Chapter II (7)

The soft and beautiful features of landscape which characterise Père la Chaise are scarcely describable: so harmoniously are they blended together,—so sacred does the spot appear to quiet contemplation and hopeful repose,—that it seems almost profane to attempt description, or to submit its charms in detail before the reader’s eye. All in fact that I had ever read about it fell, as in the case of the catacombs, (“alike, but ah, how different!”) far short of the reality.

I have wandered whole mornings together over its winding paths and venerable avenues. Here are no “ninety steps” of descent to gloom and horror: on the contrary, a gradual _ascent_ leads to the cemetery of Père la Chaise, and to its enchanting summit, on every side shaded by brilliant evergreens. The straight lofty cypress and spreading cedar uplift themselves around; and the arbutus, exposing its deceptive berries, tenders to the walker at once its shade and fragrance. In lieu of the damp mouldering scent exhaled by three millions of human skeletons, we are presented with the perfumes of jasmines and of myrtles—of violet-beds or variegated flower-plats decked out by the ministering hand of love or duty;—as if benignant Nature had spread her most splendid carpet to cover, conceal, and render alluring even the abode of death, and commemorate the noblest passions and the purest sympathies of mortality.

Whichever way we turn, the labours of art combine with the luxuriance of vegetation to raise in the mind new reflections: marble, in all its varieties of shade and grain, is wrought by the hand of man into numerous bewitching shapes; while one of the most brilliant and cheerful cities in the universe seems to lie, with its wooded boulevards, gilded domes, palaces, gardens, and glittering waters, just beneath our feet. One sepulchre, alone, of a decidedly mournful character, attracted my notice—a large and solid mausoleum, buried amidst gloomy yews and low drooping willows; and this looked only like a patch on the face of loveliness. Père la Chaise presents a solitary instance of the abode of the dead ever interesting me _agreeably_.

I will not remark on the well-known tomb of Abelard and Eloisa: a hundred pens have anticipated me in most of the observations I should be inclined to make respecting that celebrated couple. The most obvious circumstance in their “sad story” always struck me as being—that he turned priest when he was good for nothing else, and she became “quite correct” when opportunities for the reverse began to slacken. They no doubt were properly qualified to make very respectable _saints_: but since they took care previously to have their fling, I cannot say much for their _morality_.

I am not sure that a burial-place similar to Père la Chaise would be admired in England: it is almost of too picturesque and sentimental a character. The humbler orders of the English people are too coarse to appreciate the peculiar feeling such a cemetery is calculated to excite; the higher orders too licentious; the trading classes too avaricious. The plum-holder of the city would very honestly and frankly “d—n all your nonsensical sentiment!” I heard one of these gentlemen, last year, declare that what poets and _such-like_ called _sentiment_, was neither more nor less than deadly poison to the _Protestant religion_!

Though there is perhaps as much real refinement in London as in Paris, the French certainly mingle more _mind_ with their _vices_. Those of the Englishman are merely sensual: those of the French seasoned with intellect.—The Englishman’s the result of _instinct_—the Frenchman’s of _excitement_: an Englishman is _always_, a Frenchman _never_, in _earnest_.

Père la Chaise would only remind a cockney of _suicide_: it sets a Parisian gabbling about the meadows of Elysium. A Paris shopkeeper can descant on the _heathen mythology_: the _cockney_ talks of _heaven_ from his _bible_ and the _pulpit_; and if the _river Styx_ should be mentioned, he probably considers it scaffolding at London Bridge.

As to the French ladies, they all fancy that they are saturated with refinement. A very spirited and handsome Frenchwoman told me some time since, with as much gravity as she was susceptible of, that she had more _refinement_ than she knew what to do with, and most ardently wished that she could have the honour of transferring the _balance_ to some of my fair countrywomen, who, she understood, considered it a particular _dainty_.

PEDIGREE-HUNTING.

The author’s efforts to discover the source of his name and family—The
Irish herald-at-arms—Reference made by him to the English
professor—Heraldic speculation—Ascent of the author’s pedigree to the
reign of William the Conqueror—Consultation with the Norman herald
suggested—Author’s visit to Rouen—Anecdotes of French convents—Madame
Cousin and her _system_—Traits of toleration—M. Helliot, the
celebrated _ancien avocat_ of Rouen—Practice of _legal bigamy_ in
Normandy—A breakfast party—Death of M. Helliot—Interview with an old
herald, formerly of the noblesse—His person and costume
described—Discovery of the town and castle of _Barentin_—Occurrences
there—The old beggar-man—Visit to Jersey, where Drogo de Barentin was
killed in defending the castle of Mont Orgueil—Return to Barentin, and
singular incident at Ivetot—Conclusion.

My visit to France enabled me, besides gratifying myself by the sight and observation of the distinguished characters of whom I have in the Sketches immediately foregoing made mention, to pursue an inquiry that I had set on foot some time previously in my own country.

As I have already informed the reader in the commencement of this work, I was brought up among a sort of democratic aristocracy, which, like the race of wolf-dogs, seems to be extinct in Ireland. The gentry of those days took the greatest care to trace, and to preserve by tradition, the pedigree of their families and the exploits of their ancestors.

It is said that “he must be a wise man who knows _his own_ father;” but if there are thirty or forty of one’s forefathers to make out, it must necessarily be a research rather difficult for ordinary capacities. Such are therefore in the habit of resorting to a person who obtains his livelihood by begetting grandfathers and great-grandfathers _ad infinitum_!—namely, the herald, who, without much tedious research, can, in these commercial days, furnish any private gentleman, dealer, or chapman, with as beautifully transcribed, painted, and gilt a pedigree as he chooses to be at the expense of purchasing—with arms, crests, and mottoes to match: nor are there among the nobility themselves emblazonments more gaudy than may occasionally be seen upon the tilbury of some retired tailor, whose name was probably selected at random by the nurse of a foundling hospital.

But as there is, I believe, no great mob of persons bearing my name in existence, and as it is pretty well known to be rather old, I fancied I would pay a visit to our Irish herald-at-arms, to find out, if possible to a certainty, from what country I originally sprang. After having consulted every thing he had to consult, this worthy functionary only brought me back to Queen Elizabeth, which was doing nothing, as it was that virgin monarch who had made the first territorial grant to my family in Ireland, with liberty to return two members to every future parliament, which they actually did down to my father.

The Irish herald assured me that he could not honestly carry me one inch farther _back_ on the _male_ line, and so (having painted a most beautiful pedigree) he recommended me to the English herald-at-arms, who, he had no doubt, could take the thread at the top, and unravel it to my satisfaction.

I accordingly took the first opportunity of consulting this fresh oracle in London, whose minister having politely heard my case, transferred it to writing, screwed up his lips, and looked steadfastly at the ceiling for some five minutes: he then began to reckon centuries on his fingers; but there being only _eight_ of them, he applied to his _thumbs_; took down several large books full of emblazonments, nodded his head, and at last, cleverly and scientifically taking me up from the times of Queen Elizabeth, where I had been abruptly dropped by my fellow-countryman, delivered me, in less than a fortnight, as handsome a genealogical tree as could be reasonably desired: on this I triumphantly ascended to the reign of William the Conqueror, and the battle of Hastings, at which some of my ancestors were, it appears, fairly sped, and provided with neat lodgings in Battle Abbey, where, for aught I know to the contrary, they still remain.

The English herald-at-arms also informed me (but rather mysteriously) that it was _probable_ I had a right to put a French _De_ at the beginning of my name, as there was a Norman _ton_ at the end of it; but that, as he did not profess French heraldry, I had better inquire further from some of the craft in Normandy, where that science had at the period of the crusades greatly flourished—William the Conqueror, at the time he was denominated _the Bastard_, having by all accounts established a very celebrated heraldic college at Rouen.

I was much pleased with his candour, and thus the matter rested until Louis XVIII. returned home with his family, when, as the reader is aware, I likewise passed over to France with mine.

I did not forget the hint given me by my armorial friend in London; and in order to benefit by it, repaired, as soon as circumstances permitted, to Rouen, in which town we had been advised to place our two youngest daughters, for purposes of education, at a celebrated Ursuline convent, the abbess whereof was considered a more tolerating _religieuse_ than any of her contemporaries. Before I proceed to detail the sequel of my heraldic investigations I will lay before the reader one or two anecdotes connected with French nunneries.

The abbess of the convent in question, Madame Cousin, was a fine, handsome, fat old nun, as affable and insinuating as possible, and gained on us at first sight. She enlarged on the great advantages of her system; and showed us long galleries of beautiful little bed-chambers, together with gardens overlooking the boulevards, and adorned by that interesting tower wherein Jeanne d’Arc was so long confined previous to her being humanely burned alive as a _witch_ by our Duke of Bedford, who _attended the execution_! The window he overlooked her tortures from is still preserved in the square at Rouen. Her table, Madame Cousin assured us, was _excellent_ and _abundant_.

I was naturally impressed with an idea that a _nun_ feared God at any rate too much to tell twenty direct falsehoods, and practise twenty deceptions in the course of half an hour, for the lucre of fifty Napoleons,—which she required in advance, without the least intention of giving the value of five for them: and, under this impression, I paid the sum demanded, gave up our two children to Madame Cousin’s _motherly_ tutelage, and returned to the Hôtel de France, almost in love with the old abbess.

On our return to Paris we received letters from my daughters, giving a most flattering account of the convent generally, of the excellence of Madame l’Abbesse, the plenty of good food, the comfort of the bed-rooms, and the extraordinary progress they were making in their several acquirements. I was hence induced to commence the second half-year, also in advance, when a son-in-law of mine, calling to see my daughters, requested the eldest to dine with him at his hotel, which request was long resisted by the abbess, and only granted at length with manifest reluctance. Arrived at the hotel, the poor girl related a tale of a very different description from the foregoing, and as piteous as unexpected. Her letters had been _dictated_ to her by a _priest_, the brother of the abbess. I had scarcely arrived at Paris when my children were separated, turned away from the _show_ bed-rooms, and allowed to speak _any_ language to each other only _one hour_ a day, and _not a word_ on Sundays. The eldest was urged to turn Catholic; and, above all, they were fed in a manner at once so scanty and so bad, that my daughter begged hard not to be taken back, but to accompany her brother-in-law to Paris. This he conceded; and when the poor child arrived, I saw the necessity of immediately recalling her sister. I was indeed shocked at seeing her,—so wan and thin, and _greedy_ did she appear.

On our first inquiry for the convent above alluded to, we had been directed by mistake to another establishment belonging to the saint of the same name, but bearing a very inferior appearance, and superintended by an abbess whose _toleration_ certainly erred not on the side of laxity. We saw the old lady within her grated lattice. She would not come out to us; but, on being told our business, smiled as cheerfully as fanaticism would let her. (I dare say the expected _pension_ already jingled in her glowing fancy.) Our terms were soon concluded, and every thing was arranged, when Lady Barrington, as a final direction, requested that the children should not be called _too early_ in the morning, as they were unused to it. The old abbess started: a gloomy doubt seemed to gather on her furrowed temples; her nostrils distended; and she abruptly asked, “_N’êtes-vous pas Catholiques?_”

“_Non_,” replied Lady Barrington, “_nous sommes Protestans_.”

The countenance of the abbess now utterly fell, and she shrieked out, “_Mon Dieu! alors, vous êtes hérétiques! Je ne permets jamais d’hérétique dans ce convent!—allez!—allez!—vos enfans n’entreront jamais dans le couvent des Ursulines!—allez!—allez!_” and instantly crossing herself, vehemently counting her beads, and muttering Latin like a schoolmaster, she withdrew from the grate.

Just as we were _turned out_, we encountered, near the gate, a very odd though respectable-looking figure. It was that of a man whose stature must originally have exceeded six feet, and who was yet erect, and, but for the natural shrinking of age, retained his full height and manly presence: his limbs still bore him gallantly, and the frosts of more than eighty winters had not yet chilled his warmth of manner. His dress was neither neat nor shabby: it was of silk—of the old costume: his thin hair was loosely tied behind; and, on the whole, he appeared to be what we call _above the world_.

This gentleman saw that we were at a loss about something; and with the constitutional politeness of a Frenchman of the old school, at once begged us to mention our embarrassment and command his services. Every body, he told us, knew him, and he knew every body at Rouen. We accepted his offer, and he immediately constituted himself _cicisbeo_ to the ladies and Mentor to me. After having led us to the other _Convent des Ursulines_, of which I have spoken, he dined with us, and I conceived a great respect for the old gentleman. It was Monsieur Helliot, once a celebrated _avocat_ of the parliament at Rouen: his good manners and good-nature rendered his society a real treat to us; while his memory, information, and activity were almost wonderful. He was an _improvisore_ poet, and could converse in rhyme, and sing a hundred songs of his own composing.

On my informing M. Helliot that one of my principal objects at Rouen was a research in heraldry, he said he would next day introduce me to the person of all others most likely to satisfy me on that point. His friend was, he told me, of noble family, and had originally studied heraldry for his amusement, but was subsequently necessitated to practise it for pocket-money, since his regular income was barely sufficient (as was then the average with the old nobility of Normandy) to provide him soup in plenty, a room and a bed-recess, a weekly laundress, and a repairing tailor. “Rouen,” continued the old advocate, “requires no heralds now! The nobles are not even able to emblazon their pedigrees, and the manufacturers purchase arms and crests from the Paris heralds, who have always a variety of magnificent ones to _dispose of_ suitable to their new customers.”

M. Helliot had an apartment at Rouen, and also a country-house about four miles from that city, near the Commandery, which is on the Seine;—a beautiful wild spot, formerly the property of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. Helliot’s house had a large garden ornamented by his own hands. He one day came to us to beg we would fix a morning for taking a _déjeûner à la fourchette_ at his cottage, and brought with him a long bill of fare (containing nearly every thing in the eating and drinking way that could be procured at Rouen), whereon he requested we would mark with a pencil our favourite dishes! He said this was always their ancient mode when they had the honour of a _société distingué_; and we were obliged to humour him. He was delighted; and then, assuming a more serious air,—“But,” said he, “I have a very particular reason for inviting you to my cottage: it is to have the honour of introducing you to a lady who, old as I am, has consented to marry me the ensuing spring. I know,” added he, “that I shall be happier in her society than in that of any other person; and, at my time of life, we want somebody interested in rendering our limited existence as comfortable as possible.”

This seemed ludicrous enough, and the ladies’ curiosity was excited to see old Helliot’s sweetheart. We were accordingly punctual to our hour. He had a boat ready to take us across the Seine near the Commandery, and we soon entered a beautiful garden in a high state of order. In the house (a small and very old one) we found a most excellent repast. The only company besides ourselves was the old herald to whom M. Helliot had introduced me; and, after a few minutes, he led from an inner chamber his intended bride. She appeared, in point of years, at least as venerable as the bridegroom; but a droop in the person and a waddle in the gait bespoke a constitution much more enfeebled than that of the gallant who was to lead her to the altar. “This,” said the advocate, as he presented her to the company, “is Madame * * *:—but _n’importe!_ after our repast you shall learn her _name_ and history. Pray, madame,” pursued he, with an air of infinite politeness, “have the goodness to do the honours of the table;” and his request was complied with as nimbly as his inamorata’s shrivelled and quivering hands would permit.

The wine went round merrily: the old lady declined not her glass; the herald took enough to serve him for the two or three following days; old Helliot hobnobbed _à la mode Anglaise_; and in half an hour we were as cheerful, and, I should think, as curious a breakfast party as Upper Normandy had ever produced.

When the repast was ended, “Now,” said our host, “you shall learn the history of this venerable bride that is to be on or about the 15th of April next. You know,” continued he, “that between the age of seventy and death the distance is seldom _very_ great, and that a person of your nation who arrives at the one is generally fool enough to be always gazing at the other. Now we Frenchmen like, if possible, to evade the prospect; and with that object we contrive some new event, which, if it cannot conceal, may at least take off our attention from it; and, of all things in the world, I believe _matrimony_ will be admitted to be most effectual either in fixing an epoch or directing a current of thought. We antiquated gentry here, therefore, have a little law, or rather custom of our own—namely, that after a man has been in a state of matrimony for _fifty_ years, if his charmer survives, they undergo the ceremony of a _second_ marriage, and so begin a new contract for another half-century, if their joint lives so long continue! and inasmuch as _Madame Helliot_ (introducing the old lady anew, kissing her cheek, and chucking her under the chin) has been now forty-nine years and four months on her road to a second husband, the day that fifty years are completed we shall re-commence our honey-moon, and every friend we have will, I hope, come and see the happy re-union”—“Ah!” said madame, “I fear my bride’s-maid, _Madame Veuve Gerard_, can’t hold out so long!—_Mais, Dieu merci!_” cried she, “I think I shall myself, monsieur, (addressing me) be well enough to get through the ceremony!”

I wish I could end this little episode as my heart would dictate. But, alas! a cold caught by my friend the advocate boating on the Seine, before the happy month arrived prevented a ceremony which I would have gone almost any distance to witness. The old gentleman spent three or four days with me every week during several months that I continued at Rouen.—_Sic transit gloria mundi!_

But to my heraldic investigation. The old professor with whom M. Helliot had made me acquainted had been one of the _ancienne noblesse_, and carried in his look and deportment evident marks of the rank from which he had been compelled to descend. Although younger than the advocate, he was somewhat stricken in years. His hair, thin and highly powdered, afforded a queue longer than a quill, and nearly as bulky. A tight plaited stock and _solitaire_, a tucker and ruffles, and a cross with the order of St. Louis;—a well-cleaned black suit, (which had survived many a cuff and cape, and seen many a year of full-dress service,) silk stockings, _paste_ knee and large _silver_ shoe-buckles, completed his toilet.

He said, on my first visit, in a desponding voice, that he deeply regretted the republicans had burned most of his books and records during the Revolution; and having consequently little or nothing left of remote times to refer to, he really could not recollect my ancestors, though they might perhaps have been a very _superbe famille_. On exhibiting, however, my English and Irish pedigrees, (drawn out on vellum, beautifully ornamented, painted and gilt, with the chevalier’s casquet, three scarlet chevanels and a Saracen’s head,) and touching his withered hand with the _metallic tractors_, the old herald’s eyes assumed almost a youthful fire; even his voice seemed to change; and having put the four dollars into his breeches’-pocket, buttoned the flap, and then felt at the outside to make sure of their safety, he drew himself up with pride:—

“Between this city and Havre-de-Grace,” said he, after a longer pause, and having traced with his bony fingers the best gilded of the pedigrees, “lies a town called Barentin, and there once stood the superb château of an old warrior, Drogo de Barentin. At this town, monsieur, you will assuredly obtain some account of your noble family.” After some conversation about William the Conqueror, Duke Rollo, Richard Cœur de Lion, &c. I took my leave, determining to start with all convenient speed toward Havre-de-Grace.

On the road to that place I found the town designated by the herald, and having refreshed myself at an auberge, set out to discover the ruins of the castle, which lie not very far distant. Of these, however, I could make nothing; and, on returning to the auberge, I found mine host decked out in his best jacket and a huge opera-hat. Having made this worthy acquainted with the object of my researches, he told me, with a smiling countenance, that there was a _very old_ beggar-man extant in the place, who was the depositary of all the circumstances of its ancient history, including that of the former lords of the castle. Seeing I had no chance of better information, I ordered my dinner to be prepared in the first instance, and the mendicant to be served up with the dessert.

The figure which presented itself really struck me. His age was said to exceed a hundred years: his beard and hair were white, and scanty, while the ruddiness of youth still mantled in his cheeks. I don’t know how it was, but my heart and purse opened in unison, and I gratified the old beggar-man with a sum which, I believe, he had not often seen before at one time. I then directed a glass of eau-de-vie to be given him, and this he relished even more than the money. He then launched into such an eulogium on the noble race of Drogo of the castle, that I thought he never would come to the point; and when he did, I received but little satisfaction from his communications, which he concluded by advising me to make a voyage to the island of Jersey. “I knew,” said he, “in my youth, a man much older than I am now, and who, like me, lived upon the good people. This man was the final descendant of the Barentins, being the last lord’s bastard, and he has often told me, that on that island his father had been murdered, who having made no will, his son was left to beg, while the king got all, and bestowed it on some young lady. They called him here _Young Drogo_ down to the day of his death! They did indeed:—they did!—heigh ho!”

This whetted my appetite for further intelligence, and I resolved, having fairly engaged in it, to follow up the inquiry. Accordingly, in the spring of 1816, leaving my family in Paris, I set out for St. Maloes, thence to Granville, and, after a most interesting journey through Brittany, crossed over in a fishing-boat, and soon found myself in the square of St. Hilliers, at Jersey. I had been there before on a visit to General Don, with General Moore and Colonel le Blanc, and knew the place: but this time I went _incog._

On my first visit to Jersey I had been much struck with the fine situation and commanding aspect of the magnificent castle of Mont Orgueil, and had much pleasure in anticipating a fresh survey of it. But guess the gratified nature of my emotions, when I learnt from an old warder of the castle that Drogo de Barentin, a Norman chieftain, had been its last governor!—that his name was on some of its records, and that he had lost his life in its defence on the outer ramparts! He left no offspring that could be traced, and thus the Norman’s family had become extinct. The old man said that he had left children by a Saxon woman in _England_; but that the Normans would surely have destroyed them had they come to Barentin.

This I considered as making good progress; and I returned cheerfully to Barentin, to thank my mendicant and his patron the _aubergiste_, intending to prosecute the inquiry further at Rouen. I will not hazard fatiguing the reader by detailing the result of any more of my investigations; but it is curious enough that at Ivetot, about four leagues from Barentin,—to an ancient château near which place I had been directed by mine host, and where there was to be an auction of old trumpery, the ancient furniture of the château, I met, among a parcel of scattered articles collected for that sale, the portrait of an old Norman warrior, which _exactly_ resembled those of my great-grandfather, Colonel Barrington of Cullenaghmore. But for the difference of scanty black hair in one case, and a large white wig in the other, the heads and countenances would have been quite undistinguishable! I marked this picture with my initials, and left a request with the innkeeper at Ivetot to purchase it for me at any price; but having unluckily forgotten to leave him money likewise, to pay for it, the man, as it afterward appeared, thought no more of the matter. So great was my disappointment, that I advertised for this portrait—but in vain.

I will now bid the reader farewell,—at least for the present.

END OF VOL. II.

PROSPECTUS

OF

SIR JONAH BARRINGTON’S

HISTORIC MEMOIRS OF IRELAND,

WITH SECRET ANECDOTES OF THE UNION;

Illustrated by Delineations of the principal Characters connected with those Transactions, curious Letters and Papers in fac-simile; and numerous Original Portraits engraved by the elder HEATH.

* * * * *

Unforeseen circumstances, over which the Author had no influence or control, had altogether checked the progress of this Work, suspended the publication of its latter parts, and left them on the Publisher’s shelves unadvertised and uncirculated.

This temporary relinquishment had given rise to unfounded and injurious reports of its suppression; an object which never was for one moment in the contemplation of the Author, nor sought for, or even suggested, by the Government of England.

On the contrary—the lamentable and unimproving march of Ireland from the period of the Union having fully proved the deceptious prospective given to that fatal measure by its mistaken or corrupt supporters, and exciting a novel interest and grave reflections of vital importance to the British Empire, the Author had determined to seize upon the first available opportunity of fulfilling his engagement to the friends and patrons of the Work, by its completion.

Those friends were not confined to one party. They were mingled in all—they comprised several of the highest orders of society—many who held, and some who still hold, important stations in the Government of both countries:—and the commencing parts of this Work having been honoured by the approbation and encouragement of His late Majesty and other Members of His Royal House, it was with deep regret the Author found himself, from a succession of causes, for several years unable to fulfil his intentions, and gratify his own laudable ambition, by compiling into a compact Memoir the most important Historic Events of Ireland. In many of those he was himself a not unimportant actor. He possessed also the advantage of individual intimacy or acquaintance with the most celebrated personages of all parties; without which, and the fidelity of a contemporary and independent pen, the delineation of their characters and the record of their conduct, if not lost for ever, would have descended to posterity with imperfect details and an ambiguous authenticity,—or have left a wide chasm in a highly interesting epocha of British History.

The fallacious measure of a Legislative Union,—the progress of which from commencement to consummation the Author energetically resisted—has proved, by its inoperative or mischievous results, the justness of that resistance. And he now, in common with many of the most distinguished of its original supporters, deeply deplores its accomplishment. But established by lapse of time—confirmed by passive assent—and complicated with some beneficial, and many political and financial arrangements, its tranquil reversal seems to have passed feasibility. Yet—as an hereditary friend to British connexion—the Author hopes, by the revival and completion of this History, to open wide the eyes of Great Britain to the present dangers of Ireland—to draw aside the curtain of ignorance and prejudice by which her history has been so long obscured—to compare her once rising prosperity with her existing miseries—to discover the occult causes of their continuance and the false principles of her misrule—to display her sacrifices for England—and to unmask her libellers in both countries.

Developments such as these may rouse the Legislature to probe her wounds to their depth—to employ her labour—to succour—to foster—and to rule her on the broad principles of a steady and philanthropic policy—and to relinquish for ever that system of coercive Government, which an experience of many centuries has proved to be destructive of almost every thing—except her crimes and her population.

The British people should also learn that the absence of the ancient Nobles and protecting Aristocracy of Ireland,—drawn away by the Union from their demesnes and their tenantry to the Seat of Legislation, and replaced only by the griping hands and arbitrary sway of upstart deputies,—increases in proportion with the miseries and turbulence of the lower orders; and that the luxuriance of vegetation which clothes that capable Island, has, through the same causes, become only a harbinger of want, or the forbidden fruit of a famished peasantry.

It should therefore be the object of every pen and of every tongue, to render the Union as innoxious as its paralysing nature can now admit of; to recall the proprietors of the Irish soil to a sense of their own security and their country’s welfare; and thereby strengthen the ties which should bind the two nations together, in equality, prosperity, and affection—on the firmness and durability of which _species_ of connexion depends, not only the constitutional security of England herself, but perhaps the political existence of both countries.

Such is the Author’s view in the completion of this Work. The obstacles to its progress are surmounted, and its publication is now in the hands of those who will spare nothing to render it worthy of its object, and ensure a lasting and beneficial record to the United Empire.

It is fortunate for Ireland, and disastrous to her calumniators, that a recent and great event has at once exposed the misrepresentations of her enemies, and displayed a great source of her misfortunes. The visit of a conciliating King to a distracted people rapidly disclosed their native character, and produced a burst of unfeigned, unanimous, genuine loyalty, never before experienced in such profusion by any Monarch from his subjects. The equivocating language of diplomacy was rejected for a while. The King was a Patriot, and the People were loyal. For the first time they were allowed to approach each other. Both were sincere—and both were ardent. In a few days, the King became despotic in the affections of the Nation, and his Ministers descended into a comparative insignificance. When he arrived, he was respected as a British King—but when he departed, he was adored as an Irish Monarch. He saw at once that the existence of faction and discord was incompatible with the peace and prosperity of Ireland; and that she hung on Great Britain, as a withering limb upon a healthful body—essential to its symmetry, but useless to its functions, and injurious to its Constitution.

There was but one remedy—conciliation. His Majesty saw its efficacy and commanded its adoption.—But his commands were disobeyed by the _Regal Rebels_[53]—and Ireland is still seen withering and cankering—by the obstinacy of intolerant faction, the irritation of local tyranny, and the multiplying mischiefs resulting from disobedience to the benevolent and wise commands of the only British King who ever yet set foot on the Irish shore as a friend and as a patriot.

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Footnote 53:

Mr. Grattan’s definition of men, “_Who make their loyalism a pretence
to perpetuate their supremacy,—and distract the peace of a country
under colour of protecting it_.”

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* * * * *

The above work will shortly be completed in ten numbers, royal 4to, price 10_s._ 6_d._ each, and published by Messrs. COLBURN and BENTLEY, New Burlington Street, London; BELL and BRADFUTE, Edinburgh; and JOHN CUMMING, Dublin: and subscribers are particularly requested to send their orders to their respective booksellers for the completion of their sets.

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

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Transcriber’s note:

Title page, ‘TWO’ changed to ‘THREE,’ “IN THREE VOLUMES.”

Page viii, ‘—’ inserted after ‘comedy,’ “Modern comedy—The French stage”

Page 4, ‘wont’ changed to ‘won’t,’ “I won’t humour you”

Instances of ‘N. B.’ on pages 16, 22, and 23 have been normalised to “N.B.”

Page 34, ‘guaging’ changed to ‘gauging,’ “determined on gauging Frank,”

Page 56, ‘scull’ changed to ‘skull,’ “both had iron skull-caps”

Page 78, ‘her’s’ changed to ‘hers,’ “caught his eye, closed her’s again”

Page 79, ‘years’ changed to ‘years’,’ “After two years’ struggle”

Page 81, ‘Madona’ changed to ‘Madonna,’ “sat for a Madonna”

Page 94, second ‘I’ struck, “as I think”

Page 95, ‘Madona’ changed to ‘Madonna,’ “sat for a Madonna. Nature”

Page 112, ‘accessary’ changed to ‘accessory,’ “as accessory to a crime”

Page 126, ‘“’ before ‘If’ struck, “If you begin to reason”

Page 128, ‘peice’ changed to ‘piece,’ “compose any piece of music”

Page 157, ‘“’ before ‘Wild’ struck, ““The Wild Irish Girl””

Page 197, ‘fusees’ changed to ‘fuses,’ “by longer or shorter fuses”

Page 231, full stop inserted after ‘Jordan,’ “Dora Jordan.”

Page 233, ‘Jordan’ capitalised, “Dora Jordan.”

Page 278, ‘pefect’ changed to ‘perfect,’ “with my perfect composure”

Page 340, ‘a’ changed to ‘à,’ “fidélité à MON Empereur”

Page 396, ‘ministériéle’ changed to ‘ministériel,’ “employé ministériel”