelve o’clock at night, and bring back the book and a dead man’s bone, (many of which latter were scattered about the cemetery,) the note should be mine; and, as an additional encouragement, I was never after to be charged with cowardice. My pride took fire, and I determined, even though I might burst a blood-vessel through agitation, or break my neck in running home again, I would perform the feat, and put an end to the imputation.

The matter therefore was fully arranged. The night proved very dark; the path was intricate, but I was accustomed to it. There were two or three stiles to be crossed; and the Irish always conceive that if a ghost is any where in the neighbourhood, he invariably chooses a stile at which to waylay the passengers.

However, at the appointed hour I set out. I dare say most ladies and gentlemen who may read this know what palpitation of the heart means; if so, let them be so good as to fancy an excess of that feeling, and they may then form some idea of the sensations with which I first touched the cold grave-stones of the dead, who, if they had possessed any spirit, would have arisen, en masse, to defend their bones from being made the subject of ridiculous experiment.

Having groped for some time in the dark, I found the book, but my hand refused to lift it, and I sat down panting and starting at every rustle of the foliage: through the gloom wherewith the trunks and branches of the trees were invested, my excited imagination conjured up figures and shapes which I expected, at every glance, would open into skeletons or shrouded spectres! I would, at that moment, have given the world to be at home again!—but I really could not stir: my breath had got too short, and my eyesight too confused, for motion.

By degrees these sensations subsided. I obtained a little confidence; the moving of a branch no longer startled me, and I should have got on well enough had not an unlucky goat, which came roaming near the place, though with a different object, thrown me into a complete relapse. At the conclusion of about half an hour, however, which appeared to me at least five-and-twenty years, I secured the book snugly in my pocket, together with a dead man’s thigh-bone, which I tied up in a cloth brought with me for the purpose; and, fastening this round my waist, lest it should drop during my flight, I made a very rapid exit from this scene of perilous achievement.

Having reached the house in triumph, and taken a large tumbler of wine, I proceeded to exhibit my book, put the bank-note in my pocket, and with an affectation of unconcern untied my cloth and flung my huge thigh-bone upon the supper-table. I had my full revenge! The girls, who had been amusing themselves by telling each other’s fortunes, tossing coffee, burning nuts, turning shifts, writing abracadabras, &c. &c. &c., were cruelly shocked—they all set up a loud shriek, and whilst some were half swooning, others ran headlong out of the room, or rolled over the chairs. My courage now grew rampant: I laughed at their terrors, saying, if they pleased, they might leave the bone on the top of my bed till morning, and that would sufficiently show, who was most in dread of dead people!—

Confidence was at length restored on all sides. I was half cured of my superstitious fears, and the family universally admitted that I certainly should make a brave general if I went into the army. We made merry till a late hour, when I retired joyously to bed, and sleep very soon began to make still further amends for my terrors.

While dreaming away most agreeably, I was suddenly aroused by a rustling noise for which I could not account. I sat up, and, upon listening, found it to proceed from the top of my bed, whereon something was in rapid motion. The dead man’s thigh-bone immediately started into my recollection, and horrible ideas flashed across my mind. A profuse perspiration burst out at once on my forehead, my hair rose, the cramp seized both my legs, and just gathering power to call out “Murder, Murder!—help, help!” I buried my head under the clothes. In this situation, I could neither hear nor see, and was besides almost suffocated: after awhile, I began to think I might have been dreaming, and with that idea thrusting my head fearfully out, the bone (for that it certainly was) sprang with a tremendous crash from the bed down beside me upon the floor, where it exhibited as many signs of life (probably more) than when its original owner was in legal possession of it. Upon viewing this, my spirits sank again, I shook like a man in an ague, gave some inarticulate screams, and at length dropped back, nearly senseless, upon the pillow with my eyes covered.

How long I lay thus, I know not; I only remember that the bone still continued its movements, and now and then striking a chair or table, warned me of my probable fate from its justly enraged proprietor, who, I was apprehensive, would soon appear to demand his undoubted property. Had the scene continued long, I actually believe I should scarce have survived it: but at last, paradise seemed all on the sudden to be regained, though in no very orthodox way. A loud laugh at the door clearly announced that I had been well played off upon by the ladies, for my abrupt display of a dead man’s bone on a supper-table. The whole of the young folks entered my room in a body, with candles; and after having been reassured, and nourished by a tumbler of buttered white wine, I obtained, by degrees, knowledge of the trick which had occasioned a laugh so loud, so long, and so mortifying to my self-conceit.

The device was simple enough: a couple of cords had been tied to the bone, and drawn under the door, which was at the bed’s foot; and by pulling these alternately, the conspirators kept the bone in motion, until their good-humoured joke had well nigh resulted in the loss of their kinsman’s reason.

My character for bravery as to supernaturals was thus finally demolished;—and my general courage was also considered as a doubtful matter, in consequence of a most plausible piece of argument used by old Christopher Julian, a retired exciseman, who occasionally came down from his little cottage to take some shrub-punch at my father’s house. He was very humourous, and we all liked him.

“Sure, Master Jonah,” said the old gauger, “cowardice is occasioned only by the fear of death?”

I assented.

“And whether a man comes to that death by another man or by a ghost, it’s just the same thing to him?”

“Certainly,” said I, very inconsiderately giving in to him.

“Then,” said Kit Julian, triumphantly, “how the devil can a man be stout as to a man, and afraid of a ghost? If I knew any such shy cocks, they never should get into the revenue. The devil a smuggler ever they’d face; and then heigh for the potsheen, and contrabands! If a man’s not afraid for his own carcass, he’d never dread another man’s winding sheet!”

“That’s true,” said my father, and the laugh was turned completely against me.

ADOPTION OF THE LAW.

Marriage of my eldest brother—The bridesmaid, Miss D. W.—Female attractions not dependent on personal beauty—Mutual attachment—Illustration of the French phrase je ne sais quoi—Betrothal of the author, and his departure for London, to study for the Bar.

My father still conceived that the military profession was best suited to my ardent and volatile spirit. I was myself, however, of a different opinion; and fortune shortly fixed my determination. An accident occurred, which, uniting passion, judgment, and ambition, led me to decide that the Bar was the only road to my happiness or celebrity; and accordingly I finally and irrevocably resolved that the law should be the future occupation of my life and studies.

The recollection of the incident to which I have alluded excites, even at this moment, all the sensibility and regret which can survive a grand climacteric, and four-and-forty years of vicissitude. I shall not dilate upon it extensively; and, in truth, were it not that these personal fragments would be otherwise still more incomplete, I should remain altogether silent on a subject which revives in my mind so many painful reflections.

My elder brother married the only daughter of Mr. Edwards, of Old Court, County Wicklow (niece to Mr. Tennison, M. P. County Monaghan). The individuals of both families attended that marriage, which was indeed a public one. The bridemaid of Miss Edwards was the then admired Miss D. Whittingham. This lady was about my own age: her father had been a senior fellow of Dublin University, and had retired on large church preferments. Her uncle, with whom she was at that time residing, was a very eminent barrister in the Irish capital. She had but one sister, and I was soon brought to think she had no equal whatever.

They who read this will perhaps anticipate a story of a volatile lad struck, in the midst of an inspiring ceremony, by the beauty of a lively and engaging female, and surrendering without resistance his boyish heart to the wild impulse of the moment. This supposition is, I admit, a natural one; but it is unfounded. Neither beauty, nor giddy passion, nor the glare of studied attractions, ever enveloped me in their labyrinths. Nobody admired female loveliness more than myself; but beauty in the abstract never excited within me that delirium which has so impartially made fools of kings and beggars—of heroes and cowards; and to which the wisest professors of law, physic, and divinity, have from time immemorial surrendered their liberty and their reason.

Regularity of feature is very distinct from expression of countenance, which I never yet saw mere symmetry successfully rival. I thank Heaven, that I never was either the captive or the victim of “perfect beauty;” in fact, I never loved any handsome woman save one, who still lives, and I hope will do so long: those whom I admired most (when I was of an age to admire any) had no great reason to be grateful for her munificence to creating Nature.

Were I to describe the person of D. Whittingham, I should say that she had no beauty; but, on the contrary, seemed rather to have been selected as a foil to set off the almost transparent delicacy of the bride whom she attended. Her figure was graceful, it is true: her limbs fine, her countenance speaking; yet I incline to think that few ladies would have envied her perfections. Her dark and deep-sunk, yet animated and penetrating eyes could never have reconciled their looking-glasses to the sombre and swarthy complexion which surrounded them; nor the carmine of her pouting lips to the disproportioned extent of feature which it tinted. In fine, as I began, so will I conclude my personal description—she had no beauty. But she seems this moment before me as in a vision. I see her countenance, busied in unceasing converse with her heart;—now illuminated by wit, now softened by sensibility—the wild spirit of the former changing like magic into the steadier movements of the latter;—the serious glance silently commanding caution, whilst the counteracting smile at the same moment set caution at defiance. But upon this subject I shall desist, and only remark further, that before I was aware of the commencement of its passion, my whole heart was hers!

Miss Whittingham was at that time the fashion in high society: many admired, but I know of none who loved her save myself; and it must have been through some attractive congeniality of mind that our attachment became mutual.

It will doubtless appear unaccountable to many, whence the spell arose by which I was so devoted to a female, from whom personal beauty seems to have been withheld by Nature. I am unable to solve the enigma. I once ventured myself to ask D. Whittingham if she could tell me why I loved her? She answered by returning the question; and hence, neither of us being able to give an explicit reason, we mutually agreed that the query was unanswerable.

There are four short words in the French language which have a power of expressing what in English is inexplicable—Je ne sais quoi; and to these, in my dilemma, I resorted. I do not now wish the phrase to be understood in a mere sentimental vein,—or, in the set terms of young ladies, as “a nice expression!” In my mind it is an amatory idiom; and, in those few words, conveys more meaning than could a hundred pages: I never recollect its being seriously applied by any man till he had got into a decided partiality.

I have said that the phrase is inexplicable; but, in like manner as we are taught to aim at perfection whilst we know it to be unattainable, so will I endeavour to characterise the Je ne sais quoi as meaning a species of indefinable grace which gives despotic power to a female. When we praise in detail the abstract beauties or merits of a woman, each of them may form matter for argument, or a subject for the exercise of various tastes; but of the Je ne sais quoi there is no specification, and upon it there can be no reasoning. It is that fascinating enigma which expresses all without expressing any thing; that mysterious source of attraction which we can neither discover nor account for; and which nor beauty, nor wit, nor education, nor any thing, but nature, ever can create.

D. Whittingham was the fashion:—but she depended solely, as to fortune, on her father and her uncle. I was the third son of a largely estated, but not at all prudent family, and was entitled to a younger child’s portion, in addition to some exclusive property of my own (from my grandmother): but I had passed twenty-one, and not even fixed on a profession—therefore, the only probable result of our attachment seemed to be misery and disappointment. Notwithstanding, when in the same neighbourhood, we met,—when separate, we corresponded; but her good sense at length perceived that some end must be put to this state of clandestine correspondence, from which, although equally condemning it, we had not been able to abstain. Her father died, and she became entitled to a third of his estate and effects; but this accession was insufficient to justify the accomplishment of our union. I saw, and, with a half-broken heart, acquiesced in, her view of its impossibility until I should have acquired some productive profession. She suggested that there was no other course but the Bar, which might conciliate her uncle. The hint was sufficient, and we then agreed to have a ceremony of betrothal performed by a clergyman, and to separate the next moment, never to meet again until Fortune, if ever so disposed, should smile upon us.

The ceremony was accordingly performed by a clerical person in the parlour of the post-office at Bray, County Wicklow; and immediately afterward I went on board a packet for England, determined, if possible, to succeed in a profession which held out a reward so essential to my happiness.

I did succeed in that profession: but, alas! she for whose sake my toil was pleasure had ceased to exist. I never saw her more! Her only sister still lives in Merrion Square, Dublin, and in her has centred all the property of both the father and uncle. She is the widow of one of my warmest friends, Mr. Burne, a king’s counsel.

I hasten to quit a subject to me so distressing. Some very peculiar circumstances attended, as I learned, the death of that most excellent of women; but a recital of these would only increase the impression which I fear I have already given grounds for, that I am deeply superstitious. However, I have not concealed so important an incident of my life hitherto not published, and I have done.

A DUBLIN BOARDING-HOUSE.

Sketch of the company and inmates—Lord Mountmorris—Lieut. Gam Johnson, R. N.—Sir John and Lady O’Flaherty—Mrs. Wheeler—Lady and Miss Barry—Memoir and character of Miss Barry, afterward Mrs. Baldwin—Ruinous effects of a dramatic education exemplified—Lord Mountmorris’s duel with the Honourable Francis Hely Hutchinson at Donnybrook—His Lordship wounded—Marquis of Ely, his second.

After my return to Dublin from the Temple, before I could suit myself with a residence to my satisfaction, I lodged at the house of Mr. Kyle, in Frederick-street, uncle to the present provost of Dublin University. Mrs. Kyle was a remarkably plain woman, of the most curious figure, being round as a ball; but she was as good as she was ordinary. This worthy creature, who was a gentlewoman by birth, had married Kyle, who, though of good family, had been a trooper. She had lived many years, as companion, with my grandmother, and, in fact, regarded me as if I had been her own child.

In her abode so many human curiosities were collected, and so many anecdotes occurred, that, even at this distance of time, the recollection amuses me. Those who lodged in the house dined in company: the table was most plentifully served, and the party generally comprised from eight to ten select persons. I will endeavour to sketch the leading members of the society there at the period of which I speak; and first on the list I will place the late Lord Mountmorris, of celebrated memory. He was a very clever and well-informed, but eccentric man;—one of the most ostentatious and at the same time parsimonious beings in the world. He considered himself by far the greatest orator and politician in Europe; and it was he who sent a florid speech, which he intended to have spoken in the Irish House of Lords, to the press:—the debate on which it was to be spoken did not ensue; but his Lordship having neglected to countermand the publication, his studied harangue appeared next day in the Dublin newspapers with all the supposititious cheerings, &c. duly interposed! I believe a similar faux pas has been committed by some English nobleman.

His Lordship, at the period in question, was patronising what is commonly ycleped a led captain—one Lieutenant Ham or Gam Johnson, of the royal navy, brother to the two judges and the attorney. He was not, however, a led captain in the vulgar application: he was an independent-minded man, and a brave officer; but, like many others, sought for patronage because he could not get on without it. Though not absolutely disgusting, Lieut. Johnson was certainly one of the ugliest men in Christendom. It was said of him that he need never fire a shot, since his countenance alone was sufficient to frighten the bravest enemy. His bloated visage, deeply indented by that cruel ravager of all comeliness, the smallpox, was nearly as large as the body which supported it, and that was by no means diminutive. Yet he was civil and mild, and had, withal, a much higher character as an officer than his captain in the Artois frigate, Lord Charles Fitzgerald, who, it was at that time thought, conceived that a sound nap was as good as a hard battle.

Next in the company came Sir John O’Flaherty, Bart. (whose brother had been poisoned by Lanegan), and Lady O’Flaherty his sposa. He was a plain, agreeable country gentleman. Her Ladyship was to the full as plain, but not quite so agreeable. However, it was (as Mrs. Kyle said) a very respectable thing, at a boarding-house, to hear—“Sir John O’Flaherty’s health!”—and “Lady O’Flaherty’s health!”—drunk or hobnobbed across the table.—They formed, indeed, excellent stuffing to cram in between my Lord Mountmorris and the simple gentry.

Lady Barry, widow of the late Sir Nathaniel Barry, Bart., and mother of Sir Edward, (who was also an occasional guest,) follows in my catalogue, and was as valuable a curiosity as any of the set.—She, too, was a good ingredient in the stuffing department.

Mrs. Wheeler, the grandmother of Sir Richard Jonah Denny Wheeler Cuffe, a cousin of mine, gave up her whole attention to lap-dogs; and neither she nor the last-mentioned dowager were by any means averse to the fermented grape—though we never saw either of them “very far gone.”

Lady Barry’s only daughter, afterward Mrs. Baldwin, was also of the party. Though this young female had not a beautiful face, it was peculiarly pleasing, and she certainly possessed one of the finest of figures,—tall, and slender in its proportions, and exquisitely graceful. Her father, Sir Nathaniel Barry, many years the principal physician of Dublin, adored his daughter, and had spared neither pains nor expense on her education. She profited by all the instruction she received, and was one of the most accomplished young women of her day.

But unfortunately he had introduced her to the practice of one very objectionable accomplishment, calculated rather to give unbounded latitude to, than check, the light and dangerous particles of a volatile and thoughtless disposition. He was himself enthusiastically fond of theatricals, and had fitted up a theatre in the upper story of his own house. There the youthful mind of his untainted daughter was first initiated into all the schemes, passions, arts, and deceptions of lovers and of libertines!—the close mimicry of which forms the very essence of dramatic perfection. At sixteen, with all the warmth of a sensitive constitution, she was taught to personify the vices, affect the passions, and assume the frivolities of her giddy sex!

Thus, through the folly or vanity of her father, she was led to represent by turns the flirt, the jilt, the silly wife, the capricious mistress, and the frail maiden,—before her understanding had arrived at sufficient maturity, or his more serious instructions made sufficient impression, to enable her to resist voluptuous sensations. She had not penetration enough (how could she have?) to perceive that a moral may be extracted from almost every crime, and that a bad example may sometimes be more preservative against error, (from exhibiting its ruinous consequences,) than a good one. She was too young, and too unsteady, to make these subtle distinctions. She saw the world’s pleasures dancing gaily before her, and pursued the vision—until her mimicry, at length, became nature, her personification identity. After two or three years, during which this mistaken course was pursued, Sir Nathaniel died, leaving his daughter in possession of all the powers of attraction without the guard of prudence. In the dance—in declamation—in music—in the languages—she excelled: but in those steady and solid qualities which adapt women for wedlock and domesticity, she was altogether deficient. Her short-sighted father had been weak enough to deck her with the gaudy qualifications of an actress at the expense of all those more estimable acquirements which her mind and her genius were equally susceptible of attaining.

The misfortunes which ensued should therefore be attributed rather to the folly of the parent than to the propensities of the child. Her heart once sunk into the vortex of thoughtless variety and folly, her mother was unable to restrain its downward progress; and as to her weak, dissipated brother, Sir Edward, I have myself seen him, late at night, require her to come from her chamber to sing, or play, or spout, for the amusement of his inebriated companions;—conduct which the mother had not sufficient sense or resolution to control. However, good fortune still gave Miss Barry a fair chance of rescuing herself, and securing complete comfort and high respectability. She married well, being united to Colonel Baldwin, a gentleman of character and fortune:—but, alas! that delicacy of mind which is the best guardian of female conduct, had been irrecoverably lost by her pernicious education, and in a few years she relinquished her station in society.

Long after that period, I saw Mrs. Baldwin at the house of a friend of mine, into which she had been received, under an assumed name, as governess. This effort, on her part, could not be blamed: on the contrary, it was most commendable; and it would have been both cruel and unjust, by discovering her, to have thwarted it. Though many years had elapsed, and her person had meanwhile undergone total alteration,—her size being doubled, and her features grown coarse and common,—I instantly recognised her as one whom I had known long before, but whose name I could not recollect. I had tact enough to perceive that she courted concealment, and, in consequence, I carefully abstained from any pointed observation. The mother of the children subsequently told me that her governess, Mrs. Brown, was an admirable musician, and took me to the door of her room to hear her play. She was sitting alone, at the piano. I listened with an anxiety I cannot describe—indeed scarcely account for. She sang not with superiority, but in plaintive tones, which I was confident I had heard before, yet could not remember where,—when an air which, from a very peculiar cause, had in early days impressed itself indelibly on my memory, brought Miss Barry at once to my recollection.[^[29]] Her image swam into my mind as she appeared when youth, grace, innocence, and accomplishments made her a just subject for general admiration, and had particularly attracted a friend of mine, Mr. Vicars, the brother of Mrs. Peter Latouche, who loved her to distraction.—He since married Miss Georges.

[29]. It was a favourite air of D. Whittingham’s, and affected me much, though after a lapse of twenty-four years.

Her secret I kept inviolably:—but some person, I believe, was afterward less considerate, and she was discovered. Had I supposed it possible she could have then enfeebled the morals, or injured the habits, of my friend’s children, I should myself have privately given her a hint to change her situation;—but I never should have betrayed her. I conceived her at that time to be trustworthy in the execution of the duties she had undertaken. She had suffered amply. Her own daughter resided with her, and scarcely ever left her side. No longer a subject for the irregular passions, she had just lived long enough, and felt keenly enough, to render her early follies a warning for her later years, and even to cause her to entertain disgust for those errors which had so fatally misled her:—and I then believed, nor have I now any reason to question the solidity of my judgment, that she was on the direct road to prudence and good conduct.

I have related these events, as I confess myself to be an avowed enemy to a dramatic education. That sexual familiarity which is indispensable upon the stage undermines, and is, in my opinion, utterly inconsistent with, the delicacy of sentiment, the refinement of thought, and reserve of action, which constitute at once the surest guards and the most precious ornaments of female character. Strong minds and discriminating understandings frequently escape; but, what a vast majority of Thalia’s daughters fall victims to the practices of their profession!

Let us return to Kyle’s boarding-house. The different pursuits adopted by these curious members of the society assembled there were to me subjects of constant entertainment, and I stood well with all parties.—Good manners, good humour, and good cheer, make every place agreeable;—all these were united at Kyle’s boarding-table: the society never exceeded ten; and the company was always good.

One day, after dinner, Lord Mountmorris seemed rather less communicative than usual, but not less cheerful. He took out his watch; made a speech, as customary; drank his tipple (as he denominated the brandy and water), but seemed rather impatient. At length, a loud rap announced somebody of consequence, and the Marquis of Ely was named.

Lord Mountmorris rose with his usual ceremony, made a very low bow to the company, looked again at his watch, repeated his congé, and made his exit. He entered the coach where Lord Ely was waiting, and away they drove. Kyle (a most curious man) instantly decided that a duel was in agitation, and turned pale at the dread of losing so good a lodger. Lieutenant Gam Johnson was of the same opinion, and equally distressed by the fear of losing his Lordship’s interest for a frigate. Each snatched up his beaver, and, with the utmost expedition, pursued the coach. I was also rather desirous too see the fun, as Lieutenant Gam (though with a sigh!) called it, and made the best of my way after the two mourners, not, however, hurrying myself so much—as, whilst they kept the coach in view, I was contented with keeping them within sight. Our pursuit exceeded a mile; when, in the distance, I perceived that the coach had stopped at Donnybrook fair-green, where, on every eighth of June, many an eye seems to mourn in raven gray for the broken skull that had protected it from expulsion. I took my time, as I was now sure of my game, and had just reached the field when I heard the firing. I then ran behind a large tree, to observe further.

Lieut. Gam and Kyle had flown toward the spot, and nearly tumbled over my Lord, who had received a bullet from the Hon. Francis Hely Hutchinson (late collector for Dublin) on the right side, directly under his Lordship’s pistol arm. The peer had staggered and reposed at his length on the green-sward, and I certainly thought it was all over with him. I stood snugly all the while behind my tree, not wishing to have any thing to do at the coroner’s inquest, which I considered inevitable. To my astonishment, however, I saw my Lord arise, gracefully but slowly; and, after some colloquy, the combatants bowed to each other and separated; my Lord got back to his coach, with aid, and reached Frederick-street, if not in quite as good health, certainly with as high a character for bravery, as when he left it. In fact, never did any person enjoy a wound more sincerely! It was little else than a contusion, but twenty grains more of powder would probably have effectually laid his Lordship “to rest on the field of battle.” He kept his chamber a month, and was inconceivably gratified by the number of inquiries daily made respecting his health—boasting ever after of the profusion of friends who thus proved their solicitude. His answer from first to last was—“no better.”—To speak truth, one-half of the querists were sent in jest by those whom his singularity diverted.

IRISH BEAUTIES.

Strictures on change of manners—Moral influence of dress—The three beauties—Curious trial respecting Lady M—— —Termination favourable to her Ladyship—Interesting and affecting incidents of that lady’s life—Sir R—— M——, his character, and cruelty—Lady M—— married against her will—Quits her husband—Returns—Sir R. mistakes her for a rebel in his sleep, and nearly strangles her.

It is singular enough, but at the same time true, that female beauty has of late years kept pace in improvement with modern accomplishments. She who in the early part of my life would have been accounted a perfect beauty,—and whose touch upon a harpsichord or spinnet, accompanied by a simple air sung with what they then called “judgment,” (in tune,) would have constituted her a syren as well as a Venus, would now be passed by merely as “a pretty girl, but such a confounded bore with her music!” In fact, women fifty years since (and much later) not being, generally speaking, thrust into society till they had arrived at the age of maturity, were more respected, more beloved, and more sedulously attended than in these days, when the men seem to have usurped the ladies’ corsets, to affect their voices, practise their gait, imitate their small-talk, and, in surtouts and trowsers, hustle ladies off the foot-paths, to save their own dog-skins from humidity.

This degradation of both sexes has arisen from various causes. Beauty is now less rare, accomplishments more common, dress less distinguished, dignity worse preserved, and decorum less attended to, than in former times. It is a great mistake in women not to recollect their own importance, and keep up that just medium between reserve and familiarity which constitutes the best criterion whereby to appreciate the manners of a gentlewoman. But women are too apt to run into extremes in every thing; and overlook the fact, that neither personal beauty nor drawing-room display are calculated to form permanent attractions, even to the most adoring lover.—The breakfast-table in the morning, and fire-side in the evening, must be the ultimate touch-stones of connubial comfort; and this is a maxim which any woman who intends to marry should never lose sight of.

To such lengths did respect for the fair sex extend, and so strong was the impression formerly that men were bound to protect it even from accidental offence, that I remember the time, (indeed I witnessed two instances,) when, if any gentleman presumed to pass between a lady and the wall in walking the streets of Dublin, he was considered as offering a personal affront to her escort; and if the parties wore swords, (as was then customary,) it is probable the first salutation to the offender would be—“Draw, sir!” However, such affairs usually ended in an apology to the lady for inadvertence, scarcely ever proceeding to extremities unless the offence was premeditated.

But if a man ventured to intrude into the boxes of the theatre in his surtout, or boots, or with his hat on, it was regarded as a general insult to every lady present, and he had little chance of escaping without a shot or a thrust before the following night. Every gentleman then wore in the evening a sword, a queue, and a three-cocked hat—appointments rather too fierce-looking for the modern dandy! whilst the morning dress consisted of what was then called a French frock, (having no skirt-pockets,) a waistcoat bordered with lace, velvet or silk breeches, silk stockings, pumps, and a couteau de chasse, with a short, curved broad blade—the handle of green ivory, with a lion’s head in silver or gilt at the end, and a treble chain dangling loose from its mouth, terminating at an ornamented cross or guard, which surmounted the green scabbard. Such was the costume: but although either the male or female attire of that day might now appear rather grotesque, yet people of fashion had then the exclusive dress and air of such, and ladies ran no risk of being copied in garb or manner, or rivalled, perhaps surpassed, by their pretty waiting-maids—now called “young persons!”—who not unfrequently first ape, then traduce, and next supplant, their mistresses. The nice young governesses also, (of twenty,) now selected to instruct young ladies of seventeen, present a modern system of education to which, I believe, Doctors Commons is under obligation.

The Irish court at that period was kept up with great state, and hence the parties who frequented it were more select. I recollect when the wives and daughters of attorneys (who now, I believe, are the general occupiers of the red benches, then solely the seats of nobles) were never admitted to the viceregal drawing-rooms. How far the present growing system of equality in appearance among different ranks will eventually benefit or injure society in general, is for casuists, not for me, to determine. I must, however, take occasion to own myself an admirer, and (whenever it is proper) a zealous contender for distinction of ranks; and to state my decided opinion, that superior talents, learning, military reputation, or some other quality which raises men by general assent, should alone be permitted to amalgamate common with high society. Nature, by conferring talent, points out those whom she intended to distinguish: but “free agency” too frequently counteracts the intention of Nature, and great talent is often overpowered, and lost in a crowd of inferior propensities.

It is an observation I have always made, (although it may be perhaps considered a frivolous one,) that dress has a moral effect upon the conduct of mankind. Let any gentleman find himself with dirty boots, old surtout, soiled neckcloth, and a general negligence of dress, he will, in all probability, find a corresponding disposition to negligence of address. He may, en deshabille, curse and swear, speak roughly and think coarsely: but put the same man into full dress; powder, or at least curl him well, clap a sword by his side, and give him an evening coat, waistcoat, breeches, and silk stockings, lace ruffles and a chapeau bras, and he will feel himself quite another person!—To use the language of the blackguard would then be out of character: he will talk smoothly, affect politeness if he has it not, pique himself upon good manners, and respect the women: nor will the spell subside until, returning home, the old robe de chambre (or its substitute surtout), the heelless slippers, with other slovenly appendages, make him lose again his brief consciousness of being a gentleman!

Some women mistake the very nature and purposes of dress: glaring abroad, they are slatterns at home. The husband detests in his sposa what he is too apt to practise himself: he rates a dirty wife; she retorts upon a filthy husband, and each of them detests the other for that neglect of person which neither will take the trouble of avoiding, except to encounter strangers.

Two ladies, about the period of my entrance into public life, and another some time after, became very conspicuous for their beauty, though extremely different in all points both of appearance and manners. They still live:—two of them I greatly admired—not for beauty alone, but for an address the most captivating; and one of these, especially, for the kindest heart and the soundest sense, when she gave it fair play, that I have (often) met with amongst females.

In admitting my great preference for this individual lady, I may, perhaps, be accused of partiality, less to herself than to a family:—be it so!—she was the wife of my friend, and I esteem her for his sake: but she is an excellent woman, and I esteem the Honourable Mrs. C. Hutchinson also for her own.

Another of the ladies alluded to, Lady M—, is a gentlewoman of high birth, and was then, though not quite a beauty, in all points attractive: indeed, her entire person was symmetrical and graceful. She passed her spring in misfortune—her summer in misery—her autumn without happiness!—but I hope the winter of her days is spent amidst every comfort. Of the third lady I have not yet spoken:—though far inferior to both the former, she has succeeded better in life than either; and, beginning the world without any pretensions beyond mediocrity, is likely to end her days in ease and more than ordinary respectability.

My first knowledge of Lady M— arose from a circumstance which was to me of singular professional advantage; and, as it forms a curious anecdote, I will proceed to relate it.

At the assizes of Wexford, while I was but young at the bar, I received a brief in a cause of Sir R—— M——, Bart., against a Mr. H——. On perusal, I found it was an action brought by the baronet against the latter gentleman respecting his lady, and that I was retained as advocate for the lady’s honour. It was my “first appearance” in that town. But, alas! I had a senior in the business; and therefore was without opportunity of attempting any display. The ill-fated Bagenal Harvey[^[30]] was that senior counsel, and he had prepared himself to make some exhibition in a cause of so much and such universal excitement. I felt dispirited, and would willingly have given up twenty fees to possess his opportunity.

[30]. An unfortunate friend of mine who was afterward hanged, and his head stuck over the door of the same court-house.

The cause proceeded before Judge Kelly: the evidence of Sir R—— M—— was finished, and the proper time for the defence had arrived; every thing as to the lady was at stake. Bagenal Harvey had gone out to take fresh air, and probably to read over some notes, or con some florid sentences and quotations with which he intended to interlard his elocution. At the moment the evidence closed the judge desired me to proceed. I replied, that Mr. Harvey, my senior, would return into court directly.

Judge Kelly, who was my friend, said he would not delay public business one minute for anybody; and, by a sort of instinct, or rather impulse,—I cannot indeed exactly say what it was, but certainly it was totally impromptu,—I began to state her ladyship’s case. I always had words enough at command: the evidence afforded sufficient material for their exercise; and, in fact, being roused by the cause into a sort of knight-errantry, I felt myself completely identified with it. If I should succeed, it would greatly serve me. I forgot poor Bagenal Harvey, and was just getting into the marrow and pathos of my case, when the crier shouted out “Clear the way for Counsellor Harvey!” Bagenal came in, puffing and blowing, and struggling through the crowd—scarcely able to command utterance. I instantly stopped, and begged his pardon, adding that the judge had said the public time could wait for nobody! “So,” continued I, “let me just show you where I left off! (turning over the leaves of my brief:)—there, begin there—it will be useless to repeat what I have already said; so begin there.” A loud laugh succeeded.

Bagenal, though generally very good-tempered, became irritated as much as he was susceptible of being, and whispered me that he considered it a personal insult: while old Judge Kelly gravely said, “Go on, Mr. Barrington, go on! we can have no speeches by dividends: go on, sir!” So on I went, and I believe, (because every body told me so,) that my impromptu speech was entirely successful. I discredited the witnesses by ridicule, destroyed all sympathy with the husband, and interested every body for the wife. In short, I got the judge and jury into good-humour. Yet, I know not that I should have ensured a verdict, had not a certain point of law, which I believe was then started for the first time, occurred to me; and which, though rational in itself, and on that trial recognised by the judge, has since been overruled in terms, though it stands in substance;—namely, if a husband cannot truly aver that he has sustained mental injury by the loss of that comfort arising from the society of a wife, it is anomalous to say he has any claim to damages; and this averment can scarcely be made where the parties have been separated voluntarily and completely for years.[^[31]]

[31]. This is, indeed, altogether a species of action, placing a price upon dishonour, maintained in no country but England (a money country). Why not transfer the offence to the criminal side of the courts of justice? All the rest of Europe ridicules our system. The idea entertained on the continent upon such occasions is silence or death!—if not the most lucrative, certainly the most honourable mode of procedure.—An affectionate husband cannot be recompensed by any thing, and a rich seducer cannot be punished. But if the gentleman was to be sent to a tread-mill, and the lady to solitary confinement, adultery would soon be as much out of fashion as it is now the haut goût.

The judge, the kindest-hearted man living, chuckled at this new point. The jury, who did not much admire the plaintiff, were quite pleased with my suggestion; and after the judge had given his charge, in a few minutes, to the utter discomfiture of the baronet, there was a verdict against him! His lips quivered; he stood pale and trembling with anger; and subsequently quitted the town with the utmost expedition.

Some time after, a complete reconciliation took place between the parties, so far that her ladyship consented to live with him again—influenced much, I rather think, by having suffered great inconvenience, if not distress, from want of regularity in the receipt of her separate maintenance of 700l. per annum. I had the pleasure of meeting her frequently afterwards at the lady lieutenant’s parties.

The conclusion of the renewed intercourse is too curious to be omitted. Sir R—— had taken a house in Nassau Street, in the city of Dublin; and it was thought possible that he and his wife might, at any rate, pass some time under the same roof: but fate decided otherwise.

Sir R—— was literally insane on all political subjects, his imagination being occupied, night and day, with nothing but papists, jesuits, popes, priests, and rebels. Once in the dead of the night his lady was awakened by a sense of positive suffocation, and rousing herself, found that Sir R—— was in the very act of strangling her!—He had grasped her by the throat with all his might, and, muttering heavy imprecations, had nearly succeeded in his diabolical attempt.—She struggled, and at length extricated herself from his grasp; upon which he roared out, making a fresh effort—“You infernal papist rebel! you United Irishman! You eternal villain! I’ll never part from you alive, if you don’t come quietly to the guard-house!”

In fact this crazy Orange-man had in his dream fancied that he was contesting with a rebel, whom he had better choke than suffer to escape, and poor Lady M—— was nearly sacrificed to his excess of loyalty. In her robe de chambre and slippers she contrived to get out of the house, and never more ventured to return, as she now clearly perceived that even her personal safety could not be calculated on in her husband’s society.

I have in another work given a full character of Sir R—— M——, and stated my opinion of his worse than mischievous history of Ireland. One more anecdote of him, and I have done.

Whilst he was high sheriff for the county of Waterford, an old man was sentenced to be whipped at the cart’s tail for some political offence; when, the executioner not being in readiness, the high sheriff,—a baronet and member of Parliament,—took up the cat-o’-nine-tails, ordered the cart to move on slowly, and operated himself with admirable expertness, but much greater severity than the hangman would have used!—Thus did he proceed to whip the old man through the streets of the city; and when the extreme point was reached, the sentence executed, and he was scarcely able to raise his arm, he publicly regretted he had not a little farther to go!

Lady M—— was, in her own right, entitled to a fortune of 15,000l., to be paid only on her marriage. Her father, a gentleman of rank and estate, had by some mismanagement in office become extremely embarrassed. Sir R— M—, a man of family, but whose fortune was not large, cast his eye on her beauty—not totally overlooking her property. His taste was indisputably good; the lady being, at that period, every thing that could be desired! She possessed an ardent mind, great constitutional gaiety, and a sensitive heart;—to which were added a most engaging figure and a lovely and expressive countenance. Her father she loved dearly; and for his unhappy circumstances, therefore, her heart bled; but Sir R— M— could make no impression upon it. On the contrary, he excited her aversion.—Thus her affections being unattainable, the baronet resolved, if possible, to purchase her hand, leaving her heart to some future opportunity! Hence commences the affecting narrative of her ladyship’s wrongs and misfortunes, related to me by herself, almost unconsciously, in broken fragments, and at several times.

“I was not aware (said she) what caused my dear father’s obvious unhappiness, and often was I surprised at the pertinacity with which he pressed the baronet upon my consideration. I rejected him over and over again; still his suit was renewed, still my father appeared more anxious on his behalf, whilst my mother seconded their wishes.—My aversion increased; yet Sir R— M—’s assiduities were redoubled with his repulses; and at length I contemplated the leaving my father’s house, if I were longer persecuted by these addresses.

“Though young, I knew the failing of my own character, which possessed not sufficient resolution to oppose its constitutional tendencies. Nature had formed me for all the pleasures and the pains which are alike inseparable from sensibility. I found a glow in every thought—an enthusiasm in every action. My feelings were always in earnest. I could love to excess, and hate to rancour! but I could do neither with mediocrity. I could be the best or the worst of wives. I could endure any thing with a man I loved, but could not sit upon a throne with one whom I detested.

“At length, I discovered the whole of my father’s more than pressing embarrassments; and understood that Sir R— M— had agreed to give up to him a considerable portion of my fortune if our marriage was effected. This shock to such a disposition as mine was cruel; and the dilemma was distracting: it involved my father’s comforts—or my own misery!

“Often, as we sat at our family repasts, have I perceived that dear parent lay down the fork he was conveying to his lips, and turn away to conceal the agitation of mind which might have betrayed to us that distress he was endeavouring to conceal.

“Gradually, I found that filial affection was taking the strongest hold of me. I thought I could endure unhappiness myself, but I could not bear to see my father miserable. I weighed the consequences, and reasoned so far as I possessed the faculty of reasoning. I saw his ruin or my own was inevitable!

“The struggle was, indeed, sharp—it was long—it was very painful: but at length filial piety prevailed over self; and I determined upon making the sacrifice. I communicated to my father my decision to admit the addresses of Sir R— M—, without hinting at my true reasons; but, at the same moment, I felt an indescribable change of character commence, which, from that sad period, has more or less affected every action of my life. I felt a sort of harsh sensation arise within my mind, and operate upon my temper, to which they had previously been strangers. My spirits flagged,—all pleasures grew insipid; and I perceived that the ice of indifference was chilling the sensibility of my nature.

“From the moment of my assent, my father’s disposition seemed to have undergone almost as radical a change as my own. He became once more cheerful, and I had at least the gratification of reflecting that, if I were myself lost, I had saved a parent! But I must remark that it was not so as to my mother—who, indeed, had not been kind to me.

“In due time the settlements were prepared, and my fortune, I learnt, secretly divided. The ceremony was about to be performed, and Sir R— M— at that very hour appeared to me to be the most disagreeable of mankind. There was a sort of uncouth civility—an abrupt, fiery, coarse expression, even in his most conciliating manners, which seemed to set all feelings of respect or cordiality at defiance. As to love, he was not susceptible of the passion; whilst I was created to enjoy its tenderest blessings. He was half mad by nature;—I had become so from misery! and in this state of mind we met to be united at the altar! I was determined, however, that he should learn by anticipation what he had to expect from me as a wife. ‘Sir R— M—, (said I to him,) I am resolved to give you the last proof you will ever receive of my candour. I accept you, not only as a husband whom I never can love, and never will obey, but whom I absolutely detest!—now marry me at your peril, and take the consequences!’—He laughed convulsively, took me by the hand, and having led me into the next room, that ceremony was performed to which I should have thought a sentence of death preferable. The moment we were united I retired to my chamber, where tears, flowing in torrents, cooled my heated feelings. My purpose in marrying was effected: I therefore determined that (if possible) I never would live an hour in his society, and it was two months before my ill-fated stars compelled me to become the actual wife of the most unfeeling and abominable of fanatics.

“Our residence together of course was short, and at twenty-one I was thrown upon the world, to avoid my husband’s society. Being possessed of sufficient means, I travelled; and for the fourteen years of our separation my whole time was an unnatural and continued strife between passion and propriety. On a late occasion, you were my counsel, and from you nothing has been concealed. You did me more than justice—you have defeated him, and preserved me!”

I have not seen her ladyship for these many years; but never did I meet with one whom I conceived to be more completely thrown away, or whose natural disposition seemed better calculated to lead to her own happiness and to the happiness of those within her sphere of influence. I speak of her as she was when I knew her; and I have no reason to alter my impressions. Her father, mother, and husband, are all gone: how she is situated with regard to her surviving connexions, I know not.

PATRICIANS AND PLEBEIANS.

The three classes of gentlemen in Ireland described—Irish poets—Mr. Thomas Flinter and D. Henesey—The bard—Peculiarities of the peasants—Their ludicrous misinformation as to distances accounted for—Civility of a waiter—Equivocation of the peasants, and their misdirection of travellers to different places.

I will now proceed to lay before the reader a brief but more general sketch of the state of Irish society at the period of my youth, reminding him of the principle which I have before assumed; namely, that of considering anecdotes, bon-mots, and the like, valuable only as they tend to exemplify interesting facts relative to history or manners: many such I have inserted in these fragments; and as I have been careful throughout to avoid mere inventions, my reader need not, by any means, reserve their perusal for the study of his travelling carriage.

Miss Edgeworth, in her admirable sketch of Castle Rackrent, gives a tolerably faithful picture of the Irish character under the combination of circumstances which she has selected; and the account that I am about to give may serve as an elucidation of the habits and manners of Irish country society about the period Miss Edgeworth alludes to, and somewhat later—with which she could not be so well acquainted.

In those days, the common people ideally separated the gentry of the country into three classes, and treated each class according to the relative degree of respect to which they considered it entitled.

They generally divided them thus:

1. Half-mounted gentlemen.

2. Gentlemen every inch of them.

3. Gentlemen to the back-bone.

The first-named class formed the only species of independent yeomanry then existing in Ireland. They were the descendants of the small grantees of Queen Elizabeth, Cromwell, and King William III. by their confiscations; possessed about 200 or 300 acres of land each, in fee, from the Crown;[^[32]] and were occasionally admitted into the society of better gentlemen—particularly hunters—living at other times amongst each other, with an intermixture of their own servants, with whom they were always on terms of intimacy. They generally had good clever horses, which could leap over any thing, but seldom felt the trimming-scissors or currycomb, unless they belonged to jockey gentlemen. The riders commonly wore buck-skin breeches, and boots well greased, (blacking was never used in the country,) and carried large thong whips heavily loaded with lead at the butt-end, so that they were always prepared either to horsewhip a man or knock his brains out, as circumstances might dictate. These half-mounted gentlemen exercised hereditarily the authority of keeping the ground clear at horse-races, hurlings, and all public meetings (as soldiers keep the lines at a review). Their business was to ride round the inside of the ground, which they generally did with becoming spirit, trampling over some, knocking down others, and slashing every body who encroached on the proper limits. Bones being but very seldom broken, and skulls still seldomer fractured, every body approved of their exertions, because all the by-standers gained thereby a full view of the sport which was going forward. A shout of merriment was always set up when a half-mounted gentleman knocked down an interloper; and some of the poets present, if they had an opportunity, roared out their verses[^[33]] by way of a song to encourage the gentlemen.

[32]. Their ancestors had mostly been troopers in the English armies, and were mingled amongst the Irish to mend the breed. They however soon imbibed the peculiarities of the Irish character with an increased ability to procure all its gratifications. In country sports they were quite pre-eminent, except a few who took exclusively to farming and drinking.

[33]. I recollect an example of those good-humoured madrigals. A poet, called Daniel Bran, sang a stanza aloud, as he himself lay sprawling on the grass, after having been knocked down with a loaded whip, and ridden over, by old Squire Flood, who showed no mercy in the “execution of his duty.”

“There was Despard so brave, (a soldier)

And that son of the wave,  (a sailor)

And Tom Conway, the pride of the bower; (a farmer)

But noble Squire Flood

Swore, G—d d—n his blood!

But he’d drown them all in the Delower.”

The second class, or gentlemen every inch of them, were of excellent old families;—whose finances were not in so good order as they might have been, but who were not the less popular amongst all ranks. They were far above the first degree, somewhat inferior to the third; but had great influence; were much beloved, and carried more sway at popular elections and general county meetings than the other two classes put together.

The third class, or gentlemen to the back-bone, were of the oldest families and settlers, universally respected, and idolised by the peasantry, although they also were generally a little out at elbows. Their word was law; their nod would have immediately collected an army of cottagers, or colliers, or whatever the population was composed of. Men, women, and children, were always ready and willing to execute any thing “the squire” required, without the slightest consideration as to either its danger or propriety. The grand juries were selected from the two last classes.[^[34]]

[34]. These distinct classes have for some years been gradually losing their characteristic sharp points, and are now wearing fast away. The third class have mostly emigrated, and, like the wolf-dogs, will soon be extinct.

A curious circumstance perhaps rendered my family peculiarly popular. The common people had conceived the notion that the lord of Cullenaghmore had a right to save a man’s life every summer assizes at Maryborough; and it did frequently so happen, within my recollection, that my father’s intercession in favour of some poor deluded creatures (when the White Boy system was in activity) was kindly attended to by the government; and, certainly, besides this number, many others of his tenants owed their lives to similar interference. But it was wise in the government to accede to such representations; since their concession never failed to create such an influence in my father’s person over the tenantry, that he was enabled to preserve them in perfect tranquillity, whilst those surrounding were in a constant state of insubordination to all law whatever. Hanging the Irish will never either reform their morals, or thin their population.

I recollect a Mr. Tom Flinter, of Timahoe, one of the first-class gentlemen, who had speculated in cows and sheep, and every thing he could buy up, till his establishment was reduced to one blunt faithful fellow, Dick Henesey, who stuck to him throughout all his vicissitudes. Flinter had once on a time got a trifle of money, which was burning in his greasy pocket, and he wanted to expend it at a neighbouring fair! where his whole history, as well as the history of every man of his half-mounted contemporaries, was told in a few verses,[^[35]] by a fellow called Ned the dog-stealer, but who was also a great poet, and resided in the neighbourhood:—he was remarkably expert at both his trades.

[35]. These lines were considered as a standing joke for many years in that part of the country, and ran as follows:

Dialogue between Tom Flinter and his man.

In travelling through Ireland, a stranger is very frequently puzzled by the singular ways, and especially by the idiomatic equivocation, characteristic of every Irish peasant. Some years back, more particularly, these men were certainly originals—quite unlike any other people whatever. Many an hour of curious entertainment has been afforded me by their eccentricities; yet, though always fond of prying into the remote sources of these national peculiarities, I must frankly confess that, with all my pains, I never was able to develop half of them, except by one sweeping observation; namely, that the brains and tongues of the Irish are somehow differently formed or furnished from those of other people. Phrenology may be a very good science; but the heads of the Irish would puzzle the very best of its professors. Very few of those belonging to the peasantry, indeed, leave the world in the same shape they came into it. After twenty years of age, the shillelah quite alters the natural formation, and leaves so many hills and hollows upon their skulls, that the organ of fighting is the only one discoverable to any certainty.

One general hint which I beg to impress upon all travellers in Hibernia, is this: that if they show a disposition toward kindness, together with a moderate familiarity, and affect to be inquisitive, whether so or not, the Irish peasant will outdo them tenfold in every one of these dispositions. But if a man is haughty and overbearing, he had better take care of himself.

I have often heard it remarked and complained of by travellers and strangers, that they never could, when on a journey, get a true answer from any Irish peasant as to distances. For many years I myself thought it most unaccountable. If you meet a peasant on your road, and ask him how far, for instance, to Ballinrobe, he will probably say it is, “three short miles!” You travel on, and are informed by the next peasant you meet, “that it is five long miles!” On you go, and the next will tell “your honour” it is “a long mile, or about that same!” The fourth will swear “if your honour stops at three miles, you’ll never get there!” But, on pointing to a town just before you, and inquiring what place that is, he replies,

“Oh! plaze your honour, that’s Ballinrobe, sure enough!”

“Why you said it was more than three miles off!”

“Oh yes! to be sure and sartain, that’s from my own cabin, plaze your honour.—We’re no scholards in this country. Arrah! how can we tell any distance, plaze your honour, but from our own little cabins? Nobody but the schoolmaster knows that, plaze your honour.”

Thus is the mystery unravelled. When you ask any peasant the distance of the place you require, he never computes it from where you then are, but from his own cabin; so that, if you asked twenty, in all probability you would have as many different answers, and not one of them correct. But it is to be observed, that frequently you can get no reply at all, unless you understand Irish.

In parts of Kerry and Mayo, however, I have met with peasants who speak Latin not badly. On the election of Sir John Brown for the county of Mayo, Counsellor Thomas Moore and I went down as his counsel. The weather was desperately severe. At a solitary inn, where we were obliged to stop for horses, we requested dinner; upon which, the waiter laid a cloth that certainly exhibited every species of dirt ever invented. We called, and remonstrating with him, ordered a clean cloth. He was a low fat fellow, with a countenance perfectly immoveable, and seeming to have scarcely a single muscle in it. He nodded, and on our return to the room, (which we had quitted during the interval,) we found, instead of a clean cloth, that he had only folded up the filthy one into the thickness of a cushion, and replaced it with great solemnity. We now scolded away in good earnest. He looked at us with the greatest sang-froid, said sententiously, “Nemo me impune lacessit!” and turned his back on us.

He kept his word; when we had proceeded about four miles in deep snow, through a desperate night, and on a bleak bog-road, one of the wheels came off the carriage, and down we went! We were at least three miles from any house. The driver cursed (in Irish) Michael the waiter, who, he said, “had put a bran new wheel upon the carriage, which had turned out to be an old one, and had broken to pieces. It must be the devil,” continued he, “that changed it. Bad luck to you, Michael the waiter, any how! He’s nothin else but a treacherous blackguard, plaze your honour!”

We had to march through the snow to a wretched cottage, and sit up all night in the chimney corner, covered with ashes and smoke, and in company with one of the travelling fools who are admitted and welcomed for good luck in every cabin, whilst a genuine new wheel was got ready for the morning.

The Irish peasant, also, never, if he can avoid it, answers any question directly: in some districts, if you ask where such a gentleman’s house is, he will point and reply, “Does your honour see that large house there, all amongst the trees, with a green field before it?”—You answer, “Yes.” “Well,” says he, “plaze your honour that’s not it. But do you see the big brick house, with the cow-houses by the side of that same, and a pond of water?—you can’t see the ducks, becaze they are always diving, plaze your honour.”

“Yes.”

“Well, your honour, that’s not it. But, if you plaze, look quite to the right of that same house, and you’ll see the top of a castle amongst the trees there, with a road going down to it betune the bushes,—and a damn’d bad road, too, for either a beast or his master!”

“Yes.”

“Well, plaze your honour, that’s not it neither—but if your honour will come down this bit of a road a couple of miles, I’ll show it you sure enough—and if your honour’s in a hurry, I can run on hot foot,[^[36]] and tell the squire your honour’s galloping after me. Ah! who shall I tell the squire, plaze your honour, is coming to see him?—he’s my own landlord, God save his honour day and night!”

[36]. A figurative expression for “with all possible speed”—used by the Irish peasants: by taking short cuts, and fairly hopping along, a young peasant would beat any good traveller.

Their superstitions are very whimsical. On returning from the election of Mayo, I asked a fellow who was trotting away by the side of the carriage, and every now and then giving a long hop, to show us his agility—(twisting his shillelah over his head like a whirligig)—“if he was going far that night.”

“Ough! no, no, plaze your honour; it is me that would not go far in this country, these times, after sunset—oh, no, no!”

Fancying he alluded to robbers, I did not feel comfortable:—“And pray, friend,” said I, “why not?”

“I’ll tell your honour that:—becaze, plaze your honour, all the ould people say that the devil comes out of Castlebar after sun-down, to look for prey, from the day the Virgin was delivered till Candlemas eve, and all the priests can’t do nothing against him in this quarter. But he’s never seen no more the same year till the holly and ivy drive him out of all the chapels and towns again coming Christmas—and that’s the truth, and nothing else, plaze your honour’s honour!”

IRISH INNS.

Their general character—Objections commonly made to them—Answer thereto—Sir Charles Vernon’s mimicry—Moll Harding—Accident nearly of a fatal nature to the author.

An Irish inn has been an eternal subject of ridicule to every writer upon the habits and accommodations of my native country. It is true that, in the early period of my life, most of the inns in Ireland were nearly of the same quality—a composition of slovenliness, bad meat, worse cooking, and few vegetables (save the royal Irish potato); but with plenty of fine eggs, smoked bacon, often excellent chickens, and occasionally the hen, as soon as she had done hatching them—if you could chew her. They generally had capital claret, and plenty of civility in all its ramifications.[^[37]]

[37]. I have visited many small inns, where they never gave a bill, only a verbal—“What your honour pleases!” I once asked a poor innkeeper in Ossory, why he did not make out his bills as other publicans did:—he gave me many reasons for not doing so:—“The gentlemen of the country,” said he, (“God bless them!) often give us nothing at all, and the strange quality generally give us more than we’d ask for; so both ends meet! But,” added he, proceeding to the most decisive reason of all, “there is never a schollard in the house—and the schoolmaster drinks too much punch, plaze your honour, when Mary sends for him, to draw out a bill for us; so we take our chance!”

The poor people did their best to entertain their guests, but did not understand their trade; and even had it been otherwise, they had neither furniture, nor money, nor credit, nor cattle, nor customers enough to keep things going well together. There were then no post-horses nor carriages,—consequently, very little travelling in Ireland; and if there had been, the ruts and holes would have rendered thirty miles a-day a good journey. Yet I verily believe, on the whole, that the people in general were happier, at least they appeared vastly more contented, than at present. I certainly never met with so bad a thing in Ireland as the “Red Cow” in John Bull: for whatever might have been its quality, there was plenty of something or other always to be had at the inns to assuage hunger and thirst.

The best description I ever recollect to have heard of an Irish inn, its incidents and appurtenances, was in a sort of medley sung and spoken by the present Sir Charles Vernon, when he had some place in the Lord Lieutenant’s establishment at Dublin Castle: it was delivered by him to amuse the company after supper, and was an excellent piece of mimicry. He took off ducks, geese, pigs, chickens, cattle-drivers, the cook and the landlady, the guests, &c., to the greatest possible perfection.

One anecdote respecting an Irish inn may, with modifications, give some idea of others at that period. A Mrs. Moll Harding kept the natest inn at Ballyroan, close to my father’s house. I recollect to have heard a passenger (they were very scarce there) telling her, “that his sheets had not been aired.” With great civility Moll Harding begged his honour’s pardon, and said,—“they certainly were, and must have been well aired, for there was not a gentleman came to the house the last fortnight that had not slept in them!”

Another incident which occurred in an Irish inn is, for very good reasons, much more firmly impressed on my recollection, and may give a hint worth having to some curious travellers in their peregrinations to Kerry, Killarney, &c.

The present Earl Farnham had a most beautiful demesne at a village called Newtown Barry, County Wexford. It is a choice spot, and his Lordship resided in a very small house in the village. He was always so obliging as to make me dine with him on my circuit journey, and I slept at the little inn—in those days a very poor-looking one indeed—but not bad.

The day of my arrival was, on one occasion, wet, so that to proceed was impossible, and a very large assemblage of barristers were necessitated to put up with any accommodation they could get. I was sure of a good dinner; but every bed was engaged. I dined with Lord F., took my wine merrily, and adjourned to the inn, determined to sit up all night at the kitchen fire. I found every one of my brethren in bed; the maid-servant full of good liquor; and the man and woman of the house quite as joyously provided for. The landlady declared, she could not think of permitting my honour to sit up; and if I would accept of their little snug cupboard-bed by the fire-side, I should be as warm and comfortable as my heart could wish, and heartily welcome too. This arrangement I thought a most agreeable one: the bed was let down from the niche into which it had been folded up, and, in a few minutes, I was in a comfortable slumber.

My first sensation in the morning was, however, one which it is not in my power to describe now, because I could not do so five minutes after it was over;—suffice it to say, I found myself in a state of suffocation, with my head down and my feet upward! I had neither time nor power for reflection:—I attempted to cry out, but that was impossible;—the agonies of death, I suppose, were coming on me, and some convulsive effort gave me a supernatural strength that probably saved me from a most whimsical and inglorious departure. On a sudden I felt my position change; and with a crash sounding to me like thunder, down the bed and I came upon the floor.—I then felt that I had the power of a little articulation, and cried out “murder!” with as much vehemence as I was able. The man, woman, and maid, by this time all tolerably sober, came running into the room together. The landlady made no inquiry, but joined me in crying out murder in her loudest key: the maid alone knew the cause of my disaster, and ran as fast as she could for the apothecary. I had, however, recovered after large draughts of water, and obtained sense enough to guess at my situation.

The maid, having been thoroughly moistened when I went to bed, on awakening just at break of day, began to set matters to rights, and perceiving her master and mistress already up, had totally forgotten the counsellor! and having stronger arms of her own than any barrister of the home circuit, in order to clear the kitchen, had hoisted up the bed into its proper niche, and turned the button at the top that kept it in its place: in consequence of which, down went my head and up went my heels! Now, as air is an article indispensably necessary to existence (and there was none under the bed-clothes), death would very soon have ended the argument, had not my violent struggles caused the button to give way, and so brought me once more from among the Antipodes.—The poor woman was as much alarmed as I was!

I felt no inconvenience afterward. But what has happened once may chance to occur again; and I only wonder that the same accident does not frequently take place among this kind of people and of beds.

FATAL DUEL OF MY BROTHER.

Duel of my brother William Barrington with Mr. M‘Kenzie—He is killed by his antagonist’s second, General Gillespie—The general’s character—Tried for murder—Judge Bradstreet’s charge—Extraordinary incidents of the trial—The jury arranged—The high sheriff (Mr. Lyons) challenged by mistake—His hair cut off by Henry French Barrington—Exhibited in the ball-room—The Curl Club formed—The sheriff quits the country, and never returns—Gillespie goes to India—Killed there—Observations on his cenotaph in Westminster Abbey.

As the circumstances attending the death of my younger brother, William Barrington, by the hand of the celebrated General Gillespie, (whom government has honoured with a monument in Westminster Abbey,) have been variously detailed, (seldom, indeed, twice the same way,) I think it right to take this opportunity of stating the facts of that most melancholy transaction. I will do so as concisely as may be, and as dispassionately as what I consider the murder of a beloved brother will admit.

William Barrington had passed his twentieth year, and had intended, without delay, to embrace the military profession. He was active, lively, full of spirit and of animal courage;—his predominant traits were excessive good-nature, and a most zealous attachment to the honour and individuals of his family.

Gillespie, then captain in a cavalry regiment, had shortly before the period in question married a Miss Taylor, an intimate friend of ours, and was quartered in Athy, where my mother resided.

A very close and daily intercourse sprang up between the families. After dinner, one day, at Gillespie’s house, when every gentleman had taken more wine than was prudent, a dispute arose between my brother and a Mr. M‘Kenzie, lieutenant in an infantry regiment, quartered at the same place. This dispute never should have been suffered to arise; and, as it was totally private, should, at least, never have proceeded further. But no attempt was made either to reconcile or check it, on the part of Captain Gillespie, although the thing occurred at his own table.—He never liked my brother.

Gillespie was a very handsome person; but it was not that species of soldier-like and manly beauty, which bespeaks the union of courage and generosity. He had a fair and smooth countenance, wherein the tinge of reckless impetuosity appeared to betray his prevailing character. His, however, was not the rapid flow of transitory anger, which, rushing ingenuously from the heart, is instantly suppressed by reason and repentance:—I admire that temper; it never inhabits the same mind with treachery or malice. On the contrary, a livid paleness overspread the plethoric countenance of Gillespie upon the slightest ruffle of his humour:—the vulgar call such, “white-livered persons:” they are no favourites with the world in general; and I have never, throughout the course of a long life, observed any man so constituted possessing a list of virtues.

I never could bear Gillespie! I had an instinctive dislike to him, which I strove, in vain, to conquer. I always considered him to be a dangerous man—an impetuous, unsafe, companion—capable of any thing in his anger. I know I ought not to speak with prejudice; yet, alas! if I do, who can blame me?

A cenotaph, voted by the British Parliament, has raised his fame:—but it is the fame of a sabreur—erected on piles of slaughter, and cemented by the blood of Indians. No tale of social virtues appears to enrich the cornice of his monument. I wish there had! it would at least have indicated repentance.

To return to my story.—Midway between Athy and Carlow was agreed on for a meeting. I resided in Dublin, and was ignorant of the transaction till too late. A crowd, as usual in Ireland, attended the combat; several gentlemen, and some relatives of mine, were, I regret to say, present. In a small verdant field, on the bank of the Barrow, my brother and M‘Kenzie were placed. Gillespie, who had been considered as the friend and intimate of my family, volunteered as second to M‘Kenzie, (a comparative stranger,) who was in no way adverse to an amicable arrangement. Gillespie, however, would hear of none; the honour of a military man, he said, must be satisfied, and nothing but blood, or at least every effort to draw it, could form that satisfaction.

The combatants fired and missed:—they fired again; no mischief was the consequence. A reconciliation was now proposed, but objected to by Gillespie:—and will it be believed that, in a civilised country, when both combatants were satisfied, one of the principals should be instantly slain by a second? Yet such was the case: my brother stood two fires from his opponent, and after professing his readiness to be reconciled, was shot dead by the hand of his opponent’s second.

Gillespie himself is now departed: he died by the same death that he had inflicted. But he was more favoured by Providence;—he died the death of a soldier;—he fell by the hand of the enemy, not by the weapon of an intimate.

William was my very beloved brother. The news soon reached me in Dublin. I could not, or rather, I durst not, give utterance to the nature and excess of my feelings on the communication. Thus much I will admit—that sorrow had the least share in those thoughts which predominated. A passion not naturally mine absorbed every other:—my determination was fixed: I immediately set out post; but my brother had been interred prior to my arrival; and Gillespie, the sole object of my vengeance, had fled, nor was his retreat to be discovered. I lost no time in procuring a warrant for murder against him from Mr. Ryan, a magistrate. I sought him in every place to which I could attach suspicion; day and night my pursuit was continued, but, as it pleased God, in vain. I was not, indeed, in a fit state for such a rencontre; for had we met, he or I would surely have perished.

I returned to Dublin, and, as my mind grew cooler, thanked Heaven that I had not personally found him. I, however, published advertisements widely, offering a reward for his apprehension; and at length he surrendered into the prison of Maryborough, to take his trial.

The assizes approached; and I cannot give the sequel of this melancholy story better than by a short recital of Gillespie’s extraordinary trial, and the still more extraordinary incidents which terminated the transaction.

The judges arrived at the assize town, (it was during the summer assizes of 1788,) accompanied in the usual way by the high sheriff, (Mr. Lyons, of Watercastle,) and escorted by numerous bailiffs and a grand cavalcade. Mr. Lyons was a gentleman of taste and elegance, who had travelled much, but very seldom came to Ireland: he possessed a small fortune and a beautiful cottage ornée, on the banks of the Nore, near Lord De Vesci’s. Mr. Thomas Kemmis (afterward crown solicitor of Ireland, and a sincere friend of mine,) was the attorney very judiciously selected by Captain Gillespie to conduct his defence.

The mode of choosing juries in criminal cases is well known to every lawyer, and its description would be uninteresting to an ordinary reader. Suffice it to say, that by the methods then used of selecting, arranging, and summoning the panel, a sheriff, or sub-sheriff, in good understanding with a prisoner, might afford him very considerable, if not decisive, aid. And when it is considered that juries must be unanimous, even one dissentient or obstinate juror being capable of effectually preventing any conviction,—and further, that the charge we are alluding to was that of murder or homicide, occurring in consequence of a duel, on the same ground and at the same time,—it might fairly be expected that the culprit would stand a chance of acquittal from military men, who, accustomed to duelling, and living in a country where affairs of that kind were then more frequent than in any other, might be inclined to regard the circumstance more indulgently than a jury of mere civilians.

To select, by management, a military jury, was therefore the natural object of the prisoner and his friends; and, in fact, the list appeared with a number of half-pay officers at the head of it, who, as gentlemen, were naturally pained by seeing a brother-officer and a man of most prepossessing appearance, in the dock for murder. The two prisoners (Gillespie and M‘Kenzie) challenged forty-eight; the list was expended, and the prosecutor was driven back to show cause why he objected to the first thirteen. No legal ground for such objection could be supported; and thus, out of twelve jurors, no less than ten were military officers! The present Lord Downs and the late Judge Fletcher were the prisoner’s counsel.

On this, perhaps, the most interesting trial ever known in that county, numerous witnesses having been examined, the principal facts proved for the prosecution were:—that after M‘Kenzie and my brother had fired four shots without effect, the latter said he hoped enough had been done for both their honours, at the same time holding out his hand to M‘Kenzie,—whose second, Captain Gillespie, exclaimed, that his friend should not be satisfied, and that the affair should proceed. The spectators combined in considering it concluded, and a small circle having been formed, my brother, who persisted in uttering his pacific wishes, interposed some harsh expressions toward Gillespie, who thereupon losing all control over his temper, suddenly threw a handkerchief to William Barrington, asking if he dared take a corner of that!—The unfortunate boy, full of spirit and intrepidity, snatched at the handkerchief, and at the same moment received a ball from Gillespie through his body;—so close were they together, that his coat appeared scorched by the powder. He fell, and was carried to a cabin hard by, where he expired in great agony the same evening. As he was in the act of falling, his pistol went off. Gillespie immediately fled, and was followed by three of his own dragoons, whom he had brought with him, and who were present at the transaction, but whom he declined examining on the trial. The spectators were very numerous, and scarcely a dry eye left the field.

Capt. Gillespie’s defence rested upon an assertion on his part of irritating expressions having been used by my brother, adding that the cock of his own pistol was knocked off by my brother’s fire. But that very fact proved every thing against him; because his shot must have been fired and have taken effect in my brother’s body previously; for if the cock had been broken in the first place, Gillespie’s pistol could not have gone off. In truth, the whole circumstance of a second killing a principal because he desired reconciliation was, and remains, totally unexampled in the history of duelling even in the most barbarous eras and countries.

Judge Bradstreet, who tried the prisoners, held it to be clearly murder by law. A verdict of even manslaughter must (he contended) be returned by a forced or rather false construction;—but acquit him (Gillespie) generally, the jury could not.

The prosecution was not followed up against M‘Kenzie, whose conduct throughout had been that of an officer and a gentleman, and who had likewise desired reconciliation. Of course he was acquitted.

The jury had much difficulty in making up their verdict. Some of them, being men of considerable reputation, hesitated long. They could not acquit; they would not convict;—and hence a course was taken which corresponded neither with the law nor the evidence. A verdict of “justifiable homicide” was returned, in consequence of which Capt. Gillespie was discharged on his recognizance to appear in the court of King’s Bench the ensuing term, and plead his Majesty’s pardon.

Thus was compromised the justice of the country. Thus commenced the brilliant career of that general whom the munificence of the British nation has immortalised by a monument amongst her heroes!—Thus did the blood of one of the finest youths of Ireland first whet Gillespie’s appetite for that course of glorious butchery to which he owed his subsequent elevation. But conscience is retributive, and Heaven is just. I hear that he was never happy after:—intrepid to excess, he often tempted fate; and his restless and remorseless existence was at length terminated by a Gentoo in India.

The circumstances attending General Gillespie’s death are remarkable, and manifest, in my opinion, desperation rather than real bravery. He had, contrary to instructions, attempted to storm:—his fire was inadequate—his troops repulsed:—new attempts were made, but again unsuccessfully, numerous brave men being sacrificed to no purpose. Still the general persisted;—even the guard was taken from the paymaster, who had treasure under his care.—Gillespie was aware that he had disobeyed instructions, and was determined to succeed or perish in the attempt. He damned the paymaster, who remonstrated against being left unprotected—looked for a moment at the storming party through his glass,—and seeing his men falling fast, he drew his sword, called upon every soldier to follow him, and in five minutes received several balls, which ended his cares and existence. Requiescat in pace!—but never will I set my foot in Westminster Abbey.

Scarcely was the melancholy trial referred to over, when the case was succeeded by another almost in the opposite extreme—altogether too ludicrous, indeed, to form the termination of so serious a business, but at the same time too extraordinary and too public to be omitted. It was certainly, in its way, as unparalleled an affair as that which gave rise to it.

On the evening of the trial, my second brother, Henry French Barrington,—a gentleman of considerable estate, and whose perfect good temper, but intrepid and irresistible impetuosity when assailed, were well known—the latter quality having been severely felt in the county before,—came to me. He was, in fact, a complete country gentleman, utterly ignorant of the law, its terms and proceedings; and as I was the first of my family who had ever followed any profession (the army excepted), my opinion, so soon as I became a counsellor, was considered by him as oracular: indeed, questions far beyond mine, and sometimes beyond the power of any person existing, to solve, were frequently submitted for my decision by our neighbours in the country.

Having called me aside out of the bar-room, my brother seemed greatly agitated, and informed me that a friend of ours, who had seen the jury-list, declared that it had been decidedly packed!—concluding his appeal by asking me what he ought to do? I told him, we should have “challenged the array.”—“That was my own opinion, Jonah,” said he, “and I will do it now!” adding an oath, and expressing a degree of animation which I could not account for. I apprised him that it was now too late, as it should have been done before the trial.

He said no more, but departed instantly, and I did not think again upon the subject. An hour after, however, my brother sent in a second request to see me. I found him, to all appearance, quite cool and tranquil. “I have done it, by G-d!—(cried he, exultingly)—’twas better late than never!” and immediately he produced from his coat-pocket a long queue and a handful of powdered hair and curls. “See here!” continued he, “the cowardly rascal!”

“Heavens!” cried I, “French, are you mad?”

“Mad!” replied he, “no, no! I followed your own advice exactly. I went directly after I left you to the grand-jury room to ‘challenge the array,’ and there I challenged the head of the array, that cowardly Lyons!—He peremptorily refused to fight me; so I knocked him down before the grand-jury, and cut off his curls and tail!—See, here they are,—the rascal! and my brother Jack is gone to flog the sub-sheriff!”

I was thunderstruck, and almost thought my brother was crazy, since he was obviously not in liquor at all. But after some inquiry, I found that, like many other country gentlemen, he took words in their commonest acceptation. He had seen the high sheriff coming in with a great “array,” and had thus conceived my suggestion as to challenging the array was literal; and accordingly, repairing to the grand-jury dining-room, had called the high sheriff aside, told him he had omitted challenging him before the trial, as he ought to have done according to advice of counsel; but that it was better late than never, and that he must immediately come out and fight him. Mr. Lyons conceiving my brother to be intoxicated, drew back, and refused the invitation in a most peremptory manner. French then collared him, tripped up his heels, and putting his foot on his breast, cut off his side-curls and queue with a carving-knife which an old waiter named Spedding (who had been my father’s butler, and liked the thing,) had readily brought him from the dinner-table. Having secured his spoils, my brother immediately came off in triumph to relate to me his achievement.

Mr. Lyons was a remarkably fine, handsome man; and, having lived very much abroad, was by no means acquainted with the humours of Irish country gentlemen, with whom he had associated but little, and by whom he was not at all liked; and this his first reception must have rather surprised him.

Mr. Flood, one of the grand-jury, afterward informed me, that no human gravity could possibly withstand the astonishment and ludicrous figure of the mutilated high sheriff; the laugh, consequently, was both loud and long. Nobody chose to interfere in the concern; and as Mr. Lyons had sustained no bodily injury, he received very little condolement amongst the country gentlemen, and immediately withdrew.

My situation in this curious dénouement was truly to be commiserated, since I should be considered as the adviser of my brother; and I therefore determined to consult Mr. Downs, (Gillespie’s counsel) as to what was best to be done in the matter.

Mr. (afterward Lord) Downs, always proud, icy, and decorous, seemed to think my brother’s case irremediable, and that a couple of years’ imprisonment and a heavy fine, at least, must be the necessary result of such a trimming of a high sheriff in the face of a county—advising French, at the same time, to fly and make terms if possible. “Fly!” said French Barrington, when I informed him of the suggestion; “no, no! tell Counsellor Thingumbob to go to the ball to-night, and he’ll see more of the matter.” In fact, my brother went to the ball-room when it was crowded, and having tied the sheriff’s curls and queue to a lamp which hung in the centre of the room, got upon a form, and made a loud proclamation of the whole transaction from first to last. A sort of sympathetic feeling caught the young men in the room, many of whom were my brother’s companions: they immediately led out their partners, and formed a circle-dance (as about a May-pole) around the sheriff’s spoils, which were sticking to the lamp. The remonstrances of mothers, and other discreet efforts, were totally vain:—the girls liked the fun, and a succession of different sets did honour in turn to Mr. Lyons’ late queue and curls. A club was subsequently proposed, to be called the Curl Club, and to be held every summer assize; and this was for several years kept up.

The ensuing morning my brother dressed up the bridle of his hunter with the curls and queue, newly powdered by Mr. Robert Casey; and having paraded the streets for a considerable time (avoiding the judge’s residence), he rode home; and was never called to account or molested on the subject in any way whatsoever.

Mr. Lyons left the country almost immediately, went back to the Continent, and never after, at least to my knowledge, returned.

The matter, however, having been justly represented in a serious light to the judge, he sent for me, and I related the entire truth. He had been much dissatisfied with the verdict, and had received strong hints as to the arrangement of the jury: he could not restrain a smile, but said he must, if required, give permission to a magistrate to take examinations against Mr. Barrington. He, however, declined all personal interference on circuit; desiring Mr. Lyons to apply to the King’s Bench, where no doubt he would be duly attended to, according to the merits of the case. But no examinations whatever were taken; nor was any application made to the King’s Bench. It could not have been made without involving the question as to the way in which the jury was constituted; and since that matter would not bear sifting, the circumstances were suffered to remain without further investigation.

ENTRANCE INTO PARLIAMENT.

My first entrance into the Irish House of Commons—Dinner at Sir John Parnell’s—Commencement of my intimacy with public men of celebrity—Maiden speech—I attack Grattan and Curran—Suicide of Mr. Thoroton—Lord De Blacquiere—His character.

The day on which I first took my seat in the Irish Parliament for the city of Tuam I still reflect on as one of the most gratifying of my life. The circumstance, abstractedly, was but of secondary consideration; but its occurrence brought back to my mind the events of past ages, and the high respectability of the race from which I sprang. My imagination was excited, and led me almost to fancy that I could see my forefathers ranged upon those seats which they had so long and so honourably occupied in the senate of their country, welcoming their descendant to that post which had not for a few years past been filled by any member of the family. In fact, the purer part of my ambition was hereby gratified. I felt myself an entirely independent representative of an equally independent nation—as a man assuming his proper station in society, not acquiring a new one.

I confess I always had, and still continue to have, and to nourish, the pride which arises from having been born a gentleman. I am aware that wealth, and commerce, and perhaps talent, have, in modern times, occasioned family pride to be classed in the rank of follies; but I feel it, nevertheless, most strongly:—and if it be even a crime, I am culpable; if a folly, I submit to be regarded as imbecile. The sensations I experienced were indeed altogether delightful upon finding myself seated under that grand and solemn dome:—I looked around me, and saw the most dignified men of that day,—the ablest orators of Europe,—many of the best-bred courtiers, and some of the most unsophisticated patriots in the empire! These, including a few friends and intimates of my family, were mingled, here and there, in amicable groups, and by turns kindly encouraged a young barrister, of only two years’ practice, without patronage or party, as a fair independent aspirant to rank and eminence.[^[38]]

[38]. Perhaps this may be considered rather too egotistical and highly coloured; but I must observe that at that time the importance of a member of the Irish Parliament was much greater in his country, than that of an English member at present in his. The Irish parliament was formerly almost wholly composed of gentlemen of family and high respectability: there was neither an attorney nor a usurer in it; on the contrary, there were no two professions in the world to which the Irish gentlemen had so great an aversion; to the one from experience, the other from anticipation.

I was greatly moved and excited: but it was not excitement of an ephemeral or feverish character; on the contrary, my emotions had their source in a tranquil, deep-seated, perhaps proud, satisfaction, impossible to be clearly described, and almost impossible to be felt by any but such as might be placed in circumstances precisely similar.

There were some members present, I have already said, with whom I was personally acquainted. My friend, Sir John Parnell—partly, I am sure, on my account, and partly, no doubt, with a view to the service of government, lost no time in introducing me to many of his own particular friends.

I dined with him on that day: he was then chancellor of the exchequer. The entire party I do not recollect; but I remember perfectly those individuals of it with whom I subsequently cultivated acquaintance. Among them were Major Hobart (since Lord Buckinghamshire), Isaac Corry, Sir John (since Lord) De Blacquiere, Robert Thoroton, Marcus Beresford (Lord Clare’s nephew), the present Lord Oriel (then Speaker), Thomas Burgh, of Bert, Sir Hercules Langreish, and James Cuffe (since Lord Tyrawley). The scene was new to me:—hitherto, my society in Dublin had naturally fallen among the members of my own profession; we were all barristers, and I felt myself but a barrister: and though certainly we formed at that time the second-best society in Ireland, it was inferior to that of which I had now become a member. I found myself, in fact, associated as an equal with a circle of legislators whose good-breeding, wit, and conviviality were mingled with political and general information. I was in my element:—the first steps of the ladder were mounted; and as meanwhile Sir John’s champaign was excellent, and quickly passed round, my spirits rose to a pitch far higher than in the morning, and any talent for conversation or anecdote which I might possess involuntarily coming out, Sir John Parnell, shaking his fat sides with laughter, according to his usual custom, said to me, before we broke up, “Barrington, you’ll do!” upon which, Sir Hercules Langreish, who had very much the tone of a Methodist preacher, yet was one of the wittiest men in Ireland, immediately said,—“No: we must have another trial;” and a day was fixed to dine with him.

My acquaintance soon augmented to a degree almost inconvenient. My friendship I limited to such men as I held to possess congeniality of sentiment; and before any long time had elapsed, I was not only the frequent guest of many of the distinguished characters of Ireland, but was considered as an early and favoured candidate for any professional promotion which the shortness of my standing at the bar would admit of.

Reflecting, soon after I had taken my seat, on the novel nature of my situation, I felt that it was beset by considerable difficulties. I allude to the decision necessary for me to come to with respect to the line of politics I meant to pursue. I was not a new man, by whom any course might be taken, without exciting comment or question. On the contrary, I was of an old family, the importance and influence of which I was desirous to revive in that house, and hence it became requisite that I should weigh my actions well, and avoid precipitancy.

Political parties at that time ran high, though but little individual hostility existed. Grattan, the two Ponsonbys, Curran, Brownlow, Forbes, Bowes, Daly, Connolly, Arthur Brown, and numerous other most respectable personages were then linked together in a phalanx of opposition which, under the name of Whiggery, not only assailed the government upon every feasible occasion, but was always proposing measures which, under the then existing system, were utterly inadmissible. The opposition had the advantage in point of ability, and, therefore, nothing but supreme talent had any chance, among them, of rendering its possessor useful or valued. Though my nature was patriotic, I ever respected the aristocracy, which, while the democracy exhibits a people’s general character and energy, tends to embellish the state, and to give it an imposing grandeur.

The supporters of the Irish government, as I have said, were certainly inferior, except in patronage and power, to the opposition by which they were assailed. But they lived socially: there was a sort of convivial union among them, which, whether in high or low life, is, of all other ties, for awhile most binding upon my countrymen. It was therefore rather inconsistent in Lord Clare to give offence, as he did, to many of the most respectable gentlemen of Ireland by calling the Whigs an “eating and drinking club,”[^[39]] since the sarcasm might, at least with equal justice, have been retorted on the supporters of His Majesty’s government. All the great constitutional questions were, in 1790, supposed to have been arranged. Still the opposition sought a more radical reform, to which the government would not accede. They wrangled, in fact, about every trifle—and that at a time when the local concerns of the country were advancing to the highest pitch of prosperity. To neither party, however, attached any dishonourable stigma, which should prevent an honest man from joining their ranks; and meanwhile, I sought celebrity and advancement. The coast was clear before me. I was my own master, and free to choose my own course. In case of my connecting myself with the Whigs, I saw that I must play but a very inferior part in their game. I felt that amidst such an assemblage of talent I had but little right to expect eminence, and still less probability of acquiring professional advancement, even if my friends should become victorious. But, above all, I reflected that what at first view had appeared to me a blaze of constitutional patriotism, dwindled, on a closer inspection, into what is generally called party.

[39]. What they called in Ireland mahogany acquaintances.

The country had prospered beyond all possible anticipation, and was still further advancing in prosperity, under the then existing system of administration. I did not perceive that any immediate change of men or measures was at all in prospect, nor that it was at that moment necessary, or even desirable. My immediate personal connexions were on the side of the government. I had always doubted the sincerity of the Whigs: my doubts were now realised, and, on the whole consideration, I determined to attach myself to the administration. I had previously voted with them on the choice of a Speaker; but that I did not consider as constituting any pledge as to my future conduct. I voted for Mr. Forster, as the friend of Sir John Parnell, and because I considered him more fitting for the station than his opponent, Mr. William Ponsonby.

Thus, my mind being at length made up, I determined to render myself of some importance to the side I had adopted. The common course of desultory debate (even conquest over declaimers of my own calibre) would have led to no distinction. I decided either to rise or fall; and with this view, resolved to fly at once at the highest game, in which attempt even if I should not succeed, the trial itself would be honourable. My earliest effort was therefore directed against the two most celebrated speakers of that period, Grattan and Curran; and on the first day I rose I exhibited a specimen of what I may now call true arrogance. The novelty of such unexpected effrontery surprised the House, and afterward surprised myself. It was a species of bold hardihood, which, I believe, no person who had a just sense of his own inferiority would have ventured on without great hesitation. I launched into a strong philippic on the conduct of the most able and respectable opposition that Ireland had ever possessed. I followed and traced the Whigs, as I thought, through all their meanderings and designs. In a word, I surpassed the boundaries, not only of what I had myself resolved, but of what common prudence and propriety should have dictated. The government party, at the same time, was evidently not gratified. Its members, no doubt, considered me as a lost partizan, who had courted and called for my own suppression; and with some portion of the same feeling myself, I sat down almost ashamed of my forwardness, and awaiting, if not with resignation, at least with certainty, a just although cruel chastisement. How then must I have been surprised, and how wofully rebuked, by the mild and gentlemanly retorts which I received from Grattan! whilst Curran’s good temper never showed itself more conspicuously than in his treating me merely with wit and facetiousness. I was abashed and mortified on contrasting the forbearance of those great men with my own intemperance. Had I perceived any thing like contempt in that forbearance, I really believe I should have found it difficult to resume my spirits in the House; but no such feeling appeared toward me; and it is most singular to say, that some incidents which sprang from that very night’s debate gave rise both to the friendship of Mr. Grattan,[^[40]] with which I was afterward honoured, and to the close intimacy between me and Mr. Curran, which was never after interrupted.

[40]. Though my actual intimacy with, and friendship for, Mr. Grattan, did not mature at a very early period, his conduct that night proved to me the nobleness of his nature. I was impetuous, petulant, and altogether too inexperienced for a debater. Mr. Cuffe, after I had put forth something improperly warm as to Mr. Grattan, said to him, “Why don’t you put down that chap at once? a single sentence of yours would silence him completely.”—“No, no, no!” said Grattan, “we are not at all on a fair level. I could do him a great deal of mischief; he can do me none. My name is made; he is trying to make one, too: he’s a bold boy, but I don’t think he is a bad one.”

I had the good fortune, on that occasion, to make one fair hit as to Grattan, which he afterward told me he was much pleased with. It came across me at the moment:—in fact, most of the speeches I ever made have been literally impromptu. I never studied a speech in my life, except on law cases; and perhaps to this circumstance I may honestly attribute an incorrectness of language that frequently attended my best efforts.

Grattan had repeatedly assailed our side of the house, as “a side from which all public virtue had long been banished.” I observed, “that the right honourable gentleman had proved unequivocally the falsehood of his own assertion, that public virtue was confined to one side of the house; for I had had the honour of seeing the right honourable gentleman himself on both!” I alluded to his having supported government against Mr. Flood, after the vote of 50,000l. by parliament. This joke was loudly cheered, and perhaps somewhat contributed to save me from discomfiture.

From that day I attached myself zealously and sincerely to the administration of Lord Westmoreland. I became more or less intimate with almost every member of my party in parliament. I formed close and lasting friendships with Edward Cooke, the unfortunate and lamented Robert Thoroton, Isaac Corry, and Sir John De Blacquiere; and it was not very long before the opposition also opened their convivial ranks to receive me. Curran and Arthur Brown were the earliest of my intimates on that side the house; and before 1792 had expired, I felt myself as happy on all points, and as much befriended, as any man of my standing who had preceded me.

Before I went into parliament, I had become acquainted with Mr. R. Thoroton, who had come over to Ireland with the Duke of Rutland. He had the manner of a coxcomb, but the heart of a friend, and the sentiments of a gentleman. He was clerk of the House of Commons; and being by no means a common man, formed a necessary part of all our societies. He and I lived much together: and I found the intercourse very advantageous, since my friend knew every thing that was going forward, and, under the rose, set me right on many occasions. At the same time, I was aware that circumstances existed which were the cause, to him, of great anxiety; and, finally, a most unexpected event,—namely, the death of Mr. Thoroton by his own hand,—deprived me of one of the sincerest and most useful friends I ever possessed.

But among the foremost of all those persons who, from first to last, endeavoured to do me service, was a man universally esteemed for his gentlemanly manners, and as universally abused for public jobbing. As to the latter, it concerned not me; whilst his friendship was of the greatest advantage.

Sir John (afterward Lord) De Blacquiere (I believe of Swiss descent) had been colonel of a regiment of heavy cavalry in Ireland; had acted as secretary of legation in France with Lord Harcourt, and, having succeeded him there for a short time as minister, came to Ireland with his lordship as principal secretary, and becoming a permanent resident, attached himself to that side of politics whence only he could derive the great object of his exertions,—a revenue sufficiently ample to enable him to entertain his friends as well, and far more agreeably, than any other person I had previously met. Nobody ever understood eating and drinking better than Sir John De Blacquiere; and no man ever was better seconded in the former respect than he was by his cook, Mrs. Smith, whom he brought from Paris, after he had been minister there. His company seldom exceeded ten in number; but so happily was it selected, that I never yet saw a person rise from his table who did not feel gratified. Sir John was one of the old school; and with all the playful good-breeding by which it was distinguished, he had nothing of that starch pride which, in more recent times, has supplanted conviviality without making men either wiser, better, or happier.

Sir John certainly was a pluralist, enjoying, at one time, the first, the middle, and the last pension on the Irish civil list. He was director of the public works in Dublin; and to his jobbing is that capital indebted for its wide streets, paving, lighting, and convenient fountains. He made as much as he could of these works, it is true; but every farthing he acquired in Ireland he expended in it. If his money came from the public purse, it was distributed to the public benefit: if he received pensions from the crown, butchers, bakers, and other tradesmen pocketed every shilling of it. He knew employment to be the best species of charity. In short, Sir John De Blacquiere was as much abused, and as much regarded, as any public character of any period.

SINGULAR CUSTOMS IN THE IRISH PARLIAMENT.

Anecdote of Tottenham in his boots—Interesting trial of the Earl of Kingston for murder—Description of the forms used on that occasion.

A very singular custom prevailed in the Irish House of Commons which never was adopted in England, nor have I ever seen it mentioned in print. The description of it may be amusing.

On the day whereon the routine business of the budget was to be opened, for the purpose of voting supplies, the speaker invited the whole of the members to dinner in the House, in his own and the adjoining chambers. Several peers were accustomed to mix in the company; and I believe an equally happy, joyous, and convivial assemblage of legislators never were seen together. All distinctions as to government or opposition parties were totally laid aside; harmony, wit, wine, and good-humour reigning triumphant. The speaker, clerk, chancellor of the exchequer, and a very few veteran financiers, remained in the House till the necessary routine was gone through, and then joined their happy comrades—the party seldom breaking up till midnight.

On the ensuing day the same festivities were repeated; but on the third day, when the report was to be brought in, and the business discussed in detail, the scene totally changed;—the convivialists were now metamorphosed into downright public declamatory enemies, and, ranged on opposite sides of the House, assailed each other without mercy. Every questionable item was debated—every proposition deliberately discussed; and more zealous or assiduous senators could nowhere be found than in the very members who, during two days, had appeared to commit the whole funds of the nation to the management of half a dozen arithmeticians.

But all this was consonant to the national character of the individuals. Set them at table, and no men enjoyed themselves half so much; set them to business, no men ever worked with more earnestness and effect. A steady Irishman will do more in an hour, when fairly engaged upon a matter which he understands, than any other countryman (so far, at least, as my observation has gone) in two. The persons of whom I am more immediately speaking were extraordinarily quick and sharp. I am, however, at the same time, ready to admit that the lower orders of officials—such, for instance, as mere clerks in the public offices, exhibited no claim to a participation in the praise I have given their superiors: they were, on the other hand, frequently confused and incorrect; and amongst that description of persons I believe there were then fewer competent men than in most countries.

Another custom in the House gave rise to a very curious anecdote, which I shall here mention. The members of Parliament formerly attended the House of Commons in full dress—an arrangement first broken through by the following circumstance:—

A very important constitutional question was debating between government and the opposition; a question, by the bye, at which my English readers will probably feel surprised; namely, “as to the application of a sum of 60,000l., then lying unappropriated in the Irish Treasury, being a balance after paying all debts and demands upon the country or its establishments.” The numbers seemed to be nearly poised,—although it had been supposed that the majority would incline to give it to the king, while the opposition would recommend laying it out upon the country; when the serjeant-at-arms reported that a member wanted to force into the House undressed, in dirty boots, and splashed up to his shoulders.

The speaker could not oppose custom to privilege, and was necessitated to admit him. It proved to be Mr. Tottenham, of Ballycurry, County Wexford, covered with mud, and wearing a pair of huge jack-boots! Having heard that the question was likely to come on sooner than he expected, he had (lest he should not be in time) mounted his horse at Ballycurry, set off in the night, ridden nearly sixty miles up to the Parliament-house direct, and rushed in, without washing or cleaning himself, to vote for the country. He arrived just at the critical moment! and critical it was, for the numbers were in truth equal, and his casting vote gave a majority of one to “the country” party.

This anecdote could not die while the Irish Parliament lived; and I recollect “Tottenham in his boots” remaining, down to a very late period, a standing toast at certain patriotic Irish tables.

Being on the topic, (and, I confess, to me it is still an interesting one,) I must remark a singular practical distinction in the rules of the Irish and English Houses of Commons. In England, the House is cleared of strangers for every division, and no person is supposed to see or know in what way the representatives of the people exercise their trust. In Ireland, on the contrary, the divisions were public, and red and black lists were immediately published of the voters on every important occasion. The origin of this distinction I cannot explain, but it must be owned that the Irish was the most constitutional practice.

One interesting scene at which I was present merits especial description, on many accounts. No other instance of the kind has occurred in the British Empire in my time; and as it forms a very important record with relation to the independent political state of Ireland at the period, and has not yet been made the subject of any historical detail or observation, it cannot fail to be interesting in every point of view:—I allude to the trial of a peer of the realm of Ireland for murder, by the House of Lords in Dublin, after the acknowledgment of Irish independence.

The grand and awful solemnity of that trial made a deep impression on my memory; and, coupled with the recollection that it proclaimed indisputably the sovereignty of the Irish nation, its effect on a contemplative mind was of a penetrating nature.

Robert, Earl of Kingston, stood charged with the murder of Colonel Fitzgerald, by shooting him. The relation of the circumstances of that event would be, in every point of view, improper, and would only serve to recall painful recollections long since sunk into oblivion. I therefore abstain from any further allusion to them. The laws of the country required the trial of the accused party at the bar of his peers:—but as no similar case had occurred in Ireland within the memory of man, it was requisite to consult precedents upon the subject, in order to render his lordship’s trial conformable to the Lex Parliamentaria common to both countries. These precedents were accordingly sought by the proper officers; and as his lordship was very popular, and his provocation maddening,—and as all were ignorant of the evidence which was to be brought forward, the whole affair was of a most exciting nature to every man, more especially to those individuals who possessed the noble lord’s acquaintance.

Owing to the great number of attendants, the full muster of peers, and the extensive preparations of every kind necessary in order to adhere to precedent, the House of Lords was supposed not to be sufficiently large for the occasion.—The number of peers, in fact, had been more than doubled since the time it was built.

The Irish House of Peers was considered one of the most beautiful and commodious chambers possible. It combined every appearance of dignity and comfort: the walls were covered with tapestry, representing the battle of the Boyne, and the entire coup-d’œil was grand and interesting; but being, as I have said, considered too small for all the purposes of the trial in question, the House of Commons was made ready in preference.

Whoever had seen the interior of the Irish House of Commons must have admired it as one of the most chaste and classic models of modern architecture. A perfect rotunda, with Ionic pilasters, enclosed a corridor which ran round the interior. The cupola, of immense height, bestowed a magnificence which could rarely be surpassed; whilst a gallery, supported by columns, divided into compartments, and accommodating nearly 700 spectators, commanded an uninterrupted view of the chamber.

This gallery, on every important debate, was filled, not by reporters, but by the superior orders of society—the first rows being generally occupied by ladies of fashion and rank, who diffused a brilliance over, and excited a polite order and chivalrous decorum in that assembly which the British House does not appear very sedulously to cultivate.

This fine chamber was now fitted up in such a way as to give it the most solemn aspect. One compartment of seats in the body of the House was covered with scarlet cloth, and appropriated to the peeresses and their daughters, who ranged themselves according to the table of precedence. The Commons, their families and friends, lined the galleries: the whole house was superbly carpeted, and the speaker’s chair newly adorned for the lord chancellor.—On the whole, it was by far the most impressive and majestic spectacle ever exhibited within the walls of the Irish Parliament.

At length the peers entered, according to their rank, in full dress, and richly robed. Each man took his seat in profound silence; and even the ladies (which was rather extraordinary) were likewise still. The chancellor, bearing a white wand, having taken his chair, the most interesting moment of all was at hand, and its approach really made me shudder.

Sir Chichester Fortescue, king-at-arms, in his party-coloured robe, entered first, carrying the armorial bearings of the accused nobleman emblazoned on his shield: he placed himself on the left of the bar. Next entered Lord Kingston himself, in deep mourning, moving with a slow and melancholy step. His eyes were fixed on the ground; and, walking up to the bar, he was placed next to the king-at-arms, who then held the armorial shield on a level with his lordship’s shoulder.

The supposed executioner then approached, bearing a large hatchet with an immense broad blade. It was painted black except within about two inches of the edge, which was of bright polished steel. Placing himself at the bar on the right of the prisoner, he raised the hatchet about as high as his lordship’s neck, but with the edge averted; and thus he remained during the whole of the trial. The forms, I understood, prescribed that the edge should continue averted until the pronouncing of judgment, when, if it were unfavourable, the blade was instantly to be turned by the executioner toward the prisoner, indicating at once his sentence and his fate. The whole scene was extremely affecting.

I could not reconcile my mind to the thought of such a consummation. I knew the accused party, and had a high regard for him; and hence I felt a very uneasy sensation, inasmuch as I was profoundly ignorant of what would be the termination of the awful scrutiny.

The usual legal ceremonies were now entered on:—the charge was read—the prisoner pleaded not guilty—and the trial proceeded. A proclamation was made (first generally, then name by name,) for the witnesses for the prosecution to come forward. It is not easy to describe the anxiety and suspense excited as each name was called over. The eyes of every body were directed to the bar where the witnesses must enter, and every little movement of the persons who thronged it was held to be intended to make room for some accuser. None, however, appeared—thrice they were called, but in vain: and it was then announced that “no witnesses appearing, to substantiate the charge of murder against Robert, Earl of Kingston, the trial should terminate in the accustomed manner.” The chancellor proceeded to put the question; and every peer, according to his rank, arose and deliberately walking by the chair in which the chancellor was seated, placed his hand as he passed solemnly on his heart, and repeated, “Not guilty, upon my honour!” (The bishops were, very properly, precluded from voting in these criminal cases.) After all had passed, which ceremony occupied an hour, the chancellor rose and declared the opinion of the Peers of Ireland,—“That Robert, Earl of Kingston, was not guilty of the charge against him.” His lordship then broke his wand, descended from his chair, and thus ended the trial—most interesting because it had at once a strong political and constitutional bearing, and affected a nobleman universally beloved. The result was highly satisfactory to every one who had learned the circumstances which led to the fatal event for which the Earl of Kingston was arraigned,—whose conduct, though strictly justifiable neither in law nor morality, might have been adopted by the best of men under similar provocation.

This was the first and last trial by the House of Peers in Ireland after the declaration of Irish independence: and, all other considerations apart, its record remains as a testimonial of the temporary emancipation of Ireland from British trammels.

THE SEVEN BARONETS.

Sir John Stuart Hamilton—Sir Richard Musgrave—Sir Edward Newnham—Sir Vesey Colclough—Sir Frederick Flood—Sir John Blacquiere—Sir Boyle Roche, and his curious bulls—Their characters and personal description—Anecdotes and bon-mots—Anecdote of the Marquess of Waterford.

Among those parliamentary gentlemen frequently to be found in the coffee-room of the House, were certain baronets, of very singular character, who, until some division called them to vote, passed the intermediate time in high conviviality. Sir John Stuart Hamilton, a man of small fortune and large stature, possessing a most liberal appetite both for solids and fluids—much wit, more humour, and indefatigable cheerfulness,—might be regarded as their leader.

Sir Richard Musgrave, who (except on the abstract topics of politics, religion, martial law, his wife, the pope, the pretender, the Jesuits, Napper Tandy, and the whipping-post,) was generally in his senses, formed, during those intervals, a very entertaining addition to the company: he was extremely full of anecdote (given in rather a rhapsodical vein) about Martin Luther, Tod Jones, Pope Pius, Sir Judkin Fitzgerald, Doctor Troy, &c.

Sir Edward Newnham, member for Dublin county, afforded a whimsical variety by his affectation of early and exclusive transatlantic intelligence. By repeatedly writing letters of congratulation, he had at length extorted a reply from General Washington, which he exhibited upon every occasion, giving it to be understood, by significant nods, that he knew vastly more than he thought proper to communicate to any body.

Sir Vesey Colclough, member for County Wexford, who understood books and wine better than any of the party, had all his days treated money so extremely ill, that it would continue no longer in his service! and the dross (as he termed it) having entirely forsaken him, he bequeathed an immense landed property, during his life, to the uses of custodiums, elegits, and judgments, which never fail to place a gentleman’s acres under the especial guardianship of the attorneys. He was father to that excellent man, John Colclough, who was killed at Wexford, and to the present Cæsar Colclough, whose fall might have afforded rather less cause of regret than his brother’s.

Sir Vesey added much to the pleasantry of the party by occasionally forcing on them deep subjects of literature, of which few of his companions could make either head or tail: but to avoid the imputation of ignorance, they often gave the most ludicrous proofs of it on literary subjects, geography, history, and astronomy, with which he eternally bored them.

Sir Frederick Flood, also member for County Wexford, whose exhibitions in the Imperial Parliament have made him tolerably well known in England, was very different in his habits from the last-mentioned baronet;—his love of the dross, and spirit of ostentation, never losing their hold throughout every action of his life. He was but a second-rate blunderer in Ireland. The bulls of Sir Boyle Roche (of whom we shall speak hereafter) commonly involved aphorisms of sound sense, while Sir Frederick’s (on the other hand) possessed the qualification of being, in general, pure nonsense.

He was a pretty, dapper man, very good-tempered; and had a droll habit, of which he could never effectually break himself (at least in Ireland):—whenever a person at his back whispered or suggested any thing to him while he was speaking in public, without a moment’s reflection he almost always involuntarily repeated the suggestion literatim.

Sir Frederick was once making a long speech in the Irish Parliament, lauding the transcendent merits of the Wexford magistracy, on a motion for extending the criminal jurisdiction in that county, to keep down the disaffected. As he was closing a most turgid oration, by moving “that the said magistracy ought to receive some signal mark of the lord lieutenant’s favour,”—John Egan, who was rather mellow, and sitting behind him, jocularly whispered, “and be whipped at the cart’s tail:”—“and be whipped at the cart’s tail!” repeated Sir Frederick unconsciously, amidst peals of the most uncontrollable laughter.—Mr. Egan then rose, and seconded the motion: this was irresistible. Sir Frederick’s achievements in the English House of Commons were quite insipid.

Sir John Blacquiere flew at higher game than the other baronets, though he occasionally fell into the trammels of Sir John Hamilton. Sir John Blacquiere was a little deaf of one ear, for which circumstance he gave a very singular reason:—his seat, when secretary, was the outside one on the treasury bench, next to a gangway; and he said that so many members used to come perpetually to whisper him, and the buzz of importunity was so heavy and continuous,—that before one claimant’s words had got out of his ear, the demand of another forced its way in, till the ear-drum, being overcharged, absolutely burst! which, he said, turned out conveniently enough, as he was then obliged to stuff the organ tight, and tell every gentleman that his physician had directed him not to use that ear at all, and the other as little as possible!

Sir John Stuart Hamilton played him one day, in the corridor of the House of Commons, a trick which was a source of great entertainment to all parties. Joseph Hughes, a country farmer and neighbour of Sir John Stuart Hamilton, who knew nothing of great men, and (in common with many remote farmers of that period) had very seldom been in Dublin, was hard pressed to raise some money to pay the fine on a renewal of a bishop’s lease—his only property.—He came directly to Sir John, who, I believe, had himself drunk the farmer’s spring pretty dry, whilst he could get any thing out of it. As they were standing together in one of the corridors of the Parliament-house, Sir John Blacquiere stopped to say something to his brother baronet:—his star, which he frequently wore on rather shabby coats, struck the farmer’s eye, who had never seen such a thing before; and coupling it with the very black visage of the wearer, and his peculiar appearance altogether, our rustic was induced humbly to ask Sir John Hamilton “who that man was with the silver sign on his coat?”

“Don’t you know him?” cried Sir John; “why, that is a famous Jew money-broker.”

“May-be, please your honour, he could do my little business for me,” responded the honest farmer.

“Trial’s all!” said Sir John.

“I’ll pay well,” observed Joseph.

“That’s precisely what he likes,” replied the baronet.

“Pray, Sir John,” continued the farmer, “what’s those words on his sign?” (alluding to the motto on the star.)

“Oh,” answered the other, “they are Latin, ‘Tria juncta in uno.’”

“And may I crave the English thereof?” asked the unsuspecting countryman.

“Three in a bond,” said Sir John.

“Then I can match him, by J—s!” exclaimed Hughes.

“You’ll be hard set,” cried the malicious baronet; “however, you may try.”

Hughes then approaching Blacquiere, who had removed but a very small space, told him with great civility and a significant nod, that he had a little matter to mention, which he trusted would be agreeable to both parties. Blacquiere drew him aside and desired him to proceed. “To come to the point then, at once,” said Hughes, “the money is not to say a great deal, and I can give you three in a bond—myself and two good men as any in Cavan, along with me. I hope that will answer you. Three in a bond! safe good men!”

Sir John Blacquiere, who wanted a supply himself, had the day before sent to a person who had advertised the lending of money; and, on hearing the above harangue, (taking for granted that it resulted from his own application,) he civilly assured Hughes that a bond would be of no use to him! good bills might be negotiated, or securities turned into cash, though at a loss; but bonds would not answer at all.

“I think I can get another man, and that’s one more than your sign requires,” said Hughes.

“I tell you,” repeated Sir John, “bonds will not answer at all, sir!—bills! bills!”

“Then it’s fitter,” retorted the incensed farmer, “for you to be after putting your sign there in your pocket, than wearing it to deceive the Christians, you damn’d usurer! you Jew, you!”

Nobody could be more amused by this dénouement than Blacquiere himself, who told every body he knew, of “Hamilton’s trick upon the countryman.”

Sir Richard Musgrave, although he understood drawing the long bow as well as most people, never patronised it in any other individual. Sir John Hamilton did not spare the exercise of this accomplishment in telling a story, one day, in the presence of Sir Richard, who declared his incredulity rather abruptly, as indeed was his constant manner. Sir John was much nettled at the mode in which the other dissented, more particularly as there were some strangers present. He asseverated the truth on his word: Sir Richard, however, repeating his disbelief, Sir John Hamilton furiously exclaimed—“You say you don’t believe my word?”

“I can’t believe it,” replied Sir Richard.

“Well, then,” said Sir John, “if you won’t believe my word, by G—d I’ll give it you under my hand!” clenching at the same moment his great fist.

The witticism raised a general laugh, in which the parties themselves joined, and in a moment all was good-humour. But the company condemned both the offenders—Sir John for telling a lie, and Sir Richard for not believing it—to the payment of two bottles of hock each.

Whoever the following story may be fathered on, Sir John Hamilton was certainly its parent. The Duke of Rutland, at one of his levees, being at a loss (as probably most kings, princes, and viceroys occasionally are) for something to say to every person he was bound in etiquette to notice, remarked to Sir John Hamilton that there was “a prospect of an excellent crop:—the timely rain,” observed the duke, “will bring every thing above ground.”

“God forbid, your Excellency!” exclaimed the courtier.

His excellency stared, whilst Sir John continued, sighing heavily as he spoke:—“yes, God forbid! for I have got three wives under it!”

At one of those large convivial parties which distinguished the table of Major Hobart, when he was secretary in Ireland, among the usual loyal toasts, “The wooden walls of England” being given,—Sir John Hamilton, in his turn, gave “The wooden walls of Ireland!” This toast being quite new to us all, he was asked for an explanation: upon which, filling a bumper, he very gravely stood up, and bowing to the Marquess of Waterford and several country gentlemen, who commanded county regiments, he said—“My lords and gentlemen! I have the pleasure of giving you ‘The wooden walls of Ireland’—the colonels of militia!”

So broad but so good-humoured a jeu d’esprit, excited great merriment: the truth was forgotten in the jocularity, but the epithet did not perish. I saw only one grave countenance in the room, and that belonged to the late Marquess of Waterford, who was the proudest egotist I ever met with. He had a tremendous squint—the eyes looking inward, a disposition which Lavater particularly characterises; and as to the marquess, he was perfectly right: nor was there any thing prepossessing in the residue of his features to atone for this deformity. Nothing can better exemplify his lordship’s opinion of himself and others, than an observation I heard him make at Lord Portarlington’s table. Having occasion for a superlative degree of comparison between two persons, he was at a loss for a climax. At length, however, he luckily hit on one. “That man was—(said the marquess)—he was as superior as—as—as—I am to Lord Ranelagh!”

I will now advert to Sir Boyle Roche, who certainly was, without exception, the most celebrated and entertaining anti-grammarian in the Irish Parliament. I knew him intimately. He was of a very respectable Irish family, and, in point of appearance, a fine, bluff, soldier-like old gentleman. He had numerous good qualities; and having been long in the army, his ideas were full of honour and etiquette—of discipline and bravery. He had a claim to the title of Fermoy, which however he never pursued; and was brother to the famous Tiger Roche, who fought some desperate duel abroad, and was near being hanged for it.[^[41]] Sir Boyle was perfectly well-bred in all his habits; had been appointed gentleman-usher at the Irish Court, and executed the duties of that office to the day of his death with the utmost satisfaction to himself as well as to every one in connexion with him. He was married to the eldest daughter of Sir John Frankland, Bart.; and his lady, who was a bas bleu, prematurely injured Sir Boyle’s capacity (it was said) by forcing him to read “Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,” whereat he was so cruelly puzzled without being in the least amused, that, in his cups, he often stigmatised the great historian as a low-bred fellow, who ought to have been kicked out of company whereever he was, for turning people’s thoughts away from their prayers and their politics, to what the devil himself could make neither head nor tail of!

[41]. He regarded swords no more than knitting-needles, and pinked every man he faced in combat.

His perpetually bragging that Sir John Frankland had given him his eldest daughter, afforded Curran an opportunity of replying,—“Ay, Sir Boyle, and depend on it, if he had had an older one still, he would have given her to you!” Sir Boyle thought it best to receive the repartee as a compliment, lest it should come to her ladyship’s ears, who, for several years back, had prohibited Sir Boyle from all allusions to chronology.

This baronet had certainly one great advantage over all other bull and blunder makers: he seldom launched a blunder from which some fine aphorism or maxim might not be easily extracted. When a debate arose in the Irish House of Commons on the vote of a grant which was recommended by Sir John Parnell, chancellor of the exchequer, as one not likely to be felt burdensome for many years to come,—it was observed in reply, that the House had no just right to load posterity with a weighty debt for what could in no degree operate to their advantage. Sir Boyle, eager to defend the measures of government, immediately rose, and, in a few words, put forward the most unanswerable argument which human ingenuity could possibly devise. “What, Mr. Speaker!” said he, “and so we are to beggar ourselves for fear of vexing posterity! Now, I would ask the honourable gentleman, and this still more honourable House, why we should put ourselves out of our way to do any thing for posterity:—for what has posterity done for us?”

Sir Boyle, hearing the roar of laughter which of course followed this sensible blunder, but not being conscious that he had said any thing out of the way, was rather puzzled, and conceived that the House had misunderstood him. He therefore begged leave to explain, as he apprehended that gentlemen had entirely mistaken his words: he assured the House “that by posterity he did not at all mean our ancestors, but those who were to come immediately after them!” Upon hearing this explanation, it was impossible to do any serious business for half an hour.

Sir Boyle Roche was induced by government to fight as hard as possible for the Union:—so he did, and I really believe fancied, by degrees, that he was right. On one occasion, a general titter arose at his florid picture of the happiness which must proceed from this event. “Gentlemen (said Sir Boyle) may titther, and titther, and titther, and may think it a bad measure; but their heads at present are hot, and will so remain till they grow cool again; and so they can’t decide right now; but when the day of judgment comes, then honourable gentlemen will be satisfied at this most excellent Union! Sir, there is no Levitical degrees between nations, and on this occasion I can see neither sin nor shame in marrying our own sister!”

He was a determined enemy to the French Revolution, and seldom rose in the House for several years without volunteering some abuse of it.

“Mr. Speaker,” said he, in a mood of this kind, “if we once permitted the villanous French masons to meddle with the buttresses and walls of our ancient constitution, they would never stop nor stay, sir, till they brought the foundation-stones tumbling down about the ears of the nation! There,” continued Sir Boyle, placing his hand earnestly on his heart, his powdered head shaking in unison with his loyal zeal, whilst he described the probable consequences of an invasion of Ireland by the French republicans;—“There, Mr. Speaker! if those Gallican villains should invade us, sir, ’tis on that very table, may-be, these honourable members might see their own destinies lying in heaps a-top of one another! Here perhaps, sir, the murderous marshal-law-men (Marseillois) would break in, cut us into joints, and throw our bleeding heads upon that table, to stare us in the face!”

Sir Boyle, on another occasion, was arguing for the Habeas Corpus Suspension Bill in Ireland:—“It would surely be better, Mr. Speaker,” said he, “to give up not only a part, but, if necessary, even the whole, of our constitution, to preserve the remainder!”

This baronet having been one of the Irish Parliamentary curiosities before the Union, I have only exemplified his mode of blundering, as many ridiculous sayings have been attributed to him. He blundered certainly more than any public speaker in Ireland; but his bulls were rather logical perversions, and had some strong point in most of them.

The English people consider a bull as nothing more than a vulgar nonsensical expression: but Irish blunders are frequently humorous hyperboles or oxymorons,[^[42]] and present very often the most energetic mode of expressing the speaker’s meaning.

[42]. That figure of rhetoric

“—— where contradictions meet,

And jarring epithets and subjects greet.”

On the motion to expel Lord Edward Fitzgerald from the House of Commons, for hasty disrespectful expressions regarding the House and the Lord Lieutenant, it was observable that the motion was violently supported by the younger men then in Parliament; including the late Marquess of Ormonde, &c. The marquess was, indeed, one of the strongest supporters of a measure, the object of which was to disgrace a young nobleman, his own equal: and it was likewise worthy of remark that the motion was resisted by the steadiest and oldest members of the House, and by them finally rejected.

Sir Boyle Roche laboured hard and successfully for Lord Edward, who was eventually required to make an apology: it was not, however, considered sufficiently ample or repentant. Sir Boyle was at his wits’ end, and at length produced a natural syllogism, which, by putting the House in good-humour, did more than a host of reasoners could have achieved. “Mr. Speaker,” said the baronet, “I think the noble young man has no business to make any apology.—He is a gentleman, and none such should be asked to make an apology, because no gentleman could mean to give offence!”

Dennis M‘Carthy, the postilion of Lord Lisle, had an action for crim. con. brought against him by his master, and upon a very forced construction of law in such cases, by the chief baron, the jury found damages for 5000l. against Dennis.—He was of course sent to gaol; and damages to that amount and of that nature excluding the debtor from the benefit of the Insolvent Act, strong efforts were made in Parliament to have Dennis included especially, by name, in the statute, he having remained ten years in close confinement. His liberation was constantly applied for, and as constantly rejected. Sir Boyle, as a last effort, made a florid speech in his best style on behalf of the poor fellow, arguing truly, “that Lady Lisle, and not Dennis, must have been the real seducer;” and concluding thus:—“And what, Mr. Speaker, was this poor servant’s crime? After all, sure, Mr. Speaker, it was only doing his master’s business by his mistress’s orders! and is it not very hard to keep a poor servant in gaol for that which if he had not done he would have deserved a horsewhipping?” This way of putting the case had the desired effect:—Dennis’s name was especially included by the Commons; but in the House of Lords it was thrown out by Lord Clonmell, chief justice, though two years had scarcely elapsed since his lordship himself had fought a duel with the late Lord Tyrawley for crim. con. with her ladyship.

Never was there a more sensible blunder than the following. We recommend it as a motto to gentlemen in the army. “The best way,” said Sir Boyle, “to avoid danger, is to meet it plump!”

Lord Townsend, when he went over as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, was greatly amused on entering the beautiful bay of Dublin. There are two great and dangerous sand-banks to be encountered on entering the harbour, with a small village close to them on the shore.

“What bank is that?” asked Lord Townsend.

“That’s the North Bull,” said the captain.

“And pray, what’s that other bank?” inquired the Lord Lieutenant.

“That’s the South Bull, my lord,” answered the pilot.

“And what’s the name of that little village?”

“That’s Ring’s-End, your Excellency,” said the mate.

“What!” exclaimed Lord Townsend; “two bulls and one impossibility is quite enough for one harbour! I think, if the parliament is like the port, I shall not find it easy to compose an answer to its address.”

ENTRANCE INTO OFFICE.

The author first placed in office by Lord Westmoreland—Made king’s counsel by Lord Clare—Jealousy of the bar—Description of Kilkenny Castle—Trial of the Earl of Ormonde for outrage at Kilkenny—Acquitted—Author’s conduct—Distinguished and liberal present from the Earl of Ormonde to the author, of a gold box, and his subsequent letter.

In December, 1793, the secretary, Lord Buckinghamshire, wrote to say that he wished to see me at the Castle. I immediately attended, when he said, “Barrington, I am about to depart from Ireland: and,” continued he, after my sincere expressions of regret, “as you have heretofore had nothing from us but convivial intercourse, it is just you should now have fare somewhat more substantial; with the approbation of the Lord Lieutenant, therefore, I have managed to secure for you a very handsome office,—the ships’ entries of the port of Dublin.”

At the name and nature of this office I rather demurred; whereupon Lord Buckinghamshire smiled, and said, “You have no objection to a good sinecure, I suppose, the emoluments payable every Sunday morning by the deputy: the place was lately held by Mr. George Ponsonby, and is at this moment enjoyed by Serjeant Coppinger; but I have negotiated to give him, his son, and his wife, an annuity of £800 a year, to resign it to you: we were bound to provide for him as an old servant of thirty years, and this is a convenient opportunity for doing so!”

This, so far, was agreeable: but still, professional advancement being the object next my heart, I neither felt nor looked totally satisfied.

Lord Buckinghamshire then said, “You are a grumbling fellow: but I anticipated your grumbling, and the Lord Chancellor (Lord Clare) has consented to your being at the same time appointed one of the king’s counsel;—thus at once giving you a step over the heads of all your circuit seniors, except Sir Frederick Flood, who is not, I fancy, very formidable.”

This arrangement altogether met my wishes. I hastened to Lords Westmoreland and Clare, to thank them most cordially; and the fifth year after becoming a barrister, I found myself at the head of my circuit, and high up in the official rank of my profession. Practice generally follows the fortunate: I was immediately considered as on the high-road of preferment; the attorneys pursued me like a flock of rooks! and my business was quadrupled.

I purchased a fine house in Merrion Square, from Mr. Robert Johnson, then counsel to the revenue, (afterward judge,) who at that period felt himself going down hill; and here I launched into an absolute press of business; perhaps justly acquiring thereby the jealousy of many of my seniors. This jealousy, however, gave rise to one of the most gratifying incidents of my life.

John, Earl of Ormonde, resided, like a true Irish nobleman, in the utmost splendour and hospitality, in his fine ancient castle at Kilkenny. He scarcely ever went even to the Irish metropolis—his entire fortune being expended in his own city; whereby every shopkeeper and trader experienced the advantages of his lordship’s residence. His establishment was ample—his table profuse—his friendship warm and unbounded. The very appearance of his castle (though only a portion of the old duke’s) was still such as to remind the spectator of its former magnificence. Proudly towering over the river Nore, from which it was separated only by the public walk, a high and grand rampart on that side conveyed the idea at once of a palace and a fortress; whilst towards the city an old princely portal, flanked by round towers, opened into a spacious court, within which were preserved two sides of the original edifice, and a third was, at the period I allude to, rebuilding, in a style, however, far too modern and ordinary. The exterior mouldings of the castle exhibited the remains of the gilding which had formerly been laid on with a lavish hand.

The interior of this noble edifice, with the exception of one saloon and the picture-gallery, was not calculated to satisfy expectation: but both those were unique—the one with respect to its form, the other to its prospects. The grand saloon was not shaped like any other, I believe, existing—oval in its figure, and not large;—but the wall, twelve feet thick, admitted of recesses on the sides, which had the appearance of small rooms, each being terminated by a large window, and its sides covered with mirrors which reflected the beautiful and varied prospects of city, country, wood, river, and public promenade. When I was at the castle, in fact, every thing appeared to me delightful.

Walter, the late Marquess of Ormonde, though my junior in years, had been my intimate friend and companion; as was also his cousin, Bryan Cavanagh. We lived together at Temple, and Lord Ormonde was then the finest young man I ever saw. He had quite a cross private tutor (Rankin), who was with his lordship at Oxford, and then came to reside at Lincoln’s Inn with his cousin Bryan, till his father had provided for him—an interval of nearly a year.

Lady Ormonde, mother of Walter, was the only child of Earl Winderford, and, as lady of the castle, was careful to keep up her due importance. It is not impossible for women or men either to mistake form for dignity. True pride is accompanied by an amiable condescension: mere ceremony is the result of false pride, and not of dignity. I thought (perhaps erroneously) that her ladyship made this mistake.

The Earl John, my friend’s father, was rather in the opposite extreme. He was well read and friendly; indeed, a truer friend or more honourable person could not exist: yet he was a hard-goer (as it was called), and an incessant talker. His lordship occasionally adjourned to a kind of tavern in the city, of which a certain widow Madden was the hostess, and where one Mr. Evans, surnamed “Hell-cat,” together with the best boozers and other gentlemen of Kilkenny, assembled to amuse his lordship by their jests and warm punch, and to emulate each other in the devouring oysters and lobsters—the best which could possibly be procured. Hither, in fact, the company from the castle often repaired for amusement.

These boozing-matches sometimes proceeded rather too far; and, one night, Mr. Duffy, a sharp, smart, independent-minded apothecary of Kilkenny, who had offended the Ormonde family on some very sensitive point, being alluded to, a member of the party, with more zeal than prudence, proposed as a toast, “a round of rascals!” taking care to designate Doctor Duffy as belonging to that honourable fraternity. On departing from the tavern, far more full of liquor than wit, some wild young man in company suggested the demolition of the doctor’s windows: no sooner said than done!—the piper played, the stones flew, and Duffy’s shivered panes bore ample testimony to the strength of the widow’s beverage. No personal injury however ensued, and the affair appeared to have terminated.

A glazier was sent early next morning by command of my lord to repair the windows; but this the doctor refused to allow; and in due form applied for and obtained a criminal information in the King’s Bench for the outrage, against Lord Ormonde, his son Walter, James the present Marquess, Lord Thurles, and others. The information was, in due legal form, sent down to be tried at the spring assizes very soon after I had been appointed king’s counsel.

None felt more jealousy at my promotion than Mr. William Fletcher, (since judge of the Common Pleas,) many years my senior at the bar and on circuit. Lord Ormonde directed briefs to be sent to me and to Fletcher, with fees of fifteen guineas each. I never loved money much in my life, and therefore thought it quite enough; or rather, I did not think about it.

The defendant’s case fell of course to me as leading counsel. At this circumstance Fletcher felt sore, and ran sulky; and the sulkier he got the more zealous became I. We had but a bad case of it: the cross-examination of the irritated apothecary, who grew after awhile quite ferocious, fell to my lot. I performed my duty, and it then devolved on Fletcher to speak to the evidence. This however he declined to do. I pressed him; but he peremptorily refused. I exclaimed—“Nay, Fletcher, you took a fee: why not speak?”—“Yes,” answered the angry barrister, “just enough to make me hold my tongue!”—“Do speak,” persisted I. “I won’t,” replied he. “Then I must do it for you,” was my rejoinder. My zeal was enkindled, and I felt myself in earnest and interested. I persevered till I saw the jury smile, to do which, they only wanted a good pretence. I held on my course till I saw them pleased; and the result was an acquittal of Lord Ormonde, and a conviction of all the others.

To his lordship this acquittal was invaluable. The conviction of the Earl of Ormonde for a nocturnal outrage in his own town, would have been to him a source of the utmost dismay. I knew this, and acted accordingly. He had heard of the conversation between Fletcher and me; but he thanked both without distinction, and made no partial remarks. I was hurt for a moment at this apparent neglect, but thought of it no longer, and his lordship never mentioned the circumstance.

On the ensuing summer assizes Lord Ormonde invited the judges, barristers, several of the grand-jury, and the principal gentlemen of the county, to a magnificent dinner at the castle. It was a long table, and every thing in the grandest style. A judge sat on each side of Lady Ormonde at the head, and Fletcher and myself were their next neighbours. After the cloth was removed, and Lady Ormonde had retired, his lordship stood up, and, in a loud voice, said,—“I have waited with impatience for this public opportunity of expressing to Mr. Barrington the high sense I entertain of his important and disinterested services to me at the last assizes: I now beg his acceptance of a small testimonial of my gratitude and friendship.”—And he immediately slid along the table a magnificent gold snuff-box, with his arms, &c. and the following inscription:—

A Token of Friendship and Gratitude from the Earl of Ormonde and Ossory to Jonah Barrington, Esq., one of His Majesty’s Counsel at Law. August, 1794.

I was utterly astonished by this distinguished and most unexpected favour conferred in so public and honourable a manner; and involuntarily, without a moment’s thought, (but certainly with the appearance of ill-nature,) I triumphantly handed round the box for the inspection of my brother-barristers. Fletcher, confused as might be supposed, slightly shoved it back to me:—his conduct on the trial having been known, a sensation became visible amongst the company, which I would almost have given up the box to have avoided exciting. His countenance, however, though not usually subject to be much impressed by kind feelings, clearly acquitted me of any intentional insult: in truth, I really felt as much as he did when I perceived my error, and wished to pocket the prize without its creating further notice. But this was impossible: I was obliged to return thanks, which ceremony I went through very badly. Fletcher did not remain long, and I also adjourned at an early hour to the bar-room, where the incident had preceded me. I now tried my best to put all parties into good humour, and finished the night by a much deeper stoup of wine than I should have indulged in at Lord Ormonde’s.

Next morning I found a billet from the earl, enveloping a bank-note for 100l., with these words:—

“Dear Sir,

“My attorney did not do you justice; you will permit me to be my own attorney on this occasion.

“Your friend and humble servant,

“Ormonde and Ossory.”

From that time to the day of his lordship’s death, I experienced from him, on every occasion within his reach, the utmost extent of kindness, civility, and friendship. His successor, with whom I had been so long and so very intimately acquainted, was whirled at an early age into the vortex of fashionable life and dissipation. Having lost his best guide and truest friend, his cousin Bryan Cavanagh, many of his naturally fine qualities were absorbed in the licentious influence of a fashionable female connexion; and thus became lost to himself and to many of those friends who had most truly valued him.

I have mentioned Walter, Marquess of Ormonde, the more particularly, because, extraordinary as it may appear, it certainly was to that fatal connexion of his (where I am sure he had not been the seducer) that I owe several of the most painful and injurious events of my life. Of the existence of this connexion I had irrefragable proof; and of its having operated as a bar to the chief objects of his life and ambition, and of my own also, I have equal reason to feel convinced.

His lordship married his own god-daughter, a most amiable young lady; but too late: and never have I remarked, through the course of a long, observing life, any progress more complete from the natural levities of youth to confirmed habits of dissipation, from the first order of early talent to the humblest state of premature imbecility, than that of the late Marquess of Ormonde, who had, at one period of our intimacy, as engaging a person, as many noble, manly qualities, and to the full as much intellectual promise, as any young man of his country.

DR. ACHMET BORUMBORAD.

Singular anecdotes of Dr. Achmet Borumborad—He proposes to erect baths in Dublin, in the Turkish fashion—Obtains grants from Parliament for that purpose—The baths well executed—The Doctor’s banquet—Ludicrous anecdote of nineteen noblemen and members of Parliament falling into his grand salt-water bath—The accident nearly causes the ruin of the Doctor and his establishment—He falls in love with Miss Hartigan, and marries her—Sudden metamorphosis of the Turk into Mr. Patrick Joyce.

Until England dragged the sister kingdom with herself into the ruinous expenses of the American war, Ireland owed no public debt.—There were no taxes, save local ones: the Parliament, being composed of resident gentlemen, interested in the prosperity and welfare of their country, was profuse in promoting all useful schemes; and no projector, who could show any reasonable grounds for seeking assistance, had difficulty in finding a patron. On these points, indeed, the gentlemen who possessed influence, were often unguarded, and sometimes extravagant;—but the people lost nothing, since all was expended amongst themselves.

Among other projectors, whose ingenuity was excited by this liberal conduct, was one of a very singular description—a Turk who had come over, or (as the on-dit went) had fled from Constantinople. He proposed to establish, what was greatly wanted at that time in the Irish metropolis, “Hot and Cold Sea-water Baths;” and by way of advancing his pretensions to public encouragement, offered to open free baths for the poor, on an extensive plan—giving them, as a doctor, attendance and advice gratis, every day in the year. He spoke English very intelligibly; his person was extremely remarkable; and the more so, as he was the first Turk who had ever walked the streets of Dublin in his native costume. He was in height considerably above six feet, rather pompous in his gait, and apparently powerful; an immense black beard covering his chin and upper lip. There was, at the same time, something cheerful and cordial in the man’s address; and, altogether, he cut a very imposing figure. Every body liked Doctor Achmet Borumborad: his Turkish dress, being extremely handsome, without any approach to the tawdry, and crowned with an immense turban, drew the eyes of every passer-by; and I must say that I have never myself seen a more stately-looking Turk since that period.

The eccentricity of the Doctor’s appearance was, indeed, as will readily be imagined, the occasion of much idle observation and conjecture. At first, whenever he went abroad, a crowd of people, chiefly boys, was sure to attend him—but at a respectful distance; and if he turned to look behind him, the gaping boobies fled, as if they conceived even his looks to be mortal. These fears, however, gradually wore away, and were entirely shaken off, on the fact being made public, that he meant to attend the poor; which undertaking was, in the usual spirit of exaggeration, soon construed into an engagement, on the part of the Doctor, to cure all disorders whatever! and hence he quickly became as much admired and respected as he had previously been dreaded.

My fair readers will perhaps smile, when I assure them that the persons who seemed to have the least apprehension of Doctor Borumborad, or rather to think him “a very nice Turk!” were the ladies of the metropolis. Many a smart, snug little husband, who had been heretofore considered “quite the thing,”—despotic in his own house, and peremptory commandant of his own family, was now regarded as a wretched, contemptible, close-shaven pigmy, in comparison with the immensity of the Doctor’s figure and whiskers; and, what is more extraordinary, his good-humour and engaging manners gained him many friends even among the husbands themselves! he thus becoming, in a shorter period than could be imagined, a particular favourite with the entire city, male and female.

Doctor Achmet Borumborad, having obtained footing thus far, next succeeded surprisingly in making his way amongst the members of Parliament. He was full of conversation, yet knew his proper distance; pregnant with anecdote, but discreet in its expenditure; and he had the peculiar talent of being humble without the appearance of humility. A submissive Turk would have been out of character, and a haughty one excluded from society: the Doctor was aware of this, and regulated his demeanour with remarkable skill upon all occasions (and they were numerous) whereon (as a lion) he was invited to the tables of the great. By this line of conduct, he managed to warm those who patronised him into becoming violent partisans; and accordingly little or no difficulty was experienced in getting a grant from Parliament for a sufficient fund to commence his great metropolitan undertaking.

Baths were now planned after Turkish models. The money voted was most faithfully appropriated; and a more ingenious or useful establishment could not be formed in any metropolis. But the cash, it was discovered, ran too short to enable the Doctor to complete his scheme; and, on the ensuing session, a further vote became necessary, which was by no means opposed, as the institution was good, fairly executed, and charitably applied. The worthy Doctor kept his ground: session after session he petitioned for fresh assistance, and never met with refusal: his profits were good, and he lived well; whilst the baths proved of the utmost benefit, and the poor received attention and service from his establishment, without cost. An immense cold-bath was constructed, to communicate with the river: it was large and deep, and entirely renewed every tide. The neatest lodging rooms, for those patients who chose to remain during a course of bathing, were added to the establishment, and always occupied. In short, the whole affair became so popular, and Dr. Achmet acquired so many friends, that the annual grants of Parliament were considered nearly as matters of course.

But, alas! fortune is treacherous, and prosperity unstable. Whilst the ingenious Borumborad was thus rapidly flourishing, an unlucky though most ludicrous incident threw the poor fellow completely a-back; and, without any fault on his part, nearly ruined both himself and his institution.

Preparatory to every session it was the Doctor’s invariable custom to give a grand dinner, at the baths, to a large number of his patrons, members of Parliament, who were in the habit of proposing and supporting his grants. He always, on these occasions, procured some professional singers, as well as the finest wines in Ireland—endeavouring to render the parties as joyous and convivial as possible. Some nobleman, or commoner of note, always acted for him as chairman, the Doctor himself being quite unassuming.

At the last commencement of a session, whereupon he anticipated this patronage, it was intended to increase his grant, in order to meet the expenses of certain new works, &c. which he had executed on the strength of the ensuing supply; and the Doctor had invited nearly thirty of the leading members to a grand dinner in his spacious saloon. The singers were of the first order; the claret and champaign excellent; and never was the Turk’s hospitality shown off to better advantage, or the appetites of his guests administered to with greater success. The effects of the wine, as usual on all such meetings in Ireland, began to grow obvious. The elder and more discreet members were for adjourning; whilst the juveniles declared they would stay for another dozen! and Doctor Borumborad accordingly went down himself to his cellar, to select and send up a choice dozen by way of bonne bouche for finishing the refractory members of Parliament.

In his absence, Sir John S. Hamilton, though a very dry member, took it into his head that he had taken enough, and rose to go away, as is customary in these days of freedom when people are so circumstanced: but at that period men were not always their own masters on such occasions, and a general cry arose of—“Stop, Sir John!—stop him!—the bonne bouche!—the bonne bouche!”—The carousers were on the alert instantly: Sir John opened the door and rushed out; the ante-chamber was not lighted; some one or two-and-twenty stanch members stuck to his skirts; when splash at once comes Sir John, not into the street, but into the great cold-bath, the door of which he had retreated by, in mistake! The other Parliament-men were too close upon the baronet to stop short (like the horse of a Cossack): in they went, by fours and fives; and one or two, who, on hearing the splashing of the water, cunningly threw themselves down on the brink to avoid popping in, operated directly as stumbling-blocks to those behind, who thus obtained their full share of a bonne bouche none of the parties had bargained for.

When Doctor Borumborad re-entered, ushering a couple of servants laden with a dozen of his best wine, and missed all his company, he thought some devil had carried them off; but perceiving the door of his noble, deep, cold-bath open, he with dismay rushed thither, and espied a full committee of Irish Parliament-men either floating like so many corks upon the surface, or scrambling to get out like mice who had fallen into a bason! The Doctor’s posse of attendants were immediately set at work, and every one of the honourable members extricated: the quantity of Liffey-water, however, which had made its way into their stomachs, was not so easily removed, and most of them carried the beverage home to their own bed-chambers.

It was unlucky, also, that as the Doctor was a Turk, he had no Christian wardrobe to substitute for the well-soaked garments of the honourable members. Such dresses, however, as he had, were speedily put into requisition; the bathing attendants furnished their quota of dry apparel; and all was speedily distributed amongst the swimmers, some of whom exhibited in Turkish costume, others in bathing-shifts; and when the clothes failed, blankets were pinned around the rest. Large fires were made in every room; brandy and mulled wine liberally resorted to; and as fast as sedan-chairs could be procured, the Irish Commoners were sent home, cursing all Turks and infidels, and denouncing a crusade against any thing coming from the same quarter of the globe as Constantinople.

Poor Doctor Achmet Borumborad was distracted and quite inconsolable! Next day he duly visited every suffering member, and though well received, was acute enough to see that the ridicule with which they had covered themselves was likely to work out eventually his ruin. His anticipations were well-founded: though the members sought to hush up the ridiculous parts of the story, they became, from that very attempt, still more celebrated. In fact, it was too good a joke to escape the embellishments of Irish humour; and the statement universally circulated was—that “Doctor Borumborad had nearly drowned nineteen members of Parliament, because they would not promise to vote for him!”

The poor doctor was now assailed in every way. Among other things, it was asserted that he was the Turk who had strangled the Christians in the Seven Towers at Constantinople!—Though every body laughed at their own inventions, they believed those of other people; and the conclusion was, that no more grants could be proposed, since not a single member was stout enough to mention the name of Borumborad! The laugh, indeed, would have overwhelmed the best speech ever delivered in the Irish Parliament.

Still the new works must be paid for, although no convenient vote came to make the necessary provision: the poor doctor was therefore cramped a little; but notwithstanding his embarrassment, he kept his ground well, and lost no private friends, except such as the wearing-off of novelty estranged. He continued to get on; and at length a new circumstance intervened to restore his happiness, in a way as little to be anticipated by the reader as was his previous discomfiture.

Love had actually seized upon the Turk above two years before the accident we have been recording. A respectable surgeon of Dublin, of the name of Hartigan, had what might be termed a very “neat” sister; and this lady had made a lasting impression on the heart of Borumborad, who had no reason to complain of his suit being treated with disdain, or even indifference. On the contrary, Miss H. liked the doctor vastly! and praised the Turks in general, both for their dashing spirit and their beautiful whiskers. It was not, however, consistent either with her own or her brother’s Christianity to submit to the doctor’s tremendous beard, or think of matrimony; till “he had shaved the chin at least, and got a parson to turn him into a Christian, or something of that kind.” Upon those terms only would she surrender her charms and her money—for some she had—to Doctor Achmet Borumborad, however amiable.

The doctor’s courtship with the members of Parliament having now terminated, so far at any rate as further grants were concerned, and a grant of a much more tender nature being now within his reach, he began seriously to consider if he should not at once capitulate to Miss H., and exchange his beard and his Alcoran for a razor and the New Testament. After weighing matters deliberately, love prevailed; and he intimated by letter, in the proper vehemence of Asiatic passion, his determination to turn Christian, discard his beard, and, throwing himself at the feet of his beloved, vow eternal fidelity to her in the holy bands of matrimony. He concluded by requesting an interview in the presence of the young lady’s confidant, a Miss Owen, who resided next door. His request was granted, and he repeated his proposal, which was duly accepted, Miss Hartigan stipulating that he should never see her again until the double promise in his letter was fully redeemed; upon which he might mention his own day for the ceremony. The doctor having engaged to comply, took leave:—for the last time he stroked his glossy beard, and departed with a look so sensitive and tender, that both the intended bride and bridesmaid regarded the yielding Musselman with the fervor of an Asiatic constitution.

On the evening of the same day a gentleman was announced to the bride-elect, with a message from Doctor Achmet Borumborad. Her confidential neighbour was immediately summoned; the gentleman waiting meantime in a coach at the door. At length Miss Hartigan and her friend being ready to receive him, in walked a Christian gallant, in a suit of full-dress black, and a very tall, fine-looking Christian he was! Miss H. was surprised; she did not recognise her lover, particularly as she thought it impossible he could have been made a Christian before the ensuing Sunday! He immediately, however, fell on his knees, seized and kissed her lily hand, and on her beginning to expostulate, cried out at once, “Don’t be angry, my dear creature! to tell the honest truth, I am as good a Christian as the archbishop; I’m your own countryman, sure enough!—Mr. Patrick Joyce from Kilkenny county:—the devil a Turk any more than yourself, my sweet angel!” The ladies were astonished; but astonishment did not prevent Miss Hartigan from keeping her word, and Mr. and Mrs. Joyce became a very loving and happy couple.

The doctor’s great skill, however, was supposed to lie in his beard and faith;—consequently, on this dénouement, the baths declined. But the honest fellow had never done any discreditable or improper act; none indeed was ever laid to his charge: he fully performed every engagement with the Parliament whilst he retained the power to do so.

His beauty and portly appearance were considerably diminished by his change of garb. The long beard and picturesque dress had been half the battle; and he was, after his transformation, but a plain, rather coarse, but still brave-looking fellow. An old memorandum-book reminded me of these circumstances, as it noted a payment made to him by me on behalf of my elder brother, who had been lodging in the bath-house at the time of the swimming match.

I regret that I never inquired as to Joyce’s subsequent career, nor can I say whether he is or not still in the land of the living. This little story shows the facility with which public money was formerly voted, and, at the same time, the comparatively fortunate financial state of Ireland at that period, when the public purse could afford a multiplicity of such supplies without any tax or imposition whatsoever being laid upon the people to provide for them! How very different were the measures of that Parliament even ten years afterward!

The early life of Doctor Achmet Borumborad was obscure. All he mentioned himself was, that he left Ireland very young, in a merchant vessel, for Smyrna, where he lived with a high German doctor, who performed miraculous cures in that city. He affected to be a Turk, in order to get a better insight into the country and people. He appeared a man of much general information, and had studied the arts. Lord Charlemont had met him in Greece, and became his patron in Ireland. He was altogether a very well-conducted person; but being, as we have said, the first Turk (in appropriate costume) who had figured in Ireland, and glowing accounts of harems and seraglios having been previously read in the Arabian Nights; the doctor excited great curiosity, and not a little interest among the ladies. The old and rich Countess of Brandon fell desperately in love with his fine muscular person; but he never could be prevailed on to return her passion. She died of age some years before the Turk married Miss Hartigan.

ALDERMEN OF SKINNERS’ ALLEY.

The institution of Orangemen—United Irishmen—Protestant ascendancy—Dr. Duigenan—Origin, progress, and customs of the aldermen of Skinners’ Alley described—Their revels—Orange toast, never before published—The aldermen throw Mr. M‘Mahon, an apothecary, out of a window for striking the bust of King William—New association—Anecdotes of Sir John Bourke and Sir Francis Gould—The Pope’s bull of absolution to Sir Francis—Its delivery suspended till he had taken away his landlady’s daughter—His death.

Orange societies, as they are termed, were first formed by the Protestants to oppose and counteract the turbulent demonstrations of the Catholics, who formed the population of the south of Ireland. But at their commencement, the Orangemen certainly adopted a principle of interference which was not confined to religious points alone, but went to put down all popular insurrections which might arise on any point. The term, Protestant ascendancy, was coined by Mr. John Gifford (of whom more hereafter), and became an epithet very fatal to the peace of Ireland. Many associations indeed were, from time to time, originated: some for reform, others to oppose it; some for toleration, others for intolerance! There were good men and loyal subjects among the members of each; including many who never entertained the most distant idea of those disastrous results to be apprehended, at the feverish period preceding the rebellion of 1798, from any encouragement to innovation.

I followed up the principles my family had invariably pursued from their first settlement in Ireland; namely, an attachment divided between the crown and the people. In the year 1795, I saw that the people were likely to grow too strong for the crown; and therefore became at once, not indeed an ultra—but one in whom loyalty absorbed almost every other consideration. I willingly united in every effort to check the rising spirit of popular disaffection—the dreadful results of which were manifested in the atrocities acting throughout France, and in the tottering state of the crowns of Europe.

I had been previously initiated by my friend, Doctor Duigenan, judge of the Prerogative Court, into a very curious but most loyal society, whereof he was grand-master at the time of my election; and as this club differed essentially from any other in the empire, it may be amusing to describe it—a labour which nobody has hitherto, I believe, undertaken.

This curious assemblage was called “The Aldermen of Skinners’ Alley:” it was the first Orange association ever formed; and having, at the period I allude to, existed a full century in pristine vigour, it had acquired considerable local influence and importance. Its origin was as follows:—After William the Third had mounted the English throne, and King James had assumed the reins of government in Ireland, the latter monarch annulled the then existing charter of the Dublin corporation, dismissed all the aldermen who had espoused the revolutionary cause, and replaced them by others attached to himself. In doing this he was certainly justifiable:—the deposed aldermen, however, had secreted some little articles of their paraphernalia, and privately assembled in an alehouse in Skinners’ Alley, a very obscure part of the capital: here they continued to hold Anti-Jacobite meetings; elected their own lord mayor and officers; and got a marble bust of King William, which they regarded as a sort of deity! These meetings were carried on till the battle of the Boyne put William in possession of Dublin, when King James’s aldermen were immediately cashiered, and the Aldermen of Skinners’ Alley reinvested with their mace and aldermanic glories.

To honour the memory of their restorer, therefore, a permanent association was formed, and invested with all the memorials of their former disgrace and latter reinstatement. This organization, constituted near a century before, remained, I fancy, quite unaltered at the time I became a member. To make the general influence of this association the greater, the number of members was unlimited, and the mode of admission solely by the proposal and seconding of tried aldermen. For the same reason, no class, however humble, was excluded—equality reigning in its most perfect state at the assemblies. Generals and wig-makers—king’s counsel and hackney clerks, &c. all mingled without distinction as brother-aldermen:—a lord mayor was annually appointed; and regularity and decorum always prevailed—until, at least, toward the conclusion of the meetings, when the aldermen became more than usually noisy and exhilarated,—King William’s bust being placed in the centre of the supper-table, to overlook their extreme loyalty. The times of meeting were monthly; and every member paid sixpence per month, which sum (allowing for the absentees) afforded plenty of eatables, porter and punch, for the supping aldermen.

Their charter-dish was sheeps’ trotters (in allusion to King James’s running away from Dublin):—rum-punch in blue jugs, whisky-punch in white ones, and porter in its pewter, were scattered plentifully over the table; and all regular formalities being gone through, the eating part of the ceremony ended, and numerous speeches made, the real business began by a general chorus of “God save the King!” whereupon the grand engine, which, as a loyal and facetious shoemaker observed, would bind every sole of them together, and commemorate them all till the end of time, was set at work by order of the lord mayor. This engine was the charter-toast, always given with nine times nine! and duly succeeded by vociferous acclamations.

The 1st of July (anniversary of the battle of the Boyne) was the chartered night of assembly: then every man unbuttoned the knees of his breeches, and drank the toast on his bare joints—it being pronounced by his lordship in the following words, composed expressly for the purpose in the year 1689; afterward adopted by the Orange societies generally; and still, I believe, considered as the charter-toast of them all.

This most ancient and unparalleled sentiment runs thus:—

ORANGE TOAST.

“The glorious, pious, and immortal memory of the great and good King William!—not forgetting Oliver Cromwell, who assisted in redeeming us from popery, slavery, arbitrary power, brass-money, and wooden shoes!—May we never want a Williamite to kick the * * * * of a Jacobite!—and a * * * * for the Bishop of Cork! And he that won’t drink this, whether he be priest, bishop, deacon, bellows-blower, grave-digger, or any other of the fraternity of the clergy;—may a north wind blow him to the south, and a west wind blow him to the east! May he have a dark night—a lee-shore—a rank storm—and a leaky vessel, to carry him over the river Styx! May the dog Cerberus make a meal of his r—p, and Pluto a snuff-box of his skull! and may the devil jump down his throat with a red-hot harrow, with every pin tear out a gut, and blow him with a clean carcase to hell! Amen!”[^[43]]

[43]. I have seen this loyal sentiment drank out of Doctor Duigenan’s wig, brimful of wine!—its stanchness in holding liquid might be easily accounted for by any person who saw the doctor’s forehead either after a passion or a paroxysm of loyalty.

The extraordinary zeal wherewith this toast was drank, could only be equalled by the enthusiasm with which the blue and white jugs and pewter pots were resorted to, to ascertain the quality of the potation within; both processes serving to indicate the quantity of loyalty entertained by every alderman toward the King, Doctor Duigenan, and the Protestant Religion!—they then rebuttoned the knees of their breeches (trousers had not come into fashion), and sat down to work again in downright earnest. Mr. Powell, a jolly apothecary, of Thomas-street, in my time, led the vocal band;[^[44]] and after a dozen speeches, accompanied by numerous replenishments of the jugs, &c. every body who had any thing to do in the morning generally withdrew, leaving the rest of the loyalists to finish the last drop.

[44]. He burst a blood-vessel in singing “Rule Britannia,” and soon after became defunct, to the irreparable loss of the Skinners’ Alley loyalists.

The idea of “Orange Societies” arose, in my opinion, from this association, which, I believe, still exists, but has, I understand, degenerated into a sort of half-mounted club;—not exclusive enough for gentlemen, and too fine for wig-makers: it has, in fact, sunk into a paltry and unimportant corporate utensil.

I recollect an amusing circumstance which many years back occurred in this lodge. Until politics grew too hot, Napper Tandy and several other of the patriots were aldermen: but finding that ultra-loyalty was making way too fast for their notions, they sought some fair opportunity of seceding from the club, stealing the mace, and regenerating the whole board and establishment of Skinners’-alley! and the opportunity was not long wanting.

An apothecary, of the name of M‘Mahon, had become an alderman solely to avoid being considered a friend of the Pope: this, in point of reality, he was; but as, at that period, his creed was not the popular one, he conceived that he might thrive better in his business by appearing a stanch Protestant; or at least might learn, by association, some valuable secrets, and then blab them to his own sect.

But M‘Mahon, although a clever person, was, like many an honest fellow, vastly more candid when he got “the sup in” than he had ever intended to be; indeed, in these circumstances, whatever a man thinks often comes out in spite of him, as if it disagreed with his liquor! Thus, one unfortunate night, “Doctor M‘Mahon, the apothecary,” (as he was termed in Aungier-street,) having made too free amongst his brother-aldermen, and been completely overmastered by the blue jug, forgot his company, and began to speak rather unkindly of King William. His worthy associates, who had made similar applications to the blue and white, took fire at this sacrilege offered to their patron saint: one word brought on another;—the doctor grew outrageous; and, in his paroxysm, (not having the fear of flogging before his eyes,) actually damned King William! proceeding, in the enthusiasm of his popery, most thoughtlessly for himself and for the unhappy king’s bust then staring before him, to strike it with his huge fat fist plump in the face!

The aldermen, who had never heard blasphemy against their canonised king before, were astonished, while the bust immediately showed most evident and marvellous symptoms of maltreatment by the apothecary; its beautiful virgin white marble appearing to be actually stained with blood! This miracle caused one of the aldermen to roar out in a fright—“That villain, M‘Mahon, has broken the king’s nose!”—“The king’s nose!” ran throughout the room: some, who had been dozing, hearing this cry of high-treason from every quarter, rose and rushed with the rest upon the doctor: his clothes were soon turned into ribbons, and the cry of “throw him out of the window!” was unanimously and resolutely adopted: the window was opened; the doctor, after exerting all his muscular powers (and he was a strong, active man), was compelled to yield to numbers, and out he went into the street, very much to the ease and satisfaction of the loyal aldermen. The window was now closed again, the “Glorious Memory” drunk, the king’s nose washed clean from the blood formerly belonging to the doctor’s knuckles (which his Majesty’s feature had unmercifully scarified), and all restored to peace and tranquillity.

As for the poor doctor, out he went, as we have said, clean and cleverly, one good story. But (whether through chance or Providence we will not pretend to determine) fortunately for him, a lamp and lamp-iron stood immediately under the window whereby he had made so sudden an exit! Hence, the doctor’s route downward was impeded by a crash, like that made by the crescent in a military band, against the lamp; the glass and other materials all yielded to the precious weight, and very probably prevented the pavement from having the honour of receiving his brains for the scavenger: he held a moment by the iron, and then dropped quite gently into the arms of a couple of guardians of the night, who, attracted by the uproar in the room above, and seeing the window open, and the doctor getting out feet foremost, conceived that it was only a drunken frolic, and so placed themselves underneath “to keep the gentleman out of the gutter.”[^[45]]

[45]. Leaping out of a window voluntarily was formerly by no means uncommon in the country parts of Ireland:—some did it for fun—others for love: but it was generally for a wager. Very few serious accidents occurred in consequence of these exploits, there being generally a dunghill, or some other soft material, under the windows of country gentlemen’s lodges—the tumble was, in truth, more dirty than dangerous; dislocation being the utmost injury I was accustomed to see resulting therefrom.

The doctor scarcely waited to thank his preservers, set out pretty well sobered to his home, and the next day, summoning all the humane and patriotic aldermen, to whom he told his own story, they determined to secede and set up a new corps at the King’s Arms in Fowns’s-street. The old aldermen defended their conduct as loyal subjects; the others stigmatised it as the act of a set of man-slaughterers: these old and young guards of the British Constitution from that day set about advertising each other, and making proselytes on either side; and the Orange and United Irishmen parties gained as many recruiting serjeants by the fracas, as there were permanents or seceders among those illustrious aldermen.

As nothing is so much calculated to gratify the aldermen of Skinners’ Alley as anecdotes respecting his Holiness the Pope, or their eminencies the cardinals, I am happy in being enabled to afford them one, of which I was an eye-witness. I had the honour of touching his Holiness’s bull to the late Sir Francis Gould (of gallant memory), and of seeing the beautiful candles therewith—six feet and an inch in their sockets: and if the saving clause in the bull should disappoint the aldermen, they must blame the caution of Cardinal Gonsalvi for having it inserted (though, I believe, a lay cardinal). I regret that at present I can furnish them with no other anecdotes of the kind (at least that came within my own knowledge); but the following will serve excellently well to elucidate the Pope’s bulls of absolution.

A few years since, the present Sir John Bourke, of Glinsk, Bart., travelled with his new-married lady and establishment to Rome—not solely for his pleasure, but, as an Irish Catholic, to pay his respects to the Pope, kiss his Holiness’s toe, and purchase antiquities.

The late Sir Francis Gould, then at Paris, requested Sir John (before me) that, as he fancied he felt himself in a declining state of health, and unable to travel so far as Rome, he (Sir John) would take the proper steps, through Cardinal Gonsalvi, to procure him from his Holiness a bull of plenary absolution, and, if possible, an indulgence also; adding that Sir John might hint to the Cardinal that he intended to bequeath a good deal of his property amongst the clergy.

Sir John undertook the matter,—proceeded to Rome,—saw the Cardinal, and, as far as the absolution went, succeeded. He was himself at the same time created “Marchese de Bourke of the Holy Roman Empire;” and a bull was duly made out for Sir Francis Gould, at very considerable expense. Sir John received also a couple of blessed candles, six feet long, to burn whilst the bull was being read. Its express terms and conditions, however, were:—“Provided the penitent, Sir Francis Gould, should not again voluntarily commit the same sins now forgiven;” (which list included nearly all the sins the Cardinal could think of!) in the other case, the forgiveness would be void, and the two sets of sins come slap upon the soul of Sir Francis at once, no doubt with compound interest;—and which nothing but severe penance, some hundred full masses, and a great deal of mass-money, would ever be able to bring him through.

Sir John having brought home the bull, magnificently enclosed, and sewed up in a silk bag sealed officially by the Cardinal, informed Sir Francis (as we were all dining together at Bourke’s hotel) that he had that day unpacked his luggage, had the Pope’s bull perfectly safe, and would hand it to him instantly.

Sir Francis asked him its exact purport. “I have had two others,” said he; “but they are null, for I sinned again, and so can’t depend upon them.”

Sir John informed him of the purport, so far as his Latin went; when Sir Francis calmly said, “My dear Bourke, don’t give me the bull yet awhile: its operation, I find, is only retrospective, and does not affect sins committed after its delivery: why did you not bring me one that would answer always?”

“Such a one would cost a damned deal more,” replied Sir John.

“Well, then,” said Sir Francis, “send it to me in about ten days or a fortnight—not sooner: it will answer then pretty well, as I am about taking away a beautiful young creature, my landlady’s daughter, next week, and I should have that sin to answer for, if you gave me the bull before I had her clean out of Paris!”

He kept his word, took off the girl, then got the absolution; and in a very short time, poor fellow! was afforded, by death, an opportunity of trying its efficacy.

PROCESSION OF THE TRADES.

Dublin corporation anecdote—Splendid triennial procession of the Dublin corporation, called Fringes (franchises), described.

Nothing can better show the high opinion formerly entertained by the Irish of their own notoriety, and particularly by that celebrated body called the “Corporation of Dublin,” than the following incident. Mr. Willis, a leather-breeches-maker in Dame-street, and a famous orator at the corporation meetings, holding forth on a debate about the parochial watch (a subject which was considered as of the utmost general importance), discoursed as follows:—“This, my friends, is a subject neither trifling nor obscure; the character of our corporation is at stake on your decision!—recollect,” continued he, “recollect, brother freemen, that the eyes of all Europe are upon us!”—The volunteers were certainly of some celebrity, and it was supposed they would not be unheard of in foreign countries.[^[46]]

[46]. At the breaking out of the American war Colonel Brown, in derision of the colonists, declared, that he would march through all America with St. Andrew’s watchmen!—This declaration being made in the House of Commons, was thought to be in earnest by several members of the Dublin corporation. It was therefore suggested by one of the body to address his Majesty with a tender of the watchmen of St. Andrew’s, St. Ann’s, and St. Peter’s parishes, for American service. This serious offer drew down on the poor colonel such a volley of ridicule, that he never after mentioned America in Parliament. But such was the general contempt of the Americans at the commencement of the contest.

Colonel Brown was brother to old Lord Altamont.

One of the customs of Dublin which prevailed in my early days made such a strong impression upon my mind, that it never could be obliterated. The most magnificent and showy procession, I really believe, except those of Rome, then took place in the Irish metropolis every third year, and attracted a number of English quite surprising, if we take into account the difficulty and hazard of a passage at that time from London to Dublin.

The corporation of the latter city were, by the terms of their charter, bound, once in three years, to perambulate the limits of the lord mayor’s jurisdiction, to make stands or stations at various points, and to skirt the Earl of Meath’s liberties—a part of the city at that era in great prosperity, but forming a local jurisdiction under the earl (in the nature of a manor) totally distinct from that of Dublin.

This procession being in fact partly intended to mark and to designate the extreme boundaries of his lordship’s jurisdiction, at those points where they touch the Earl of Meath’s liberty, the lord mayor thrust his sword through the wall of a certain house;—and then concluded the ceremony by approaching the sea at low water, and hurling a javelin as far upon the sands as his strength admitted, which was understood to form the boundary between him and Neptune.

The trade of Dublin is comprised of twenty-five corporations, or guilds, each independent of the other, and represented, as in London, by a common council. Every one of these comprised its masters, journeymen, and apprentices;—and each guild had a patron saint, or protector, whose image or emblem was on all great occasions dressed up in appropriate habiliments.

For this procession every member of the twenty-five corporations prepared as for a jubilee. Small funds only were collected, and each individual gladly bore his extra charges—the masters and journeymen being desirous of outvying one another, and conceiving that the gayer they appeared on that great day, the more consideration would they be entitled to throughout the ensuing three years! Of course, therefore, such as could afford it spared no expense: they borrowed the finest horses and trappings which could be procured; the masters rode—the journeymen walked, and were succeeded by the apprentices.

Every corporation had an immense carriage, with a great platform and high canopy,—the whole radiant with gilding, ribbons, and draperies, and drawn by six or eight horses equally decked and caparisoned—their colours and flags flying in all directions. On these platforms, which were fitted up as workshops, were the implements of the respective trades; and expert hands were actually at work during the entire perambulation, which generally lasted eight or nine hours!—The procession indeed took two hours to pass. The narrow-weavers wove ribbons which they threw to the spectators:—the others tossed into the air small patterns of the fabric they worked upon: the printers were employed in striking off innumerable hand-bills, with songs, and odes to the lord mayor, the lady mayoress, &c.

But the smiths’ part of the spectacle was the most gaudy: they had their forge in full work, and were attended by a very high phaeton adorned in every way they could think of—the horses covered with flowers, gilt stars, and coloured streamers. In this phaeton sat the most beautiful woman they could possibly procure, as wife to their patron, Vulcan. It is unnecessary to describe her dress: suffice it to say, it approached that of a Venus as nearly as decency would permit: a blue scarf, covered with silver doves, was used at her discretion, and four or five little Cupids, apparently naked, with goose wings stuck to their shoulders, (aiming with bows and arrows at the ladies in the windows,) played at her feet.—On one side rode, on the largest horse which could be provided, a huge fellow, representing Vulcan, dressed cap-à-pie in coal-black armour, and flourishing an immense smith’s sledge-hammer as if it had been a light toy!—On the other side pranced his rival, Mars, on a tawdry-caparisoned charger, in shining armour (with an immensity of feathers and horse-hair), and brandishing a two-edged glittering sword six or eight feet long—Venus meantime seeming to pay much more attention to her gallant than to her husband. Behind the phaeton rode Argus, with an immense peacock’s tail; whilst numerous other gods and goddesses, saints, devils, satyrs, &c. were distributed in the procession, on carriages painted with clouds for the gods, and blue flames for the devil!

The skinners and tanners seemed to undergo no slight penance—a considerable number of these artisans being dressed up close in sheep and goat skins of different colours. The representatives of the butchers were enveloped in hides, with towering horns, and rode along brandishing knives, marrowbones, and cleavers!—a most formidable-looking corporation! The apothecaries made up and distributed pills and boluses on their platform, which was furnished with numerous metal pestles and mortars, so contrived and tuned as to sound, in the grinding, like bells ringing some popular air.—Each corporation had its appropriate band and colours; perfect order was maintained; and so proud was the Dublin mob of what they called their fringes,[^[47]] that on this peculiar occasion they managed to behave with great decorum and propriety.

[47]. Franchises.

But the crowd seemed always in the most anxious expectation to see the tailors, who were certainly the favourites. The master-tailors usually borrowed the best horses from their gentlemen customers; and as they were not accustomed to horseback, the scene was certainly highly ludicrous. A tailor on a spirited horse has ever been esteemed a curiosity; but a troop of a hundred and fifty or two hundred tailors, all decked with ribbons and lace and every species of finery, on horses equally adorned, presented a spectacle outvying description! Their great difficulty in keeping their seats was extremely amusing.—But when the beast was too obstreperous, a couple of tawdry apprentices led him:—this precaution, however, did not prevent occasional misadventures. The journeymen and apprentices walked—except that number of workmen on the platform. St. Crispin with his last, St. Andrew with his cross, and St. Luke with his gridiron, were all included in the show; as were the city officers in their full robes and paraphernalia. The guild of merchants, being under the especial patronage of the Holy Trinity, could not, with all their ingenuity, find out any unprofane emblem, except a shamrock, of huge dimensions! the three distinct leaves whereof are on one stalk. This, by the way, offered St. Patrick means of explaining the Trinity, and thereby of converting the Irish to Christianity; and hence the shamrock became the national emblem of Ireland. The merchants had also a large ship on wheels, drawn and manned by real sailors.

This singular procession I twice witnessed: it has since been abolished, after having worked well, and done no harm, from the days of the very first lord mayor of Dublin. The city authorities, however, began at length to think venison and claret would be better things for the same expense; and so it was decided that the money should remain in the purse of the corporation, and a wretched substitute for the old ceremony was arranged. The lord mayor and sheriffs, with some dozen of dirty constables, now perambulate these bounds in privacy and silence;—thus defeating, in my mind, the very intention of their charter, and taking away a triennial prospective object of great attraction and pride to the inhabitants of the metropolis of Ireland, for the sole purpose of gratifying the sensual appetites of a city aristocracy, who court satiety and indigestion at the expense of their humbler brethren.

The unnecessary abolition of all ancient ceremonies is impolitic. Such as that of which I speak, tended to keep up an honest feeling of national pride, and to mark epochas in time: gratifying the humbler classes by giving them the prospect, although a distant one, of an attractive object adapted to their taste, their habits, and their station. The fringes were a spur to industry, and the poor people took great pride therein.

IRISH REBELLION.

Rebellion in Ireland, in 1798—Mr. Waddy’s castle—A priest cut in two by the portcullis, and partly eaten by Waddy—Dinner-party at Lady Colclough’s—Names and characters of the company, including Mr. Bagenal Harvey, Captain Keogh, &c.—Most of them executed soon after—Tour through and state of County Wexford, after the battles and storming of the town—Colonel Walpole killed and his regiment defeated at Gorey—Unaccountable circumstance of Captain Keogh’s head not decaying.

Many incidents which, I really think, could not have occurred in any country except Ireland, took place in the year 1798. There is something so very different from other people in every deed or word of the unsophisticated Irish, that in fact one has no right to be surprised, whatever scenes may be acted by them.

One of these curious occurrences remains even to this day a subject of surmise and mystery. During the rebellion in County Wexford in 1798, Mr. Waddy, a violent ultra loyalist, surrounded by a neighbourhood of inveterate insurgents, to whom he had made himself peculiarly obnoxious, fled to a castle at a considerable distance from the town of Wexford. Though out of repair, it was not unfit for habitation; and might secure its tenant from any coup de main of undisciplined insurgents. He dreaded discovery so much, that he would entrust his place of refuge to no person whatsoever; and, as he conceived, took sufficient food to last until he might escape out of the country. There was but one entrance to the castle, and that was furnished with an old portcullis, which drew up and let down as in ancient fortresses.

Here Mr. Waddy concealed himself; and every body was for a long time utterly ignorant as to his fate:—some said he was drowned in the Slaney; some, burned alive; others, murdered and buried in ploughed ground! But while each was willing to give an opinion as to the mode of his destruction, no one supposed him to be still alive. At length, it occurred to certain of his friends to seek him through the country; with which view they set out, attended by an armed body! Every wood and ruin was explored; but their search was vain, until approaching by chance an old castle, they became aware of a stench, which the seekers conjectured to proceed from the putrid corpse of murdered Waddy. On getting nearer, this opinion was confirmed; a dead body lay half within and half without the castle, which the descent of the old portcullis had crushed nearly into equal portions. Poor Mr. Waddy was deeply lamented; and, though with great disgust, they proceeded to remove that half of the carcase which lay outside the entrance—when, to their infinite astonishment, they perceived that it was not Waddy, but a neighbouring priest, who had been so expertly cut in two;—how the thing had happened, nobody could surmise. They now rapped and shouted—but no reply: Waddy, in good truth, lay close within, supposing them to be rebels. At length, on venturing to peep out, he discovered his friends, whom he joyfully requested to raise, if possible, the portcullis, and let him out, as he was almost starved to death.

This, with difficulty, was effected, and the other half of the priest was discovered immediately within the entrance,—but by no means in equally good condition with that outside; inasmuch as it appeared that numerous collops and rump-steaks had been cut off the reverend gentleman’s hind-quarters by Waddy, who, early one morning, had found the priest thus divided; and being alike unable to raise the portcullis or get out to look for food, (certain indeed, in the latter case, of being piked by any of the rebels who knew him,) he thought it better to feed on the priest, and remain in the castle till fortune smiled, than run a risk of breaking all his bones by dropping from the battlements—his only alternative.

To the day of Waddy’s death, he could give no collected or rational account how this incident occurred:—indeed, so confused had his head become in consequence of his critical circumstances, that the whole appeared to him ever after as a dream or vision quite beyond his comprehension.

The foregoing, though among the most curious, is but one of the extraordinary occurrences of that dreadful insurrection—some of which tend to strengthen my superstitious feeling, which is, I confess, very deep-rooted, as also is my conviction, that “whatever is, is right!”—Scarcely any except the fortunate will, I suppose, be ready to join me in the latter notion, though in the former I am aware I have many associates, particularly among old women and hypochondriacs: I am, it is true, perpetually laughed at for both by what are termed clever ladies and strong-minded gentlemen, but still think proper to retain my own impressions.

I will detail the following circumstance in illustration of these principles. It took place immediately previous to the breaking out of the rebellion.

I dined at the house of Lady Colclough (a near relative of Lady Barrington), in the town of Wexford, in April, 1798. The company, so far as I now recollect, consisted of about sixteen persons, among whom were several other of Lady Barrington’s relatives (then members of the grand-jury): Mr. Cornelius Grogan, of Johnstown, a gentleman, seventy years old, of very large fortune, who had represented the county; his two brothers, both wealthy men; Captain Keogh, afterward rebel governor of Wexford, the husband of Lady B.’s aunt; the unfortunate John Colclough, of Tintern, and the still more unfortunate Mr. Colclough; Counsellor John Beauman; Counsellor Bagenal Harvey, afterward the rebel generalissimo; Mr. William Hatton, a rebel director in Wexford; and some others. The conversation after dinner turning on the distracted state of the country, became rather too free, and I begged some of the party to be more moderate, as our ways of thinking were so different, and my public situation did not permit me, especially at that particular period, to hear such strong language: the loyalists among us did not exceed five or six (exclusive of ladies, whose politics nobody minds).

The tone of the conversation was soon changed, but not before I had made up my mind as to the probable fate of several in company, though I certainly had no idea that, in little more than a month, a sanguinary rebellion would desolate my native land, and violent deaths, within three months, befall a considerable proportion of that joyous assemblage. I had seen enough, however, to convince me that all was not right; and that, by plunging one step further, most of my relatives and friends would be in imminent danger. The party however broke up; and next morning, Counsellor Beauman and myself, happening to meet on the bridge, talked over the occurrences of the previous day, uniting in opinion as to the inauspicious aspect of things, and actually proceeding to sketch out a list of those among the dinner-party whom we considered likely to fall victims!—and it so turned out that every one of our predictions was verified! It was superficial observation alone that led me to think as I did at that moment, but a decided presentiment of what eventually happened soon after took possession of me; and indeed so full was I of forebodings, that I was more than once roused out of my sleep by the horrid ideas floating through my mind as to the fate of connexions for whom I had a warm affection.

Bagenal Harvey (already mentioned in this work), who had been my school-fellow and constant circuit-companion for many years, laughed, at Lady Colclough’s, at my political prudery; assured me I was totally wrong in suspecting him; and insisted on my going to Bargay Castle, his residence, to meet some old Temple friends of ours on the ensuing Monday;—my relative Captain Keogh was to be of the party.

I accordingly went there to dinner; but that evening proved to me one of great uneasiness, and made a very disagreeable impression both on my mind and spirits. The company I met included, besides the host, Mr. Cornelius Grogan; Captain Keogh; the two unfortunate Counsellors Sheers, who were both hung shortly afterward; Mr. Colclough, who was hung on the bridge; Mr. Hay, who was also executed; Mr. William Hatton, one of the rebel directory of Wexford, who unaccountably escaped; and a gentleman of the bar whose name I shall not mention, as he still lives. In fact, seven of the company were soon afterward headless.

The entertainment was good, and the party cheerful. Temple freaks were talked over; the bottle circulated: but, at length, Irish politics became the topic, and proceeded to an extent of disclosure which utterly surprised me. With the Messrs. Sheers (particularly Henry) I had always been on terms of the greatest intimacy: I had extricated both of them not long before from considerable difficulty, through the kindness of Lord Kilwarden; and I had no idea that matters wherein they were concerned had proceeded to the lengths developed on that night. The probability of a speedy revolt was freely discussed, though in the most artful manner, not a word of either of the party committing themselves, or indeed any one else: but they talked it over as a result which might be expected from the complexion of the times and the irritation excited in consequence of the severities exercised by the government. The chances of success, in the event of a rising, were openly debated, as were also the circumstances likely to spring from that success, and the examples which the insurgents would in such a case probably make. The Marquess of Ely and Lord Clare they looked upon as persons not likely to be spared. All this was at the same time talked over, without one word being uttered in favour of rebellion;—a system of caution which, I afterward learned, was much practised for the purpose of gradually making proselytes without alarming them. I, however, saw through it clearly, and here my presentiments came strong upon me. I found myself in the midst of absolute though unavowed conspirators. I perceived that the explosion was much nearer than the government expected; and was startled at the decided manner in which my host and his friends spoke. The barrister whom I have mentioned but not named did not reside in that province, and had no connexion with it that I ever heard of. I therefore saw that he was an envoy. He has, I believe, never been publicly committed in that business.

Under these circumstances, my alternative was evidently to quit the house, or give a turn to the conversation. I therefore began to laugh at the subject, and ridicule it as quite visionary, observing jestingly to Keogh—“Now, my dear Keogh, it is quite clear that you and I, in this famous rebellion, shall be on different sides of the question; and of course one or the other of us must necessarily be hanged at or before its termination—I upon a lamp-iron in Dublin, or you on the bridge of Wexford. Now, we’ll make a bargain!—if we beat you, upon my honour I’ll do all I can to save your neck; and if your folks beat us, you’ll save me from the honour of the lamp-iron!”

A hearty laugh ensued, and my health was drunk in a bumper.

We shook hands on the bargain, and the whole after-talk assumed a cheerful character. But I returned to Wexford at twelve at night, with a most decided impression of the danger of the country, and a complete presentiment that either myself or Captain Keogh would never see the conclusion of that summer.

I immediately wrote to Mr. Secretary Cooke, without mentioning names, place, or any particular source of knowledge; but simply to assure him that there was not a doubt that an insurrection would break out at a much earlier period than the government contemplated. I desired him to ask me no questions, because I could give him no details, my ideas being the free result of observation: however, I said that he might depend upon the fact; adding that a commanding force ought instantly to be sent down to garrison the town of Wexford, which might prevent any rising. “If the government,” said I, in conclusion, “does not attend to my warning, it must take the consequences.” My warning was purposely disregarded; but his Majesty’s government soon found I was right. They lost Wexford, and might have lost Ireland, by that culpable inattention.

The result need scarcely be mentioned; many members of that jovial dinner-party were executed within three months! and on my next visit to Wexford, I saw the heads of Captain Keogh, Mr. Harvey, and Mr. Colclough, on spikes over the court-house door.

Previously to the final catastrophe, however, when the insurgents had been beaten, Wexford retaken by our troops, and Keogh made prisoner, I did not forget my promise to him at Bargay Castle. He was a good man and a respectable gentleman, and I would have gone any length to save him. Many certificates had reached Dublin of his humanity to the royalists whilst the town of Wexford was under his government, and of attempts made upon his life by Dixon, a brutal chief of his own party, for his endeavouring to resist the rebel butcheries. I had intended to go with these directly to Lord Camden, the lord lieutenant; but I first saw Mr. Secretary Cooke, to whom I related the entire story, and showed him several favourable documents. I begged he would come with me to the lord lieutenant, whom the aide-de-camp in waiting had informed me would receive me forthwith. He told me I might save myself the trouble of going to Lord Camden; and at the same time handed me a despatch received that morning from General Lake, who stated that he had thought it necessary, on recapturing Wexford, to lose no time in “making examples” of the rebel chiefs; and that accordingly, Mr. Grogan, of Johnstown, Mr. Bagenal Harvey, of Bargay Castle, Captain Keogh, Mr. Colclough, and some other gentlemen, had been hanged on the bridge and beheaded the previous morning.

I felt shocked beyond measure at this intelligence,—particularly as I knew Mr. Cornelius Grogan (an excellent gentleman, seventy years of age, of very large fortune and establishments,) to be no more a rebel than myself. Being unable, from infirmity, to walk without assistance, he was led to execution.—His case was, in fact, most pitiable: he was decidedly murdered according to municipal law, but which at that period was totally superseded by “martial law,” which in many instances was most savagely resorted to.

I was at all times ready and willing to risk my life to put down that spirit of mad democracy which sought to subvert all legal institutions, and to support every true principle of the constitution which protected us: but at the same time I must in truth and candour say (and I say it with reluctance), that, during those sanguinary scenes, the brutal conduct of certain frantic royalists was at least on a parallel with that of the frantic rebels.

Immediately after the recapture of Wexford, I traversed that county, to see the ruins which had been occasioned by warfare. Enniscorthy had been twice stormed, and was dilapidated and nearly burned. New Ross showed melancholy relics of the obstinate and bloody battle of full ten hours’ duration, which had been fought in every street of it; when Lord Mountjoy fell, at the head of his regiment, by the fire of a rebel named Shepherd, who singled him out at the three billet-gate:—his regiment instantly retreated, and the triumphant rebel advanced and took his lordship’s watch out of his pocket. The man afterward showed it me in Dublin, when I took him as a witness on the attainder bill before the House of Commons. Lord Clare wanted to take it, and to send him to Newgate;—but I had brought him up on an amnesty, and government supported me. The numerous pits crammed with dead bodies, on Vinegar Hill, seemed on some spots actually elastic as we stood upon them; whilst the walls of an old windmill on its summit appeared stained and splashed with the blood and brains of the many victims who had been piked or shot against it by the rebels. The court-house of Enniscorthy, wherein our troops had burned alive above eighty of the wounded rebels; and the barn of Scullabogue, where the rebels had retaliated by burning alive above one hundred and twenty Protestants—were terrific ruins! The town of Gorey was utterly destroyed,—not a house being left perfect; and the bodies of the killed were lying half-covered in sundry ditches in its vicinity. It was here that Colonel Walpole had been defeated and killed a few days before.[^[48]]

[48]. No man ever came to a violent death more unwarily! Colonel Walpole was a peculiarly handsome man, an aide-de-camp to Lord Camden. With somewhat of the air of a petit-maître, he fluttered much about the drawing-room of the Castle:—but, as he had not seen actual service, he felt a sort of military inferiority to veterans, who had spent the early part of their lives in blowing other people’s brains out; and he earnestly begged to be entrusted with some command that might give him an opportunity of fighting for a few weeks in the County Wexford, and of writing some elegant despatches to his excellency the lord lieutenant. The lord lieutenant most kindly indulged him with a body of troops, and sent him to fight in the County Wexford, as he requested: but on passing the town of Gorey, not being accustomed to advanced-guards or flankers, he overlooked such trifles altogether! and having got into a defile with some cannon and the Antrim regiment,—in a few minutes the colonel was shot through the head—the cannon changed masters—and most of the Antrim heroes had each a pike, ten or twelve feet long, sticking in his carcase:—“Sic transit gloria mundi!”

An unaccountable circumstance was witnessed by me on that tour immediately after the retaking of Wexford. General Lake, as I have before mentioned, had ordered the heads of Mr. Grogan, Captain Keogh, Mr. Bagenal Harvey, and Mr. Colclough, to be placed on very low spikes over the court-house door of Wexford. A faithful servant of Mr. Grogan had taken away his head; but the other three remained there when I visited the town. The countenances of friends and relatives, in such a situation, would, it may be imagined, give any man most horrifying sensations! The heads of Mr. Colclough and Harvey seemed black lumps, the features being utterly undistinguishable; that of Keogh was uppermost, but the air had made comparatively little impression on it! His comely and respect-inspiring face (except the livid hue) appeared nearly as in life: his eyes were not closed—his thin hair did not look much ruffled: in fact, it seemed to me rather as a head of chiselled marble, with glass eyes, than as the lifeless remains of a human creature:—this singular appearance I never could get any medical man satisfactorily to explain.[^[49]] I prevailed on General Hunter, who then commanded in Wexford, to suffer the three heads to be taken down and buried.

[49]. It has occurred to me, that the very great difference in the look of the heads might proceed from the following causes:—Messrs. Harvey and Colclough were hanged on the bridge, and their bodies suffered to lie some time before they were decapitated. The effect of strangulation made the faces black; and the blood cooling and stagnating, this black colour remained. Keogh had been decapitated as soon as cut down;—the warm blood was therefore totally discharged from the head, and the face became livid, no stagnate blood remaining to blacken it. If the thing had not been public, it might have been doubted. It is now thirty years past, and I can divine no other reason for so curious a circumstance; and army surgeons in Paris (I suppose the best in the world) tell me that my conjecture is perfectly well-founded.

WOLF TONE.

Counsellor Theobald Wolf Tone—His resemblance to Mr. Croker—He is ordered to be hanged by a military court—General Craig attached in the court of Common Pleas—Tone’s attempt at suicide—Cruel suggestion respecting him.

Theobald Wolf Tone was one of the most remarkable of the persons who lost their lives in consequence of that wild democratic mania, which, at the period treated of in the former sketch, had seized upon the reason of so many otherwise sensible individuals. His catastrophe cannot fail to be interesting:—it affected me much.

This gentleman’s enthusiastic mind was eternally surrounded by the mist of visionary speculation: it was a fine sailer, but wanted ballast. He had distinguished himself somewhat in the University as a desultory declaimer; but, in my judgment, that was the full extent of his oratorical powers. He was neither high-born nor wealthy:—in fact, I fear even a certain competency was not at his command; and hence his spirit, naturally restless, was additionally goaded and inflamed. He had no steady pursuit; nor was his nature adapted to mental labour:—of personal activity he had abundance; but was deficient in judgment, and absolutely destitute of cool common sense.

Yet Wolf Tone possessed considerable talent, together with great personal firmness and intrepidity; but he knew not the time, place, or manner of turning these gifts to his advantage. His best qualities were squandered—his worst exposed; and there was a total absence of that consolidating power which draws such abilities to a focus.

It is a curious circumstance that Mr. Tone, a decided revolutionist, married (improvidently enough) one sister, whilst Mr. Thomas Reynolds, who betrayed the revolutionary friends of Tone and of himself, espoused another.

Tone was called to the Irish bar; but had been previously over-rated by the Historical Society, and did not succeed. I thought it a pity (as he was really a very good-hearted person) that he should not be fairly tried, and, if possible, pushed forward; and being myself high on the circuit, I took him round in my carriage three circuits, and thought well of him; but he was too light and visionary; and as for law, I found that species of science quite uncongenial to him. His person was unfavourable, and not gentlemanly; and he had not been much in society:—his countenance was thin and sallow; and he had in his speech a harsh guttural pronunciation of the letter R. Mr. Croker, of the Admiralty, resembles him in personal appearance greatly, but is much Tone’s inferior in elocution. Had Tone had the hundredth part of Mr. Croker’s tact and skill in working upward, he might this day have been living and happy.

It is my belief that Tone could not have succeeded in any steady civil profession. He was not worldly enough, nor had he sufficient collectedness for his guidance. His biography has been repeatedly published, and I only intend here to allude to the extraordinary circumstances of his death;—an event upon which I confess I had many painful feelings, and not the less so from its being connected with my own judicial functions.

He had been taken in arms by Sir John Borlase Warren, at sea, in a French frigate, proceeding to land troops in Ireland. He wore the uniform of a French officer; but being recognised, brought prisoner to Dublin, and delivered over for trial to the provost-marshal and military authorities, he was of course condemned to be hanged. I did not see him under these distressing circumstances, nor in truth was it my wish to do so; for although there existed between us no actual friendship, still I had a strong feeling for a gentleman with whom I had been so well acquainted.

It occurred to his counsel that the jurisdiction of martial law could not extend to him, as it only operated on land, and he had been taken at sea. An application was therefore made to the Common Pleas to have him brought up by habeas corpus, in order (the point being ascertained) to be regularly tried before the competent tribunal—the Court of Admiralty. The habeas corpus being granted, was served on General Craig, who then commanded in Dublin; but who, considering (as all the generals then did) that the municipal judges were no more than corporals or quarter-masters with respect to his Majesty’s forces, refused to obey it, and was attacked for his disobedience; an order was immediately made for the general, the provost-marshal, brigade-major, and some others, to be taken into custody by the officers of the court of Common Pleas forthwith.

To me (as judge of the Admiralty) this appeal was most distressing. Had Tone the least chance of escape in any court, or upon any trial, it might have been otherwise; but he could not be defended; and to have him brought before me only to witness his conviction, and to pronounce his sentence, shocked me extremely. His friends thought this course might prolong his fate a considerable time, and it was supposed that something might intermediately occur calculated to effect a commutation of the capital punishment. I knew better! I was convinced that his execution was determined on: it was unavoidable, and I felt great uneasiness.

The court having, as I have said, ordered General Craig and Major Sandys (provost-marshal) to be arrested for disobedience, both these gentlemen, after some hesitation, submitted to the arrest, and the pursuivant was then directed to bring up the body of Theobald Wolf Tone, on the writ of habeas corpus.—The judges sat patiently awaiting the officer’s return; and the decision being of great importance, the court was crowded to suffocation.

A considerable time elapsed, and still the pursuivant returned not. At length he appeared, with horror in his looks, and scarcely able to speak. He informed the court that Mr. Tone, feeling certain of execution by order of the military, and being ignorant of the motion which his friends thought might give him some chance for his life, had cut his throat from ear to ear, and, he believed, was dying! A surgeon now attended, who reported that the prisoner had certainly cut his throat, but that recovery was possible: the incision was long and deep, but had missed the artery, and he still lived. Of course the trial was postponed; every friend he had (and I think he had many amongst the bar) rejoicing that poor Tone had escaped a public execution. He lingered awhile:—and will it be believed, that when the wound had been connected, and whilst life still seemed to be precarious, owing to the extreme inflammation,—I say, will it be believed that there existed cruelty sufficient in the breast of any human creature to advise his execution—though it would have been impossible to put the sentence in force without inserting the rope within the wound, and nearly tearing away the unfortunate gentleman’s head from his body?—Yet such advice was positively given, for “the sake of example;”—and rejected, I am happy to say, with horror! I will spare the man who gave it the ignominy which would thence attach to his name were it mentioned.

DUBLIN ELECTION.

My contest for Dublin city—Supported by Grattan, Ponsonby, Plunkett, and Curran—Singularity of a canvass for Dublin—The election—Curious incidents—Grattan’s famous philippic, never before published—Memoirs of Mr. John Giffard, called the “dog in office”—Horish the chimney-sweeper’s bon-mot.

In 1803, I had become particularly popular in Dublin. I was not at enmity with any sect or party. The losses and deprivations which the citizens of Dublin were suffering in consequence of the Union, brought to their recollection the fact of my having been one of its most zealous opponents. They knew that I had entertained professional ambition; and they also knew that, in order to oppose that measure, and support the independence of the nation as well as my own, I had with open eyes sacrificed all the objects of my ambition;—that I had refused the most gratifying proposals; and, in maintenance of principle, had set my face decidedly against the measures of that government which I had on other occasions supported, and which alone possessed the power to advance me. They knew that I had braved the animosity of Chancellor Clare, whom few had ever ventured to oppose so decidedly as myself; and that I had utterly renounced Lord Castlereagh, by whom all means were employed to attach me. In fact, the citizens of Dublin recollected that I had abandoned every prospect in life to uphold their interest;[^[50]] and consequently many persons on both sides of politics had proposed to me to become a candidate for the representation of the metropolis in Parliament. Some entire corporations voted me their freedom and support; and a great number of the freeholders tendered me their aid. Having, in addition, an extensive personal interest of my own, I at length determined to stand the contest.

[50]. This observation is fully verified. I anticipated the consequences of an imperium in imperio, which the Union inevitably produced; and which always evades the claims and advancement of bold, independent men, preferring those who have more pliability, discretion, and tact, for the management of second-hand rulers and authorities.

Persons of the first weight and rank came forward in my favour; and among these I am proud to enumerate—His Grace the Duke of Leinster, Mr. Grattan, Mr. George Ponsonby, Mr. Curran, Mr. Plunkett, many of the most respectable members of my own profession, and numerous private gentlemen. Indeed, the mode in which I was brought forward, and the parties by whom I was encouraged, could not but gratify me highly.

The city, however, immediately divided into two inveterate factions,—one of which declared for Mr. Beresford, the banker, and Mr. Ogle, the Orange chieftain; whilst the other supported Mr. Latouche and myself. A fifth gentleman, Sir John Jervoise White Jervoise, Bart., also announced himself a candidate, on the strength of his own personal connexions and individual property in the city, backed by any second votes he could pick up amongst the rest.

Dublin differs from London in this respect—inasmuch as there must be an individual canvass, requiring hard labour of at least two months or ten weeks, by day and by night, to get through it cleverly. One custom alone takes up an immensity of time, which, though I believe it never existed any where else, has the semblance of good sense to recommend it. The grand corporation of Dublin comprises twenty-five minor corporations or trades, each independent of the other; and all (knowing their own importance previous to an election, and their insignificance after it is over) affect the state and authority of a Venetian senate, and say (shrewdly enough), “How can we, ignorant men! tell who is fittest to represent Dublin till we have an opportunity of knowing their abilities?” And for the purpose of acquiring this knowledge, each corporation appoints a day to receive the candidates in due formality in its hall; and each candidate is then called on to make an oration, in order to give the electors power of judging as to his capability to speak in parliament. So that, in the progress of his canvass, every candidate must make twenty-four or twenty-six speeches in his best style! Nothing can be more amusing than the gravity and decorum, wherewith the journeymen barbers,[^[51]] hosiers, skinners, cooks, &c. &c. receive the candidates, listen to their fine florid harangues, and then begin to debate amongst themselves as to their comparative merits; and, in truth, assume as much importance as the diplomatists at Vienna, with intentions to the full as wholesome.

[51]. These gentry, not many years since, addressed the Duke of York as “the corporation of surgeons,”—i. e. barber-surgeons. The address was replied to without its being known that they were only shavers and wig-makers!

However, I got through my canvass of nearly three months, and remained tolerably in my senses at the conclusion of it: though, most undoubtedly, I drank as much porter and whisky with the electors themselves, and as much tea and cherry-brandy with their wives, as would have ended my days on any other occasion. But I loved the people of Dublin; I had lived more than thirty years among them; was upon good terms with all parties and societies; and, if elected, I should have been a very faithful, and I trust, an effective representative.

The humours of an Irish canvass can only be known to those who have witnessed them; and, I believe, no election, even in Ireland, ever gave rise to more of what is termed real fun. Most of the incidents are too trivial and too local for detail: but there were some so ludicrous, that, even at this moment, I can scarce refrain from laughing at their recollection.

Never was a business of the kind conducted with more spirit; and, at the same time, a degree of good temper prevailed, not to have been expected in a contest which called into play the most fiery and rancorous party feelings; and the genuine stream of humour that steadily flowed on, had a great effect in washing away any marks of ill-blood.

It is with pride I relate that the four voters who formed my first tally were, Mr. George Ponsonby[^[52]] (afterward lord chancellor), Mr. Henry Grattan, Mr. William Plunkett (the present attorney-general), and Mr. John Philpott Curran (afterward master of the rolls); and that the two former accompanied their votes by far more than merited eulogiums. No candidate on any election in Ireland ever yet exhibited so talented a tally.

[52]. “My reason,” said Mr. Ponsonby, on the hustings, “for proposing Mr. Barrington for the representation of the city of Dublin is—that I have known him as my friend, and I have known him as my enemy; and, in either character, have found him ‘an honest man.’”

I lost the election: but I polled to the end of the fifteen days, and the last tally; and had the gratification of thinking that I broke the knot of a virulent ascendancy, was the means of Mr. Latouche’s success, and likewise of Mr. Grattan’s subsequent return.

In the course of that election many curious incidents occurred; and as every thing which relates to Mr. Grattan, and tends to elucidate the character and peculiarities of that most pure and eminent of my countrymen, must necessarily be interesting (anecdotes, which, as cotemporaries are dropping fast around me, would, if not now recorded, be lost for ever,)—I feel myself justified in detailing a few, though in themselves of no particular importance.

In the days of unsophisticated patriotism, when the very name of Grattan operated as a spell to rouse the energies and spirit of his country;—when the schisms of party bigotry had yielded to the common weal, and public men were sure to obtain that public gratitude they merited;—the corporation of Dublin (in some lucid interval of the sottish malady which has ever distinguished that inconsiderate and intemperate body) obtained a full-length portrait of Henry Grattan, then termed their great deliverer. His name graced their corporate rolls as an hereditary freeman,[^[53]] when the jealous malice of that rancorous and persevering enemy of every man opposed to him, the Earl of Clare, in a secret committee of the House of Lords, introduced into their report some lines of a deposition by one Hughes (a rebel who had been made a witness, and was induced to coin evidence to save his own life), detailing a conversation which he alleged himself to have had with Mr. Grattan, wherein the latter had owned that he was a United Irishman. Every body knew the total falsity of this. Indeed, Mr. Grattan was, on the other hand, a man whose principles had been on certain occasions considered too aristocratic; and yet he was now denounced, in the slang of the lord chancellor, “an infernal democrat!” The corporation of Dublin caught the sound, and, without one atom of inquiry, tore down from their walls the portrait which had done them so much honour, and unceremoniously expelled Mr. Grattan from the corporation without trial or even notice; thus proclaiming one of the most loyal and constitutional subjects of the British empire to be a rebel and incendiary. He despised and took no notice of their extravagance, but nevertheless sorely felt their ingratitude.

[53]. Mr. Grattan’s father had been recorder of Dublin and representative in parliament for that city.

On the election in question, I was proposed by Mr. George Ponsonby; and upon Mr. Grattan rising next to vote upon my tally, he was immediately objected to as having been expelled on the report of Lord Clare’s committee. A burst of indignation on the one side, and of boisterous declamation on the other, forthwith succeeded. It was of an alarming nature: Grattan meanwhile standing silent, and regarding, with a smile of the most ineffable contempt ever expressed, his shameless accusers. The objection was made by Mr. John Giffard—of whom hereafter. On the first intermission of the tumult, with a calm and dignified air, but in that energetic style and tone so peculiar to himself, Mr. Grattan delivered the following memorable words—memorable, because conveying in a few short sentences the most overwhelming, although certainly hyperbolical philippic—the most irresistible assemblage of terms imputing public depravity, that the English, or, I believe, any other language, is capable of affording:—

“Mr. Sheriff, when I observe the quarter from whence the objection comes, I am not surprised at him who made it;—the hired traducer of his country—the excommunicated of his fellow-citizens—the regal rebel—the unpunished ruffian—the bigotted agitator!—In the city a firebrand—in the court a liar—in the streets a bully—in the field a coward!—And so obnoxious is he to the very party he wishes to espouse, that he is only supportable by doing those dirty acts the less vile refuse to execute!”

Giffard, thunderstruck, lost his usual assurance; and replied, in one single sentence, “I would spit upon him in a desert!”—which vapid exclamation was his sole retort!

I called for the roll, and, on inspection, the form of erasing Mr. Grattan’s name appeared to have been omitted. Of course, the objection was overruled,—my friend voted, and his triumph was complete.

The erasure of his name from the roll was never afterward attempted; and, on the dissolution of that parliament, he was requested by the very same body to stand forward as their “most illustrious countryman!” and elected by acclamation in that very same court-house, as the representative of the city and corporation which had so recently endeavoured to debase and destroy him; his chairing being attended with enthusiasm by those who some time before would with equal zeal have attended his execution. Never was there exhibited a more complete proof of causeless popular versatility; which, indeed, was repeatedly practised on that genuine patriot.—It totally disgusted me;—and for ever banished from my mind the charm of vulgar popularity, which envelopes patriots only to render their fall the more conspicuous. If a public character acts conscientiously, the less he seeks for popularity the more certainly he will acquire it, and the longer it will adhere to him.

Mr. John Giffard, the subject of the foregoing philippic, was a very remarkable person. He had a great deal of vulgar talent; a daring impetuosity; and was wholly indifferent to public opinion. From first to last he fought his way through the world; and finally worked himself up to be the most sturdy partisan I ever recollect in the train of government. His detestation of the Pope and his adoration of King William he carried to an excess quite ridiculous; in fact, on both subjects he seemed occasionally delirious. His life had many curious incidents connected with it; and as it would be wrong that a name so frequently occurring in the local history of Ireland should remain unnoticed, I have, therefore, in these fragments introduced it.

I did not agree with Mr. Grattan as to the epithets wherewith he honoured the captain. “A coward” he most certainly was not; and, with all his faults, he had several qualities which in social intercourse are highly valuable; and, hence, it is just to make a clear distinction between his private and his public character. He was as sincere, warm-hearted, and friendly a person as I ever met with; and, on the other hand, a bitterer enemy never existed: I do not think he ever was mine, and I certainly never was his: indeed, I had a very great regard for him in private, and sometimes in public—even against myself, because I found him sincere. Our first difference arose on that election, but never proceeded to any degree of hostility.

Giffard was originally an apothecary. When I was at the Dublin University, the students were wild and lawless:—any offence to one was considered as an offence to all; and as the elder sons of most men of rank and fortune in Ireland were then educated in Dublin College, it was dangerous to meddle with so powerful a set of students, who consequently did precisely what they chose (outside the college-gates). If they conceived offence against any body, the collegians made no scruple of bringing the offender into the court, and pumping him well; and their unanimity and numbers were so great, that it was quite impossible any youth could be selected for punishment. In my time, we used to break open what houses we pleased!—regularly beating the watch every night, except in one parish, which we always kept in pay, to lend us their poles wherewith to fight the others! In short, our conduct was outrageous; and the first check we ever received was from Giffard, who was a director of the watch, and resided close to the Parliament-house.

He having in some way annoyed the collegians, they determined to pump Giffard; but they reckoned without their host! He entrenched himself in his house, which we assailed, breaking all his windows. He gave repeated warnings to no purpose; and a new assault being commenced, Giffard fired a pistol, and a collegian was wounded in the wrist, whereupon the assailants immediately raised the siege.

It was a lucky shot for Giffard, who immediately obtained some parochial office for his firmness;—made himself of importance on every trifling subject; and harangued constantly in the vestry. Of his subsequent progress I know nothing till about the year 1790, when I became a public character, and found Giffard an attaché to the Castle in divers capacities. He was afterward placed in the revenue department, became a common-councilman, and at length high sheriff; at which epoch he acquired the title which forsook him not, of “The Dog in Office,” though wherefore, I could never rightly make out. His acts from that period became part of the general statistical history of Irish politics. One of his sons was butchered in cool blood by the rebels at Kildare, which naturally increased the ferocity of the father. His eldest son, Harding Giffard, and Mr. Croker of the Admiralty, married two sisters in Waterford. Mr. Croker’s good luck enabled him to aid his relative, who, having tried the Irish bar in vain for several years, has become chief justice of Ceylon:—Mr. Croker himself (after his unsuccessful professional essay) being casually indebted to several persons of celebrity for his very rapid elevation.

During the election we are speaking of, one Horish, a master chimney-sweeper, appeared on the hustings. This man, being known to have several votes at command besides his own, had been strongly canvassed, but would promise none of the candidates, or give the least hint how he intended to vote.

During the rebellion of 1798, Mr. John Beresford (one of the candidates) had built a riding-house for his yeomanry troop in Marlborough Green, which had been also much used as a place for whipping suspected persons in, to make them discover what in all probability they never knew;—a practice equally just and humane, and liberally resorted to (perhaps for sport) by military officers, pending that troublous era, when martial law authorised every species of cruelty.

In Mr. Beresford’s riding-house this infernal system was carried on to a greater extent than in any other place of execution then tolerated in the metropolis:—to such an extent, indeed, that some Irish wags (who never fail even upon the most melancholy occasions to exercise their native humour) had one night the words, “Mangling done here by J. Beresford and Co.” painted upon a sign-board, and fixed over the entrance.

It happened that this same Horish had been among those who had paid to their king and country a full share of skin for the crime of being anonymously suspected. He had not forgotten the couple of hundred lashes on his bare carcase which he had received in Mr. Beresford’s riding-house: but the circumstance (being of such an ordinary nature) was, of course, totally forgotten by the candidate, notwithstanding the tenacious sensation of the elector’s loins, where many a good thick welt remained to remind him of the pastime.

Horish, a coarse, rough-looking, strong-built, independent, and at the moment well-dressed brute of a fellow, remained quite coquettish as to his votes. “Let me see!” said he, feeling his importance, and unwilling to part with it, (which would be the case the moment he had polled,) and looking earnestly at all the candidates,—“Let me see! who shall I vote for?—I’m very hard to please, gentlemen, I assure you!” He hesitated: we all pressed:—“Fair and easy, gentlemen,” said Horish, looking at each of us again, “don’t hurry a man!”

“Barrington,” cried impatient Beresford, “I know that honest fellow Horish will vote for me!” Horish stared, but said nothing.

“Indeed he will not,” replied I,—“eh, Horish?” Horish looked, but remained silent.

“I’ll lay you a rump and dozen,” exclaimed Beresford, “on the matter!”

Horish now started into a sort of animation, but coolly replied:—“You’ll lose that same rump and dozen, Mr. Beresford! ’twas many a dozen you gave my r—p already in your riding-house, and to the devil I bob that kind of entertainment! but if ever I have the honour of meeting you up a chimney, depend on it, Mr. Beresford, I’ll treat you with all the civility imaginable!—Come, boys, we’ll poll away for the counsellor!” and, under Horish’s influence, I was supported by every chimney-sweeper in the city of Dublin (and there were many) who had a vote. I think he brought me near twenty voters of one species or another.

ELECTION FOR COUNTY WEXFORD.

Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s contest for County Wexford, omitted by all his pseudo-biographers—Duel of Mr. Alcock and Mr. Colclough (candidates), on a question respecting Mr. Sheridan’s poll—Colclough killed—A lamentable incident—Mr. Alcock’s trial—He afterward goes mad and dies—His sister, Miss Alcock, also dies lunatic in consequence—Marquess of Ely tried for an outrage at Wexford, and fined.

It is to be lamented that the biographers and eulogists of Richard Brinsley Sheridan should have suppressed some of the most creditable incidents of his variegated life, while his memory is disgraced by pretended friends and literary admirers.

These writers have raked up from his ashes, and exposed to public indignation, every failing of that great and gifted man:—so that, if their own productions were by any chance to become permanent, they would send him down to posterity as a witty, but low and dissipated sharper; or, in their very best colouring, as the most talented of mean and worthless mendicants. But Sheridan’s reputation will outlive all such attempts to obliterate it; while the ignorance of his libellers is conspicuous from their entire omission of some of the most interesting events of his career, at the same time that others are vouched for, which to my individual knowledge are gross misrepresentations.

Among the incidents that have been overlooked is one both extraordinary and melancholy, and forming an honourable comment on Mr. Sheridan’s public character. I was myself interested in the transaction;—and can give it on my own responsibility. I am, indeed, most anxious to rescue his memory from the rough hands which, in sketching their subject, have placed the mane of the lion upon the shoulders of a mountebank.

In speaking thus, I deeply regret that one of these biographers should be a man whom I esteem; and I regret it the more, since he has used poor Sheridan as a chopping-block, whereon to hack the character of the most illustrious person of the British empire, who (for the first time in his life, I believe) has been accused of pecuniary illiberality. A circumstance accidentally came to my knowledge to prove that charge the very reverse of truth. But an opportunity will be taken by me of observing still more explicitly on these friends of Mr. Sheridan.

At the general election of 1807, Mr. John Colclough, of Tintern Abbey, County Wexford, a near relative of mine, (and locum tenens of his elder-brother, Mr. Cæsar Colclough, who had been long resident on the continent,) declared himself for the second time candidate for Wexford county, which he had represented in the previous parliament. The Colclough estates were large, the freeholders thereon numerous, and devoted to the interest of their patriotic leader, whose uncle, Mr. John Grogan, of Johnstown Castle (also a relative of mine), possessed of a very large fortune and extensive tenantry, had united with his nephew and other most respectable and independent gentlemen of that county, to liberate its representation from the trammels of certain noblemen who had for many years usurped its domination. Mr. Colclough was determined to put the pride, spirit, and patriotism of the county to proof; and therefore, in the progress of the business, proposed Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan as joint-candidate with himself, declaring that he was authorised by the independent freeholders of the county to say, that they should feel the greatest gratification in being represented by so distinguished an ornament to the name of Irishman.

Mr. Colclough and Mr. Sheridan were therefore nominated on the one hand; and Mr. Alcock, supported by the interest of the influenced electors, on the other.

Never yet was any poll conducted by more resolute, active, and zealous partisans; but it is lamentable to add that they were equally intemperate as zealous. The ignis fatuus of patriotism had caught the mass of the population; tenants no longer obeyed the dictates of their absent landlords nor the menaces of tyrannic agents: no man could count on the votes of his former vassals. The hustings was thronged with crowds of tenantry, constitutionally breaking away from their shackles, and voting according to their principles of free agency for Sheridan,—a man known to them only by the celebrity of his talents. The poll proceeded:—the independent party was advancing fast to success; and had the election continued, there is little doubt that Mr. Sheridan would have been a representative for Wexford county. At this crisis occurred one of the most unfortunate and melancholy events on Irish record, and by which the contest was terminated—as if the untoward destiny of Sheridan withered every thing with which he came in contact.

Several tenants of a person who had given his interest to Mr. Alcock absolutely refused to vote for that gentleman, declaring that, at every risk, they would support Colclough and “the great Sheridan!” Mr. Alcock’s partisans perverted the free agency of these men into seduction on the part of Mr. Colclough: hence a feeling decidedly hostile was excited; the fierce zeal and frenzy of election partisanship burst into a flame; and Mr. Colclough was required to decline such votes, or to receive them at his peril.

Of course he disregarded this outrageous threat, and open war ensued. One party lost sight of reason;—both, of humanity; and it was determined, that before the opening of next morning’s poll, the candidates should decide, by single combat, the contested question, and (of course) the election itself. With what indignation and horror must such a resolution, at once assailing law, good morals, and decency, be now regarded! and how will the feeling of surprise increase from its being passed over with impunity!

Early on the eventful morning many hundred people assembled to witness the affair; and it will scarcely be believed that no less than eleven or twelve county magistrates stood by, passive spectators of the bloody scene which followed, without an effort, or apparently a wish, to stop the proceeding.

Both combatants were remarkably near-sighted; and Mr. Alcock determined on wearing glasses, which was resisted by the friends of Mr. Colclough, who would wear none.—The partisans of the former, however, persevered, and he did wear them. The ground at length was marked; the anxious crowd separated on either side, as their party feelings led them; but all seemed to feel a common sense of horror and repugnance. The unfeeling seconds handed to each principal a couple of pistols; and placing them about eight or nine steps asunder, withdrew, leaving two gentlemen of fortune and character—brother-candidates for the county—and former friends, nay, intimate companions,—standing in the centre of a field, without any personal offence given or received, encouraged by false friends, and permitted by unworthy magistrates, to butcher each other as quickly and as effectually as their position and weapons would admit.

The sight was awful!—a dead silence and pause ensued: the great crowd stood in motionless suspense: the combatants presented: men scarcely breathed: the word was given: Mr. Alcock fired first, and his friend—his companion—one of the best men of Ireland, instantly fell forward, shot through the heart! he spoke not—but turning on one side, his heart’s blood gushed forth—his limbs quivered—he groaned, and expired. His pistol exploded after he was struck—of course without effect.

The bystanders looked almost petrified. The profound stillness continued for a moment, horror having seized the multitude, when, on the sudden, a loud and universal yell (the ancient practice of the Irish peasantry on the death of a chieftain) simultaneously burst out like a peal of thunder from every quarter of the field; a yell so savage and continuous—so like the tone of revenge,—that it would have appalled any stranger to the customs of the country. Alcock and his partisans immediately retreated; those of Colclough collected round his body; and their candidate (a few moments before in health, spirits, and vigour!) was mournfully borne back upon a plank to the town of his nativity, and carried lifeless through those very streets which had that morning been prepared to signalise his triumph.

The election-poll, of course, proceeded without further opposition:—the joint friends of Colclough and Sheridan, deprived of their support, and thunderstruck at the event, thought of nothing but lamentation; and in one hour Mr. Alcock was declared duly elected for Wexford county, solely through the death of his brother-candidate, whom he had himself that morning unjustly immolated.

A more wanton duel, a more unnecessary, cruel, and in all points illegal transaction, never occurred in the United Empire: yet, strange to say, of those eleven or twelve magistrates who actually stood by, as amateurs or partisans, in defiance of the law and of their duty,—not one was displaced or punished!—a precedent of impunity most discreditable to the high authorities of that day, dangerous to the peace of the country, and subversive of the first principles of free election. Judge of Sheridan’s feelings on receiving this intelligence! and judge of the correctness of his biographers, who have suppressed the incident altogether.

Nor was poor Colclough’s death the last act of the tragedy. His friends thought themselves called on to prosecute Mr. Alcock, who fled, but subsequently returned and surrendered for trial. I attended, as special counsel for the prosecution. Baron Smith tried the cause. The evidence was stronger than I have deemed it necessary to recite. The baron stated his opinion on the legal distinctions as applicable to duelling, and on that opinion the bar differed. It was not the wish of the prosecutors to do more than mark the transaction by a conviction for manslaughter, which the law, under the circumstances, seemed to render imperative. However, the then politics of Wexford juries differed not unfrequently both from the laws of God and the statute book; and the verdict returned in this instance was, to the surprise of every one, a general acquittal!

But, alas! the acquitted duellist suffered more in mind than his victim had done in body. The horror of the scene, and the solemnity of the trial, combined to make a fatal inroad on his reason! He became melancholy; his understanding gradually declined; a dark gloom enveloped his entire intellect; and an excellent young man and perfect gentleman at length sank into irrecoverable imbecility. Goaded by the vicious frenzy of election partisans, he had slain his friend; and, haunted by reflection and sorrow, he ended his own days in personal restraint and mental ruin.

Two other duels were fought upon the same occasion, but with little injury and still less interest. Mr. Cæsar Colclough has since returned from the continent; and, on the strength of his late brother’s popularity, was elected member for County Wexford. He has not, however, followed up the high reputation of that brother; nor very satisfactorily fulfilled the expectations of his constituents.

But to this sanguinary and fatal duel there was yet another sad corollary. Miss Alcock, sister of the member, had been most deeply affected by the mournful catastrophe. She had known Colclough long and intimately; and being an amiable and sensitive young woman,—her brother’s absence, his trial, and his subsequent depression, kept the gloomy transaction alive in her mind: hence she also gradually wasted; and the death of her brother sinking deeper and deeper into a heart, all the sources of tranquillity whereof had been dried up,—her reason wandered, at length fled, and she did not long survive the dreadful fate of her friend and of her brother.

A trivial anecdote will suffice to exhibit the general state of Wexford county, and of the aristocracy and magistracy, many of whom were a disgrace to their office, and completely filled up Mr. Grattan’s definition of a “regal rebel” by their arrogance, tyranny, oppression, and disaffection. By these men the peasantry were goaded into a belief that justice was banished, and so driven into the arms of the avowed rebels, who used every lure to enforce their previous delusion.

A handsome young woman, maid-servant to a Mrs. Lett, who was considered as a great patriot (rebel) in Wexford, happened one summer’s evening to sit at her mistress’s window singing songs, but to certain airs that were not considered orthodox by the aristocracy.

The present Marquess of Ely, with the high sheriff and other gentlemen of the county, were retiring after their wine from the grand-jury, and heard this unfortunate young siren warbling at the window: but as the song sounded to their loyal ears of a rebellious tendency, it was thought advisable to demolish the fragile parts of Mrs. Lett’s house-front without delay; and, accordingly, my lord, the high sheriff, and their friends (to preserve the peace and protect the constitution from such traitorous maid-servants), forthwith commenced their laudable undertaking; and stones being the weapons nearest at hand, the windows and the warbling maid received a broadside, which was of the greatest utility to the glazier, and had well-nigh put fees into the pockets, not only of the surgeon, but of the sexton and coroner likewise.

However, on this occasion, justice was not so far off as the peasants had been persuaded: my lord, the high sheriff, and others, being indicted and tried, I had the honour of being his lordship’s counsel; and as our duty was to make “the worse appear the better cause,” I certainly did my utmost for the marquess:—but his lordship, conceiving my delicacy to the maid-servant rather too great, requested permission to ask her a few questions himself, which was granted.

“Now, girl,” said the marquess, “by the oath you have taken, did you not say you would split my skull open?”

“Why, then, by the virtue of my oath,” said the girl, turning to the judge, “it would not be worth my while to split his skull open, my lord!”

“Ha! ha!” said the marquess, “now I have her!” (wisely supposing she made some allusion to a reward for killing him:) “and why, girl, would it be not worth your while?”

“Because, my lord,” answered she, “if I had split your lordship’s skull open,—by virtue of my oath, I am sure and certain I should have found little or nothing inside of it!”

The laugh against the noble marquess was now too great to admit of his proceeding any further with his cross-examination: he was found guilty, and fined.

WEDDED LIFE.

Lord Clonmel, chief justice of the Irish Court of King’s Bench—His character—Lady Tyrawly’s false charge against him—Consequent duel between him and Lord Tyrawly—Eclaircissement—Lord Tyrawly and Miss Wewitzer—Lord Clonmel’s hints “How to rule a wife”—Subsequent conversation with his lordship at Sir John Tydd’s.

The first chief judge who favoured me with his intimacy was Lord Clonmel, chief justice of the King’s Bench. His character appears at full length in my “Historical Memoirs of Ireland,” vol. i. p. 38, and a curious but true character it is. I was introduced to his lordship’s notice through Sir John Tydd (the truest friend he had), and received from him many instances of attention; and he gave me, early in life, some of the very best practical maxims. As he was one of the celebrated official “fire-eaters” (whom I shall hereafter mention), and fought several duels, it may be amusing to extract here, from the work in question, a few distinguishing traits of his lordship.—“Mr. Scott never omitted one favourable opportunity of serving himself. His skill was unrivalled, and his success proverbial. He was full of anecdotes, though not the most refined: these in private society he not only told, but acted; and when he perceived that he had made a very good exhibition, he immediately withdrew, that he might leave the most lively impression of his pleasantry behind him. His boldness was his first introduction—his policy, his ultimate preferment.—Courageous, vulgar, humorous, artificial, he knew the world well, and he profited by that knowledge:—he cultivated the powerful; he bullied the timid; he fought the brave; he flattered the vain; he duped the credulous; and he amused the convivial. He frequently, in his prosperity, acknowledged favours he had received when he was obscure, and occasionally requited them. Half-liked, half-reprobated, he was too high to be despised, and too low to be respected. His language was coarse, and his principles arbitrary; but his passions were his slaves, and his cunning was his instrument. In public and in private he was the same character; and, though a most fortunate man and a successful courtier, he had scarcely a sincere friend or a disinterested adherent.”—What regard I had for his lordship was literally so.

His duel with Lord Tyrawly was caused and attended by circumstances which combine to form a curious narrative:—Lady Tyrawly had an utter dislike for her husband (then the Honourable James Cuffe). They had no children, and she made various efforts to induce him to consent to a distinct and total separation. There being no substantial cause for such a measure, Mr. Cuffe looked upon it as ridiculous, and would not consent.—At length, the lady hit upon an excellent mode for carrying her wishes into effect, and ensuring a separate maintenance: but I have never heard of the precedent being followed.

Mr. Cuffe found her one day in tears, a thing not frequent with her ladyship, who had a good deal of the amazon about her. She sobbed—threw herself on her knees—went through the usual evolutions of a repentant female—and, at length, told her husband that she was unworthy of his future protection,—had been faithless to him, and was a lost and guilty woman.

I suppose there is a routine of contrition, explanation, rage, honour, &c. &c. which generally attends developments of this nature; and I take for granted that the same was duly performed by the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Cuffe. Suffice it to say, that the latter was put into a sedan-chair and ordered out of the house forthwith to private lodgings, until it was the will of her injured lord to send a deed of annuity for her support.

Mr. Cuffe next proceeded to summon a friend, and inform him that his wife had owned “that villain Scott,” the attorney-general, and the pretended friend of his family, to be her seducer!—that not his love, but his honour was so deeply concerned, as to render the death of one or the other necessary;—and, without further ceremony, a message was sent, for mortal combat, to the attorney-general, urging the lady’s confession, his own dishonourable breach of trust, and Mr. Cuffe’s determination to fight him.

Mr. Scott, well knowing that a declaration, or even an oath, of innocence would, by the world, be considered either as honourable perjury on his part, to save Mrs. Cuffe’s reputation, or as a mode of screening himself from her husband’s vengeance (and in no case be believed even by the good-natured part of society); made up his mind for the worst.

The husband and supposed gallant accordingly met: no explanation could be listened to: the ground was duly measured—the flints hammered—the parties bowed to each other (as was then usual), and exchanged shots; and each having heard the bullets humanely whiz past his skull, without indicating a desire of becoming more intimately acquainted therewith, Mr. Scott told his antagonist that he was totally mistaken, and gave his honour that he never had the slightest familiarity with the lady, who, he concluded, must have lost her reason.[^[54]]

[54]. A Mr. George Bathron, of Durrow, an apothecary, had, about 1783, been accused of a similar misdemeanour with the wife of a brother volunteer in the same town, but with more reason. He however got over it better: he denied the fact plump; and the ensuing Sunday, after having received the sacrament in church, swore that he never in his life had “behaved unlike a gentleman by Mrs. Delany.” This completely satisfied the husband; and the apothecary was considered a trustworthy person—of high honour, moral tendency, and shamefully calumniated.

There was no cause for denying credence to this; while, on the other hand, it was but too likely that Mr. Cuffe had been tricked by his lady wife. She was sure of a separation, for he had turned her out: and if he had fallen on the field of honour, she would have had a noble jointure;—so that she was in utrumque parata,—secure under every chance—death or Doctor Duigenan.

On his return, he sent her a most severe reprimand; and announced but a moderate annuity, which she instantly and haughtily refused, positively declaring that she never had made any confession of guilt! that the whole was a scheme of his own vicious jealousy, to get rid of her; and that she had only said, he might just as well suspect the attorney-general, who had never said a civil thing to her, as any body else! She dared him to prove the least impropriety on her part; and yet he had cruelly turned her out of his house, and proclaimed his innocent wife to be a guilty woman.

Mr. Cuffe saw she had been too many for him every way!—he durst not give more publicity to the affair; and therefore agreed to allow her a very large annuity, whereon she lived a happy life, and died not many years since at Bath.

The subsequent connexion of Lord Tyrawly had likewise a singular termination. Miss Wewitzer, sister to the late celebrated violinist of that name, soon filled Mrs. Cuffe’s vacant place; and by her my lord had many children—the eldest being the present Colonel Cuffe, member of Parliament for Mayo; a very good man, honourable and friendly. I never saw two persons live more happily together than Lord Tyrawly and Miss Wewitzer, whom he considered as his wife. She was unexceptionably correct, and he wholly attached to her. She had been remarkably pretty, and celebrated as Rosetta (in Bickerstaff’s opera). I was intimate with Lord Tyrawly, and have entertained a great regard for Colonel Cuffe from his boyhood.

The death of Lady Tyrawly at length gave his lordship the long-expected opportunity of realising his promises and intentions, for the sake of his family; and Lord Tyrawly and Miss Wewitzer being regularly married, she became the real Lady Tyrawly—whom she had so many years represented.

Now, here was a cohabitation of considerably more than twenty years, in happiness and tranquillity, followed up by an honourable and just arrangement, wherefrom it might be rationally supposed an increase of happiness would ensue. But no sooner did the parties become legally man and wife, than Madam Discord introduced herself! It is singular, but true, that (as if Nature originally intended every living thing to remain totally free and independent) the moment any two animals, however fond before, are fastened together by a cord or chain they cannot break, they begin to quarrel without any reason, and tear each other, solely because they can’t get loose again.[^[55]]

[55]. Nobody has put this better than Pope, in the mouth of Eloisa—

“Not Cæsar’s empress would I deign to prove;—

No! make me mistress to the man I love:

And if there be another name more free,

More fond, than mistress, make me that to thee!”

I think what renders ladies quarrelsome after they are tied, who were so sweet and conciliatory before, is, the natural and inherent spirit of contradiction of which the fair sex are accused. This they are privileged to exercise to its full extent during courtship; and the abrupt transfer of it immediately after the honey-moon might ruffle the temper of an angel!

So it was with my Lord and Lady T.; and every hour added fresh fuel to the flame. She had been Lady Tyrawly only in remainder and expectancy; but possession alters matters extremely in the humour of most people. At length (to continue my pretty simile) the chain became red-hot,—neither of them could bear it longer, and the whole affair ended in a voluntary and most uncomfortable separation! However, it was only for a short time: death, always fond of doing mischief in families, very soon brought them together again; and if such a thing can be conceived as possible in the other world, it is no bad conjecture, that at this very moment my Lord T., the two Ladies T., and Lord Clonmel, are, among a group of other ghosts, thinking what fools men are to give themselves so much uneasiness upon subjects which only pass like shadows, instead of turning their minds to what might be much more material—namely, how to get over their sins when the last assizes come round.

I recollect one of Lord Clonmel’s maxims was, “whatever must be done in the course of the week, always do it on Monday morning:” and in truth, whoever practises that rule, will find it in no slight degree convenient. I never did.

Immediately after I was married, I resided next door to Lord Clonmel, in Harcourt-street. He called on me most kindly, and took me to walk over his fine gardens and lawn; and was so humorous and entertaining, that his condescension (as I then felt it) quite delighted me; but I afterward found out that he made a point of discovering every young man likely to succeed in public life, and took the earliest moment possible of being so civil as to ensure a friend, if not a partisan; and no man wanted the latter more than his lordship.

“Barrington,” said he to me, “you are married?”

“No doubt,” said I, laughingly, “as tight as any person on the face of the earth, my lord.”

“All women in the world,” rejoined his lordship, “are fond of having their own way.”

“I am firmly of your opinion, my lord,” said I.

“Now,” pursued he, “the manner in which all wives are spoiled, is by giving them their own way at first; for whatever you accustom them to at the beginning, they will expect ever after: so, mind me! I’ll tell you the secret of ruling a wife, if known in time:—never do any thing for peace-sake: if you do, you’ll never have one hour’s tranquillity but by concession—mind that!”

“I firmly believe it,” exclaimed I.

“Well,” said he, “practise it, Barrington!”

Some time after, I met his lordship at Lamberton, Queen’s county, the seat of Sir John Tydd. He related the above story with much humour, and asked me if I had taken his advice.—“No,” said I.

“No! why not?” inquired his lordship.

“Because,” replied I, “a philosopher has an easier life of it than a soldier.”

I had the laugh against him, and the more particularly as his lordship had married a second wife, Miss Lawless (the present dowager); and I believe no husband in Ireland adhered less to his own maxim than did Lord Clonmel after that union. My own opinion on the subject ever was, that contradicting a woman never pays for the trouble of the operation: if she is a fool, it makes her worse; if a sensible woman, she does not require it; and if of an epicene temper, coaxing will do more in half an hour, than bullyragging (a vulgar but expressive Irish idiom) in a fortnight.

DUKE OF WELLINGTON AND MARQUESS OF LONDONDERRY.

My first acquaintance with the Duke of Wellington and the late Marquess of Londonderry, at a dinner at my own house—Some memoirs and anecdotes of the former as a public man—My close connexion with government—Lord Clare’s animosity to me suspended—Extraordinary conference between Lord Castlereagh, Mr. Cooke, and me, in August 1798—Singular communication—Offers made to me for succession as solicitor-general—I decline the terms proposed—Lord Castlereagh’s letter to me—Character of Mr. Pelham, now Earl of Chichester.

My personal acquaintance with the Duke of Wellington originated accidentally, soon after I commenced public life; and so clearly shows the versatility of men, the fallibility of judgment, and the total uncertainty of all human prediction, that I cannot avoid mentioning it.

In 1793, when I was in high repute, most prosperous at the bar, living in the first ranks of society, a distinguished favourite at the vice-regal court, and designated as a candidate for the first offices of my profession, I occasionally gave large splendid dinners, according to the habit invariably adopted in those times by persons circumstanced like myself.—At one of those entertainments Major Hobart (Lord Buckinghamshire); Sir John Parnell; Isaac Corry; I think Lord Limerick; Sir John (afterward Lord) de Blacquiere; Lords Llandaff, Dillon, Yelverton; the Speaker, &c. &c.—in all, upward of twenty noblemen and commoners did me the honour of partaking my fare: to assist in preparing which Lord Clonmel sent me his two grand cooks. At that period I was not unentertaining; and a most cheerful party was predicted.—The House had sat late, and etiquette never permitted us to go to dinner (where the Speaker was a guest) until his arrival, unless he had specially desired us to do so.

The Speaker did not join us till nine o’clock, when Sir John Parnell brought with him, and introduced to me, Captain Wellesley and Mr. Stewart, two young members, who having remained in the House, he had insisted on their coming with him to my dinner, where he told them good cheer and a hearty welcome would be found; and in this he was not mistaken.

Captain Arthur Wellesley had, in 1790, been returned to Parliament for Trim, County Meath, a borough under the patronage of his brother, the Earl of Mornington.[^[56]] He was then ruddy-faced and juvenile in appearance, and rather popular among the young men of his age and station. His address was not polished: he occasionally spoke in Parliament, but not successfully, and never on important subjects; and evinced no promise of that unparalleled celebrity and splendour he has since reached, and whereto intrepidity and decision, good luck and great military science, have justly combined to elevate him. As to his late civil triumph, I will suspend giving my opinion, though I hold a strong one.

[56]. I think he was opposed by the present Mr. Saurin, and Mr. Tod Jones (who afterward sent a bullet through Sir Richard Musgrave’s abdomen).

Lord Castlereagh was the son of Mr. Stewart, a country gentleman, generally accounted to be a very clever man, in the north of Ireland. He had been a professed and not very moderate patriot, and at one time carried his ideas of opposition exceedingly far,—becoming a leading member of the Reform and Liberal societies.[^[57]]

[57]. See the history of Belfast, and the northern clubs and volunteer resolutions of that period—namely, 1779 or 1780. He and Mr. Joy, a printer, drew them up conjointly.

Lord Castlereagh began his career in the Irish Parliament, by a motion for a committee to inquire into the representation of the people, with the ulterior object of a reform in Parliament. He made a good speech, and had a majority in the House, which he certainly did not expect, and I am sure did not wish for. He was unequal and unwilling to push that point to further trial: the matter cooled in a few days; and after the next division, was deserted entirely. Mr. Stewart, however, after that speech, was considered as a very clever young man, and in all points well taught and tutored by his father, whose marriage with the Marquess of Camden’s sister was the remote cause of all his future successes:—how sadly terminated!

At the period to which I allude, I feel confident nobody could have predicted that one of those young gentlemen would become the most celebrated general of his era, and the other the most unfortunate minister of Europe. However, it is observable, that to the personal intimacy and reciprocal friendship of those two individuals, they mutually owed the extent of their respective elevation and celebrity:—Sir Arthur Wellesley never would have had the chief command in Spain but for the ministerial aid of Lord Castlereagh; and Lord Castlereagh never could have stood his ground as a minister, but for Lord Wellington’s successes.

At my house the evening passed amidst that glow of well-bred, witty, and cordial vinous conviviality, which was, I believe, peculiar to high society in Ireland.

From that night I became somewhat intimate with Captain Wellesley and Mr. Stewart; and perceived certain amiable qualities in both. Change of times, or the intoxication of prosperity, certainly tends either to diminish or increase some natural traits in every man’s character, or to neutralise qualities which had previously been prominent. Indeed, if Lord Wellington had continued until now the same frank, plain, open-hearted man, he certainly must have been better proof against those causes which usually excite a metamorphosis of human character than any one who ever preceded him. Still, if possible, he would have been a greater man; at least, he would have better drawn the distinction between a warrior and a hero—terms not altogether synonymous.

Many years subsequently to the dinner-party I have mentioned, after Sir Arthur had returned from India, I one day met Lord Castlereagh in the Strand, and a gentleman with him. His lordship stopped me, whereat I was rather surprised, as we had not met for some time: he spoke very kindly, smiled, and asked if I had forgotten my old friend? It was Sir Arthur Wellesley whom I discovered in his companion; but looking so sallow and wan, and with every mark of what is called a worn-out man, that I was truly concerned at his appearance.—But he soon recovered his health and looks, and went as the Duke of Richmond’s secretary to Ireland; where he was in all material traits still Sir Arthur Wellesley—but it was Sir Arthur Wellesley judiciously improved. He had not forgotten his friends, nor did he forget himself. He told me that he had accepted the office of secretary only on the terms that it should not impede or interfere with his military pursuits; and what he said proved true, for he was soon sent, as second in command of the troops, with Lord Cathcart to Copenhagen, to break through the law of nations, and execute upon a Christian state and ancient ally the most distinguished piece of treachery that history records.

On Sir Arthur’s return he recommenced his duty of secretary; and during his residence in Ireland, in that capacity, I did not hear one complaint against any part of his conduct either as a public or private man. He was afterward appointed to command in Spain: an appointment which was, I then thought, expected by Sir John Doyle. I do not mean to infer the least disparagement to either the military or diplomatic talents of Sir John; but his politics, or at least those of his friends, were opposite, and he might have pursued a very different course to decide (for the time being) the fate of Europe.

A few days before Sir Arthur’s departure for Spain, I requested him and Lord Manners to spend a day with me, which they did. The company was not very large, but some of Sir Arthur’s military friends were of the party:—the late Sir Charles Asgill, the present General Meyrick, &c. &c. I never saw him more cheerful or happy. The bombardment of Copenhagen being by chance stated as a topic of remark, I did not join in its praise; but, on the other hand, muttered that I never did nor should approve of it.

“Damn it, Barrington!” said Sir Arthur, “why? what do you mean to say?”—“I say, Sir Arthur,” replied I, “that it was the very best devised, the very best executed, and the most just and necessary ‘robbery and murder’ now on record!” He laughed, and we soon adjourned to the drawing-rooms, where Lady Barrington had a ball and supper as a finish for the departing hero.

In 1815, having been shut up in Paris during the siege, I went out to Neuilly to pay a visit to the duke before our troops got into the city.—I had not seen him since the day above-mentioned; and he had intermediately much changed in his appearance, though seeming just as friendly.