Chapter V: Part 5

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]

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Footnote 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_.

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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 700_l._ 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 15,000_l._, 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.

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Footnote 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.

Footnote 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.”

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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]

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Footnote 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.

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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.

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Footnote 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.

TOM FLINTER. Dick! said he;

DICK HENESEY. What? said he;

TOM FLINTER. Fetch me my hat: says he;
For I will go, says he;
To Timahoe, says he;
To buy the fair, says he;
And all that’s there, says he.

DICK HENESEY. Arrah! _pay what you owe!_ said he;
And _then_ you may go, says he;
To Timahoe, says he;
To buy the fair, says he;
And all that’s there, says he.

TOM FLINTER. Well! by this and by that! said he;
Dick! Here, _hang up my hat_! said he.

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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!”

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Footnote 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.

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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]

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Footnote 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!”

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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.