Chapter III: Part 3

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]

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Footnote 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!

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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.

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Footnote 17:

Claret was at that time about 18_l._ the hogshead, if sold for _ready
rhino_; if on credit, the law, before payment, generally mounted it to
200_l._; 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 500_l._

Footnote 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_!”

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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.

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Footnote 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.”

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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.

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Footnote 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.

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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]

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Footnote 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.

Footnote 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.

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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]

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Footnote 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.

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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]

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Footnote 24:

The shout of hunters when the game is in view.

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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.

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Footnote 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!”

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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.

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Footnote 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.

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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.

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Footnote 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.

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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 _mis_manage 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.