Chapter X: Part 10

“I met the girl three months ago,” he replied, “at a dancing-school at Somers’ Town, set up by an old Irish acquaintance, Terry M‘Namara, with whom I dine sometimes: he told me she was a rich Jewess; so when I heard of her papa, I determined to know something more about his daughter, and stole frequently to Somers’ Town, where Mr. Solomon Salmon has a pretty cit cottage. There I hid behind a dead wall just in front, and when _she_ came to the window, I nodded, and she ran away, as if offended. I knew this was a good sign with a woman. She soon returned to the window. I nodded again. Away went she a second time; but I heard a loud laugh, and considered that a capital sign: and in fact, she came a third time. Then I was sure, and nodded _twice_, whereupon she returned the salutation. Having carried on the _nodding_ system sufficiently, I now ventured to speak to her on my fingers—an art which I had seen her dexterously practise at the dancing-school. ‘My love!’ fingered I; at which she turned her back, but soon turned her face again. ‘My love!’ I repeated, still on my fingers. Off she scampered, but soon came back in company with the maid-servant (whom I therefore bribed next day). I now ventured to suggest an interview the following evening. The Jewess flushed at this proposal; but on my repetition of it, held up _seven_ of her fingers.

“Of course I was punctual at the time appointed, was admitted, and we swore eternal fidelity on the _Old_ Testament. The maid betrayed us as soon as I ran short of hush-money, but repented afterward, when I gave her a fresh supply, and told me that her master, Mr. Solomon Salmon, had locked his daughter up. She had then attempted to throw herself out of a two-pair window for my sake; but the old Jew having caught her in the very act, she peremptorily told him she was determined to fall into a decay or consumption of the lungs, if he did not consent to her marrying the Christian counsellor.

“This he was in the sequel forced to agree to, or sacrifice his own virgin daughter, (like the king in the Bible,) besides whom he luckily has no other child to inherit his fortune, and the mother is at least twenty years past childbearing.

“At length all was settled, and we are to be actually married as Christians on Monday next. Little Egar of Hare Court has drawn up the marriage articles, and I am to have ten thousand now—that is, the interest of it during the Jew’s life, payable quarterly: then twenty more, and _all the rest_ on the mother’s death: and in the mean time, half his commission on money dealings (to commence after a few months’ instruction), together with the house in Somers’ Town, where I shall reside and transact business.”

All this Lysight told me with great glee and admirable humour.

“Egad, it’s no bad hit, Ned,” said I; “many a high-headed grand-juror on the Munster circuit would marry Solomon Salmon himself upon the same terms.”

“You’ll dine with me,” said Lysight, “on Wednesday, at Somers’ Town, at five o’clock? I’ll give you a good turkey, and such a bottle of old black-strap as neither the Grecian nor the Oxford ever had in their cellars for any money.”

“I’ll surely attend a new scene, Ned,” answered I.

I was accordingly most punctual. All appeared to be just as he had described. It was a small house, well furnished. Miss’s visage, to be sure, though not _frightful_, was less _ornamental_ than any article on the premises. The maid-servant was really a fine girl; the cook no bad _artiste_; the dinner good, and the wine capital. Two other Templars were of the party, and every thing went on well. About eight at night the old Jew came in. He appeared a civil, smug, dapper, clean, intelligent little fellow, with a bob-wig. He made us all welcome, and soon retired to rest, leaving us to a parting bottle.

The affair proceeded prosperously; and I often dined with my friend in the same cheerful manner. Ned, in fact, became absolutely domestic. By degrees he got into _the trade_; accepted all the bills at the Jew’s request, to save _him_ trouble, as old Salmon kept his own books; and a large fortune was accumulating every day, as was apparent by the great quantities of miscellaneous property which was sent in and as quickly disappeared; when one morning, Ned was surprised at three ugly-looking fellows entering his house rather unceremoniously and without stating their business. Ned immediately seized the poker, when his arm was arrested gently by a fourth visitor, who said:

“Easy, easy, Counsellor Lysight, we mean you no harm or rudeness; we only do our duty. We are the _commissioners’_ messengers, that’s all. Gentlemen,” said the _attorney_, as he proved to be, to the three ruffians, “do your duty without the slightest inconvenience to the counsellor.”

They then proceeded to seal up all the doors, leaving Ned, wife, & Co. a bed-room only, to console themselves in. Mr. Solomon Salmon, in truth, turned out both a Christian and a bankrupt, and had several thousands to pay out of the sale of about twoscore of silver watches and a few trinkets—which constituted the entire of the splendid property he had so liberally settled on Mr. Edward Lysight as a portion with his lady daughter.

Ned now found himself completely taken in,—reduced, as he told me, to ten shillings and sixpence in gold, and four shillings in silver, but acceptor of bills of exchange for Salmon & Co. for more than he could pay should he live a hundred years longer than the course of nature would permit him. As he had signed no partnership deed, and had no funds, they could not make him a bankrupt; and as the bills had not arrived at mercantile maturity, he had some days of grace during which to consider himself at liberty:—so he thought absence and fresh air better than hunger and imprisonment, and therefore _retreat_ the wisest course to be taken. He was right; for in some time, the creditors having ascertained that they could get nothing of a cat but its skin, (even could they catch it,) suffered him to remain unmolested on his own promise—and a very safe one—that _if ever he was able_, he would pay them.

He afterward went over to Dublin to the Irish bar, where he made nearly as many friends as acquaintances, but not much money; and at length died,—his widow soon following his example, and leaving two daughters, who, I believe, as teachers of music in Dublin, were much patronised and regarded.

Several years subsequently, being surprised that the creditors had let Lysight off so easily, I inquired particulars from a solicitor who had been concerned in the affairs of Salmon & Co., and he informed me that all the parties, except one, had ceased to proceed on the commission; and that he found the true reason why the alleged creditors had agreed to let Lysight alone was, that they had been all engaged in a piece of complicated machinery to deceive the unwary, and dreaded lest matters should come out, in the course of a strict examination, which might place them in a more dangerous situation than either the bankrupt or his son-in-law. In fact, the creditors were a knot; the bankrupt an instrument; and Lysight a tool.

_Felix qui facit aliena periculum comtum._

FATALITIES OF MARRIAGE.

Speculations of the author on free-agency and predestination—A novel
theory—The matrimonial ladder—Advice to young lovers—A ball in
Dublin—Unexpected arrival of Lord G— —His doom expressed—Marries the
author’s niece—Remarks on his lordship’s character.

In a previous part of this volume, I promised my fair readers that I would endeavour to select some little anecdotes of tender interest, more particularly calculated for their perusal; and I now proceed to redeem that promise, so far as I can.

_Fatality_ in _marriages_ has been ever a favourite theme with young ladies who have promptly determined to resign their liberty to a stranger, rather than preserve it with a parent. I am myself no unqualified fatalist; but have struck out a notion of my own on that subject, which is, I believe, different from all others;—and when I venture to broach it in conversation, I am generally assured by the most didactic of the company, that (so far as it is comprehensible) it excludes both sense and morality. Nevertheless it is, like my faith in supernaturals, a grounded and honest opinion: and in all matters connected with such shadowy things as spirits, fates, chances, &c. a man is surely warranted in forming his own theories—a species of construction, at any rate, equally harmless and rational with that castle-building in the air so prevalent among his wiser acquaintances.

It is not my intention here to plunge deep into my tenets. I only mean indeed to touch on them so far as they bear upon matrimony: and may the glance induce fair damsels, when first nourishing a tender passion, to consider in time what may be _fated_ as the consequences of their _free-agency_!

The matrimonial _ladder_ (if I may be allowed such a simile) has generally eight steps: viz. 1. Attentions; 2. Flirtation; 3. Courtship; 4. Breaking the ice; 5. Popping the question; 6. The negotiation; 7. The ceremony; 8. The _repentance_.

The grand basis of my doctrine is, that free-agency and predestination are neither (as commonly held) inconsistent nor incompatible; but, on the contrary, intimately connected, and generally copartners in producing human events. Every important occurrence in the life of man or woman (and matrimony is no _bagatelle_) partakes of the nature of both. Great events may ever be traced to trivial causes, or to voluntary actions; and that which is _voluntary_ cannot, it should seem, be _predestined_: but when these acts of free-will are once performed, they lead irresistibly to ulterior things. Our free-agency then becomes expended; our spontaneous actions cannot be retraced; and then, and not before, the march of _fate_ commences.

The medical doctrine of remote and proximate causes of disease in the human body is not altogether inappropriate to my dogma—since disorders which are _predestined_ to send ladies and gentlemen on their travels to the other world, entirely _against_ their inclinations, may frequently be traced to acts which were as entirely within their own option.

I have already professed my intention of going but superficially into this subject just now; and though I could find it in my heart considerably to prolong the inquiry, I will only give one or two marked illustrations of my doctrine, merely to set casuists conjecturing. There are comparatively few important acts of a person’s life which may not be avoided. For example:—if any man chooses voluntarily to take a voyage to Nova Scotia, he gives _predestination_ a fair opportunity of drowning him at sea, if it think proper; but if he determines never to go into a ship, he may be perfectly certain of his safety in _that_ way. Again:—if a general chooses to go into a battle, it is his free-agency which enables predestination to despatch him there; but if, on the other hand, he keeps clear out of it (as some generals do), he may set fatality at defiance on that point, and perhaps return with as much glory as many of his comrades had acquired by leaving their brains upon the field. Cromwell told his soldiers the night before the battle of Worcester, (to encourage them,) that, “Every _bullet_ carried its own _billet_.”—“Why then, by my sowl,” said an Irish recruit, “that’s the very rason I’ll _desert_ before morning!” Marriage, likewise, is an act of free-agency; but, as I said before, being once contracted, predestination comes into play, often despatching one or other of the parties, either by grief, murder, or suicide, who might have been safe and sound from all those _fatalities_, had he or she never _voluntarily_ purchased or worn a plain gold ring.

Of the eight steps attached to the ladder of matrimony already specified, _seven_ (all lovers will be pleased to remark) imply “free-agency;” but the latter of these being mounted, progress to the eighth is too frequently _inevitable_. I therefore recommend to all candidates for the ascent, thorough deliberation, and a brief pause at each successive step:—for, according to my way of thinking, the knot tied at the seventh interval should be considered, in every respect, perfectly indissoluble.

The principle of these few examples might extend to most of the events that chequer our passage through life; and a little unprejudiced reflection seems alone requisite to demonstrate that “free-agency” may readily keep fate under her thumb on most important occasions.

I cannot avoid particularising, as to matrimony, an incident that came within my knowledge, and related to individuals of rank who are still living. The facts are well remembered, though they occurred nearly twenty years ago. Exclusive of the intrinsic interest of the transaction, it may have some weight with my fair readers.

About the year 1809, a ball, on an extensive scale, was given by Lady Barrington in Dublin. Almost every person of _ton_ did her the honour of participating in the festivity, and I think the Duke of Wellington was present.

In the evening, I received a note from Sir Charles Ormsby, mentioning that Lord G——, son of my old friend the Earl of L——, had just arrived. He was represented as a fine young man; and it was added that (though quite tired) he might be prevailed on to attend Lady Barrington’s ball, were I to write him a note of invitation. Of course I did so with the greatest pleasure. The Earl of L—— and I had been many years intimate: the late Right Honourable Isaac Corry was his close friend; and before his lordship grew _too rich_, he was my next door neighbour in Harcourt Street. We were, indeed, all three, boon companions.

Lord G—— arrived at the ball, and a very good-looking fellow he certainly was—of about nineteen; his address corresponded with his mien, and I was quite taken with him, independently of his being my friend’s son. Two very young relatives of mine—one my niece, Arabella E——, the other my daughter (now the Viscomtesse de F——,) did the juvenile honours of the party.

Sir Charles Ormsby, (who might have been termed a sort of _half-mounted_ wit,) said to me, rather late, “Did you ever know such a foolish boy as G——? Before he had been half an hour in the room, he protested that ere three months were over, either one or other of your girls would be Lady G——; that it was a _doomed_ thing;—though he could not exactly say _which_ would be the bride—as he had not seen either from the time they were all children together.”

The ball ended about day-break, and I was obliged immediately to set off for circuit. I had been engaged as counsel on the trial of Mr. Alcock for the murder of Mr. John Colclough (as mentioned Volume i.).

I finished my month’s circuit at Wexford, where to my surprise I found Lord G——. I asked him his business there. He said he had been summoned as a witness on the above-mentioned trial, which I thought a very strange circumstance, as he could have known nothing whatsoever of the transaction. However, we travelled together to Dublin in my carriage; and on the way he spoke much of _destiny_, and of a cottage in County Wicklow, with every thing “rural.” I did not then comprehend the young man’s drift; but on my return, I found that his _free-agency_ had been put in practice; and, in fact, very shortly after, Lord G—— was my nephew. _Fatality_ now commenced her dominion; and a most charming gift from fatality had the young nobleman received in a partner juvenile, like himself, his equal in birth, and possessed of every accomplishment.

I had not at first been made acquainted with the cause of Lord G——’s visit to Ireland; but at length understood, with some surprise, that the Earl of L—— had placed his eldest son as an ensign in a marching regiment ordered to the continent. Thus, at the age of nineteen, he found himself in a situation unfavourable, as I think, to the fair and proper development of his mind and talents—uncongenial with the befitting pursuits for a nobleman’s heir—and still less adapted to gratify the cravings of an ardent intelligent spirit, whose very enthusiasm was calculated, under such circumstances, to produce recklessness and evil.

The residue of this _novel_ (for such, in all its details, it may fairly be denominated—and one of a most interesting and affecting cast) would afford ample material for observation: but it is too long, too grave, and perhaps too delicate, for investigation here.—Suffice it to add, that I saw Lord and Lady G——, with their numerous and lovely family, last summer on the continent—altered less than I should have imagined, from the interval that had elapsed. In speaking of his lordship, I am reminded of the motto, “Every one has his fault:”—but he has likewise great merits, and talent which would have been higher had his education been more judicious. My friendship for him has been strong and invariable; and I think that fate has not yet closed the book on his future renown and advancement.

A WEDDING IN OLDEN DAYS.

Changes in the nuptial ceremony in Ireland—Description of the
_ancient_ formula—Throwing the stocking—A lucky hit—Reverse of
the picture—Modern marriages—Coming of age—Nuptials of the
author’s eldest brother—Personal description of the bride and
bridegroom—Various preparations—Dresses of the different members
of the wedding-party—The coach of ceremony—The travelling
chaise—A turnpike dispute—Convenient temporary metamorphosis of
the author and two of his brothers—Circumstances preceding the
marriage in question—A desperate lover—Disasters and blunders—A
“scene”—Major Tennyson Edwards—Marries a sister of the
author—His fortunate escape from a ludicrous catastrophe.

There are few changes in the manners and customs of society in Ireland more observable than those relating to marriage. The day has been, within my recollection, when that ceremony was conducted altogether differently from the present mode. Formerly, no damsel was _ashamed_, as it were, of being married. The celebration was joyous, public, and enlivened by every species of merriment and good cheer. The bride and bridegroom, bridesmaids, and bridesmen (all dressed and decorated in gay and gallant costumes), vied in every effort to promote the pleasure they were themselves participating. When the ceremony was completed, by passing round a final and mystical word, “Amazement!”—every body kissed the bride. The company then all saluted each other: cordial congratulations went round, the music struck up, and plenty of plum cake and wine seemed to anticipate a _christening_. The bride for a moment whimpered and coloured; the mamma wept with gratification; the bridesmaids flushed with sympathy, and a scene was produced almost too brilliant for modern apathy even to gaze at. The substantial banquet soon succeeded; hospitality was all alive; the bottle circulated; the ball commenced; the bride led off, to take leave of her celibacy; men’s souls were softened; maidens’ hearts melted; Cupid slily stole in, and I scarce ever saw a joyous public wedding whereat he had not nearly expended his quiver before three o’clock in the morning. Every thing cheerful and innocent combined to show the right side of human nature, and to increase and perfect human happiness; a jovial hot supper gave respite to the dancers and time to escort Madam Bride to her nuptial-chamber—whither, so long as company were permitted to do so, we will attend her. The bed-curtains were adorned with festoons of ribbon. The chamber was well lighted; and the bridesmaids having administered to the bride her prescriptive refreshment of white-wine posset, proceeded to remove her left stocking and put it into her trembling hand: they then whispered anew the mystical word before mentioned; and having bound a handkerchief over her eyes, to ensure her impartiality, all the lovely spinsters surrounded the nuptial couch, each anxiously expecting that the next moment would anticipate her promotion to the same happy predicament within three hundred and sixty-five days at the very farthest. The bride then tossed the prophetic hosiery at random among her palpitating friends, and whichever damsel was so fortunate as to receive the blow was declared the next maiden in the room who would become devoted to the joys of Hymen; and every one in company—both ladies and gentlemen—afterward saluted the cheek of the lucky girl. The ball then recommenced; the _future_ bride led off; night waned;—and Phœbus generally peeped again ere the company could be brought to separate. Good-humoured tricks were also on those happy occasions practised by arch girls upon the bridegroom. In short, the pleasantry of our old marriages in Ireland could not be exceeded. They were always performed in the house of the lady’s parents or of some relative. It would fill a volume were I to enumerate the various joyful and happy incidents I have witnessed at Irish weddings.[46]

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Footnote 46:

How miserably has modern refinement reversed those scenes of happiness
and hilarity—when the gentry of my native land were married in warm,
cheerful chambers, and in the midst of animated beings, beloving and
beloved! No gloom was there: every thing seemed to smile; and all
thoughts of death or memoranda of mortality were discarded.

Now, those joyous scenes are shifted by sanctity and _civilisation_.
Now, the female soul almost shudders—and it well may—on reaching the
site of the connubial ceremony. The long, chilling aisle, ornamented
only by sculptured tablets and tales of death and futurity, is
terminated by the sombre chancel—whence the unpupilled eye and vacant
stare of cold marble busts glare down on those of youth and animation,
seeming to say, “Vain, hapless couple! see me—behold your fate!—the
time is running now, and will not stop its course a single moment till
you are _my_ companions!” Under such auspices, the lovers’ vows are
frozen ere they can be registered by the recording angel.

The cheerless ceremony concluded, the bridegroom solemnly hands the
silent bride into her travelling chariot; hurries her to some country
inn, with her pretty maid—perhaps destined to be a future rival; they
remain there a few days, till yawning becomes too frequent, and the
lady then returns to town a listless matron—to receive, on her couch
of _ennui_, a string of formal congratulations, and predictions of
connubial comfort, few of which are doomed to be so _prophetic_ as the
_bridal stocking_ of her grandmother.

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At one of the old class of weddings took place the most interesting incident of my early life, as I stated in a former volume. The spectacle and events of that union never can be erased from my memory, and its details furnish a good outline wherefrom those of other marriages of that period, in the same sphere of society, may be filled up.

In those days, so soon as an elder son came of age, the father and he united to raise money to pay off all family incumbrances. The money certainly was raised, but the incumbrances were so lazy, that in general they remained _in statu quo_. The estates were soon clipped at both ends; the father nibbling at one, the son pilfering at the other, and the attorney at both. The rent-roll became short; and it was decided that the son must marry to “sow his wild oats,” and make another settlement on younger children. Money, however, was not always the main object of Irish marriages:—first, because it was not always to be had; and next, because if it was to be had, it would so soon change masters, that it would be all the same after a year or two. Good family, good cheer, and beauty, when they could find it, were the chief considerations of a country gentleman, whose blood relatives, root and branch (as is still the case on the continent), generally attended the act of alliance, with all the splendour their tailors, milliners, and mantua-makers could or would supply.

My eldest brother (the bridegroom on the occasion alluded to) was an officer of that once magnificent regiment the black horse, and fell most vehemently in love with the sister of a brother-officer, afterward Colonel E—— of Old Court, County Wicklow. I have described some beauties in my former volumes; but the charms of Alicia E—— were very different from the dazzling loveliness of Myrtle Yates, or the opening bloom of Maria Hartpool. She was inferior to either in symmetry; but in interest had an infinite superiority over both. Alicia was just eighteen: she had no regular feature: her mouth was disproportionately large; her lips were coral; her eyes destitute of fire—but they were captivating tell-tales; her figure was rather below the middle height, but without an angle; and the round, graceful delicacy of her limbs could not be surpassed. It was, however, the unrivalled clearness of her pellucid skin that gave a splendour and indescribable charm to the contour of Alicia’s animated face. I may be considered as exaggerating when I declare that her countenance appeared nearly transparent, and her hands were more clear than may well be imagined. Her address was still more engaging than her person.

Such was the individual to whom my nut-brown and unadorned D—— W——[47] was selected as bridesmaid. My brother was gentlemanly, handsome, and gallant, but wild; with little judgment and a very moderate education.

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Footnote 47:

See Vol. i.

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It being determined that the wedding should be upon a public and splendid scale, both families prepared to act fully up to that resolution. The proper trades-people were set to work; ribbon favours were woven on a new plan; in fact, all Dublin heard of the preparations from the busy milliners, &c.; and on the happy day, a crowd of neighbours collected about my father’s house in Clare Street, to see the cavalcade, which was to proceed to Old Court House, near the Dargle, where the ceremony was to be performed.

The dress of those days on such occasions was generally splendid; but our garments “out-Heroded Herod.” The bridegroom, cased in white cloth with silver tissue, belaced and bespangled, glittered like an eastern caliph. My mother, a woman of high blood and breeding, and just pride, was clad in what was called a _manteau_ of silvered satin: when standing direct before the lights, she shone out as the reflector of a lamp; and as she moved majestically about the room, and curtseyed _à la Madame Pompadour_, the rustling of her embroidered habit sounded like music appropriate to the flow of compliments that enveloped her. My father, one of the handsomest men of his day, was much more plainly dressed than any of us.

The gilded coach of ceremony (which I noticed in an early sketch) was put in requisition; and its four blacks, Bully, Blackbird, the colt, and Stopford (fourteen years of age), were all as sleek and smooth as if cut out of ebony. Tom White and Keeran Karry (postilions), with big Nicholas (the footman), sported appropriate costumes; and the whole was led by Mr. Mahony, the butler, mounted on Brown Jack, my father’s hunter.

The cavalcade started off at a hand-gallop for Bray, accompanied by the benediction of old Sarah the cook, and Judy Berger the hereditary house-keeper, who stood praying meanwhile, and crossing their foreheads, at the door. An old travelling chaise of no very prepossessing appearance (which had been rescued from the cocks and hens in the country out-house), with a pair of hacks, was driven by Matthew Querns the huntsman, and contained the residue of the party—namely, my two other brethren and self.

The more particular description of our attire may strike certain _moderns_ as somewhat ridiculous; but that attire was in the _goût_ of the day, and covered as good proportions as those of the new gentry who may deride it. The men wore no stays; the ladies covered their shoulders; and the first were to the full as brave, and the latter at least as modest, as their successors. _Our_ wedding suits were literally thus composed. The blue satin vests and inexpressibles were well laced and spangled wherever there was any room for ornament. The coats were of white cloth with blue capes. Four large paste curls, white as snow with true rice powder, and scented strong with real bergamot, adorned our heads. My third brother, Wheeler Barrington, had a coat of scarlet cloth, because he was _intended_ for the army.

In truth, greater luminaries never attended a marriage festivity. Our equipage, however, by no means corresponded with our personal splendour and attractions; and I thought the contrast would be too ridiculous to any observing spectator who might know the family. I therefore desired Matthew to take a short turn from the great rock road to avoid notice as much as possible; which caution being given, we crowded into the tattered vehicle, and trotted away as swiftly as one blind and one lame horse could draw such magnificoes. There were (and are) on the circular road by which I had desired Matthew Querns to drive us, some of those nuisances called turnpikes. When we had passed the second gate, the gatekeeper, who had been placed there recently, of course demanded his toll. “Pay him, French,” said I to my brother. “Faith,” said French, “I changed my clothes, and I happen to have no money in my pocket.” “No matter,” answered I, “Wheeler, give the fellow a shilling.” “I have not a rap,” said Wheeler.—“I lost every halfpenny I had yesterday at the royal cockpit in Essex Street.”

By a sort of instinct I put my hand into my own pocket; but instinct is not money, and _reality_ quickly informed me that I was exactly in the same situation. However, “no matter,” again said I; so I desired old Matthew Querns to pay the turnpike. “Is it me pay the pike?” said Matthew—“me? the devil a cross of wages I got from the master this many a day; and if I did, do you think, Master Jonah, the liquor would not be after having it out of me by this time?” and he then attempted to drive on _without_ paying, as he used to do at Cullenaghmore. The man however grappled the blind horse, and gave us a full quantum of abuse, in which his wife, who issued forth at the sound, vociferously joined. Matthew began to whack him and the horses alternately with his thong whip; my brother French struggled to get out, and beat the pike-man; but the door would not open readily, and I told him that if he beat the turnpike man properly, he’d probably bleed _a few_ himself; and that a single drop of blood on his fine clothes would effectually exclude him from society. This reasoning succeeded; but the blind horse not perceiving what was the matter, supposed something worse had happened, and began to plunge and break the harness. “You d—d gilt vagabonds,” said the turnpike man, “such fellows should be put into the stocks or ducked at the broad stone beyond Kilmainham. Oh! I know you well enough! (looking into the carriage window:) what are yees but stage-players that have run away from Smock Alley, and want to impose upon the country-folk!—But I’ll neither let yees back or forward, by ——, till you pay me a _hog_ for the pike, and two and eightpence-halfpenny for every wallop of the whip that the ould green mummer there gave me, when I only wanted my honest dues.”

I saw fighting was in vain; but courtesy can do any thing with an Irishman. “My honest friend,” said I, (to soften him,) “you’re right; we are poor stage-players sure enough: we have got a loan of the clothes from Mr. Ryder—may Heaven bless him! and we’re hired out to play a farce for a great wedding that’s to be performed at Bray to-night. When we come back with our money we’ll pay you true and fair, and drink with you till you’re stiff, if you think proper.”

On this civil address the pike-man looked very kind: “Why, then, by my sowl it’s true enough,” said he, “ye can’t be very rich till ye get your entrance money; but sure I won’t be out of pocket for all that. Well, faith and troth, ye look like decent stage-players; and I’ll tell you what, I like good music, so I do. Give me a new song or two, and d—mme but I’ll let you off, you poor craturs, till you come back agin. Come, give us a chaunt, and I’ll help you to mend the harness too!”

“Thank you, sir,” said I humbly. “I can’t sing,” said my brother French, “unless I’m drunk!” “Nor I, drunk or sober,” said Wheeler. “You _must_ sing for the _pike_,” said I to French; and at length he set up his pipes to a favourite song, often heard among the half-mounted gentlemen in the country when they were drinking; and as I shall never forget any incident of that (to me) eventful day, and the ditty is quite characteristic both of the nation generally and the half-mounted gentlemen in particular, (with whom it was a sort of charter song,) I shall give it.

D—n money—it’s nothing but trash:
We’re happy though ever so poor!
When we have it we cut a great dash,
When it’s gone, we ne’er think of it more.
Then let us be wealthy or not,
Our spirits are always the same;
We’re free from every dull thought,
And the “Boys of old Ireland’s” our name!

I never saw a poor fellow so pleased as the pike-man; the words hit his fancy: he shook us all round, most heartily, by the hand; and running into his lodge, brought out a pewter pot of frothing beer, which he had just got for himself, and insisted on each of us taking a drink. We of course complied. He gave Matthew a drink too, and desired him not to be so handy with his whip to other pike-men, or they’d _justice_ him at Kilmainham. He then helped up our traces; and Matthew meanwhile, who, having had the last draught, had left the pot no further means of exercising its hospitality—enlivened by the liquor and encouraged by the good-nature of the pike-man, and his pardon for the _walloping_—thought the least he could do in gratitude was to give the honest man a sample of his own music, vocal and instrumental: so taking his hunting horn from under his coat (he never went a yard without it) and sounding his best “Death of Reynard,” he sang a stave which was then the charter song of _his_ rank, and which he roared away with all the graces of a view holloa:

Ho! ro! the sup of good drink!
And it’s ho! ro! the heart wou’dn’t think!
Oh! had I a shilling lapp’d up in a clout,
’Tis a sup of good drink that should wheedle it out.
And it’s ho! ro! &c. &c.

The man of the pike was delighted. “Why, then, by my sowl, you ould mummer,” said he, “it’s a pity the likes of you should _want_ a _hog_. Arrah! here (handing him a shilling), maybe your whistle would run dry on the road, and you’ll pay me when you come back, won’t you? Now all’s settled, off wid yees! Success!—success!” And away we went, as fast as the halt and blind could convey us.

We arrived safe and in high glee, just as the prayer-book was getting ready for the ceremony. I apologised for our apparent delay by telling the whole story in my own manner. D— W— seemed wonderfully amused. I caught her eye: it was not like Desdemona’s; but she told me afterward, that my _odd_ mode of relating that adventure first made her remark me as a singularity. She was so witty on it herself, that she was the cause of wit in me. She was indefatigable at sallies—I not idle at repartee; and we both amused ourselves and entertained the company.

I sat next to D— W— at dinner; danced with her at the ball; pledged her at supper; and before two o’clock in the morning my heart had entirely deserted its master.

I will here state, by way of episode, that great difficulties and delays, both of law and equity, had postponed the matrimonial connexion of my brother, Major Barrington (he bore that rank in the old volunteers), for a considerable time. There was not money enough _afloat_ to settle family incumbrances, and keep the younger children from starving. A temporary suspension was of course put to the courtship. My brother in consequence grew nearly outrageous, and swore to me that he had not slept a wink for three nights, considering what species of _death_ he should put himself to. Strong, and young, (though tolerably susceptible myself,) my heart was at that time my own, and I could not help laughing at the extravagance of his passion. I tried to ridicule him out of it. “Heavens!” said I, “Jack, how can you be at a loss on _that_ score? You know I am pretty sure that, by your intended suicide, I shall get a step nearer Cullenaghmore. Therefore, I will remind you that there are a hundred very _genteel_ ways by which you may despatch yourself without either delay or expense.”

He looked at me quite wildly. In fact he was distractedly in love. Alicia was eternally on his lips, and I really believe, if his head had been cut off like the man’s in Alonzo de Cordova, it would have continued pronouncing “Alicia,” till every drop of blood was clean out of it. Reasoning with a mad lover is in vain, so I still pursued ridicule. “See,” said I, “that marble chimney-piece at the end of the room; suppose, now, you run head-foremost against it,—in all human probability you’ll knock your brains out in a novel and not at all a vulgar way.”

I spoke in jest, but found my hearer jested not. Before I could utter another word, he bent his head forward, and with might and main rushed plump at the chimney-piece, which he came against with a crash that I had no doubt must have finished him completely. He fell back and lay without a struggle; the blood gushed, and I stood petrified. The moment I was able I darted out of the room, and calling for aid, his servant Neil came. I told him that his master was dead.

“Dead!” said Neil, “By —— he is, and _double dead_ too! Ah! then, who _kilt_ the major?”

He took him up in his arms, and laid him on a sofa. My brother, however, soon gave Neil the “retort courteous.” He opened his eyes, groaned, and appeared any thing but _dying_. My fright ceased; he had been only stunned, and his head cut, but his brains were safe in their case. He had luckily come in contact with the _flat_ part of the marble: had he hit the _moulding_, he would have ended his love and misfortunes together, and given me, as I had said, a step toward Cullenaghmore. The cut on his head was not material, and in a few days he was tolerably well again. This story, however, was not to be divulged; it was determined that it should remain with us a great secret. Neil, his servant, we swore on a bible not to say a word about it to any body; but the honest man must have practised some mental reservation, as he _happened_ just only to _hint_ it to his sweetheart, Mary Donnellan, my mother’s maid, and she in a tender moment told the postilion Keeran, for whom she had a regard. Keeran never kept a secret in all his life; so he told the dairy-maid, Molly Coyle, whom he preferred to Mary Donnellan. And the dairy-maid told my father, who frequented the dairy, and delighted to see Molly Coyle a-churning. The thing at length became quite public; and my brother, to avoid raillery, set off to his regiment at Philipstown, whither I accompanied him. He still raved about taking the first favourable _opportunity_ of putting himself to death, if the courtship were much longer suspended; and spoke of gallantly throwing himself off his charger at full gallop, previously fastening his foot in the stirrup. The being dragged head downwards over a few heaps of paving stones would certainly have answered his deadly purpose well enough; but I dissuaded him without much difficulty from that species of self-murder, by assuring him that every body, in such a case, would attribute his death to _bad horsemanship_, which would remain, on the records of the regiment, an eternal disgrace to his professional character. Many other projects he thought of; but I must here make one remark, which perhaps may be a good one in general—namely, that every one of those projects _happened_ to originate _after dinner_—a period when Irishmen’s chivalric fancies are at their most enthusiastic and visionary height.

At length, a happy letter reached the major, signifying that all parties had agreed, and that his Alicia, heart and hand, was to be given up to him for life, as his own private and exclusive property—“to have and to hold, for better for worse,” &c. &c. This announcement rendered him almost as wild as his despair had done previously. When he received the letter, he leaped down a flight of stairs at one spring, and in five minutes ordered his charger to be saddled for himself; his hunter, “Mad Tom,” for me; and his chestnut, “Rainbow,” for Neil. In ten minutes we were all mounted and in full gallop toward Dublin, which he had determined to reach that night after one short stoppage at Kildare, where we arrived (without slackening rein) in as short a time as if we had rode a race. The horses were fed well, and drenched with hot ale and brandy; but as none of them were in love, I perceived that they would willingly have deferred the residue of the journey till the ensuing morning. Indeed, my brother’s steed conceiving that _charges_ of such rapidity and length were not at all military, unless in _running away_, determined practically to convince his master that such was his notion. We passed over the famous race-ground of the Curragh in good style; but, as my brother had not given his horse time to lie down gently and rest himself in the ordinary way, the animal had no choice but to perform the feat of lying down whilst in full gallop—which he did very expertly just at the Curragh stand-house. The only mischief occurring herefrom was, that the drowsy charger stripped the skin, like rags, completely off both his knees, scalped the top of his head, got a hurt in the back sinews, and (no doubt without intending it) broke both my brother’s collarbones. When we came up (who were a few hundred yards behind him), both man and beast were lying very quietly, as if asleep;—my brother about five or six yards before the horse, who had cleverly thrown his rider far beyond the chance of being tumbled over by himself. The result was, as usual on similar occasions, that the horse was led limping and looking foolish to the first stable, and committed to all the farriers and grooms in the neighbourhood. My brother was carried flat on a door to the nearest ale-house; and doctors being sent for, _three_ (with bags of instruments) arrived from different places before night, and, after a good deal of searching and fumbling about his person, one of them discovered that both collar-bones were smashed, as aforesaid, and that if either of the broken bones or splinters thereof turned _inward_ by his stirring, it might run through the lobes of his lungs, and very suddenly end all hopes of ever completing his journey: his nose had likewise taken a different turn from that it had presented when he set out:—and the palms of his hands fully proved that they could do without any skin, and with a very moderate quantity of flesh.

However, the bones were well arranged, a pillow strapped under each arm, and another at his shoulder-blades. All necessary comforts were procured, as well as furniture from Mr. Hamilton, whose house was near. I did not hear a word that night about Alicia; but in due time the major began to recover once more, and resumed his love, which had _pro tempore_ been literally knocked out of him. It was announced by the doctor that it would be a long time before he could use his hands or arms, and that removal or exercise might produce a new fracture, and send a splinter or bone through any part of his interior that might be most handy.

Though I thought the blood he had lost, and the tortures the doctor put him to, had rendered his mind a good deal tamer than it was at Maryborough, he still talked much of Alicia, and proposed that I should write to her, on his part, an account of his misfortunes; and the doctor in attendance allowing him the slight exertion of signing his name and address in his own handwriting, I undertook to execute my task to the utmost of my skill, and certainly performed it with great success. I commenced with due warmth, and stated that the “accident he had met with only retarded the happiness he should have in making her his wife, which he had so long burned for, but which circumstances till then had prevented,” &c. &c. (The words I recollect pretty well, because they afterward afforded me infinite amusement.) The letter was sealed with the family arms and crest.

“Now, Jonah,” said my brother, “before I marry I have a matter of some importance to arrange, lest it should come to the ears of my Alicia, which would be my ruin; and I must get you to see it settled for me at Philipstown, so as to prevent any thing exploding.” He went on to give me the particulars of a certain _liaison_ he had formed with a young woman there, an exciseman’s daughter, which he was now, as may be supposed, desirous of breaking; and (though protesting that interference in such matters was not at all to my taste) I consented to write, at his dictation, a sort of compromise to the party, which he having signed, both epistles were directed at the same time, and committed to the post-office of Kilcullen bridge.

The amorous and fractured invalid was now rapidly advancing to a state of convalescence. His nose had been renovated with but an inconsiderable partiality for the left cheek; his collar-bones had approximated to a state of adhesion; and he began impatiently to count the days and nights that would metamorphose his Alicia from a spinster to a matron.

The extravagance of his flaming love amused me extremely: his aerial castles were built, altered, and demolished with all the skill and rapidity of modern architecture; while years of exquisite and unalloyed felicity arose before his fancy, of which they took an immovable grasp.

We were busily engaged one morning in planning and arranging his intended establishment, on returning to the sports and freaks of a country gentleman (with the addition of a terrestrial angel to do the honours), when, on a sudden, we heard rather a rough noise at the entrance of the little chamber wherein the invalid was still reclining upon a feather-bed, with a pillow under each arm to keep the bones in due position. Our old fat landlady, who was extremely partial to the cornet,[48] burst in with her back toward us, endeavouring to prevent the entrance of a stranger, who, however, without the least ceremony, giving her a hearty curse, dashed into the centre of the room in a state of bloated rage scarcely conceivable—which was more extraordinary as the individual appeared to be no other than Captain Tennyson Edwards, of the 30th regiment, third brother of the beloved Alicia. Of course we both rose to welcome him most heartily: this however he gave us no opportunity of doing; but laying down a small mahogany case, which he carried in his hand, and putting his arms akimbo, he loudly exclaimed without any exordium, “Why, then, Cornet Jack Barrington, are you not the greatest scoundrel that ever disgraced civilised society?”

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Footnote 48:

My brother’s _actual_ rank in _the army_.

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This quere of course was not answered in the affirmative by either of us; and a scene of astonishment on the one side and increasing passion on the other, baffled all common-place description: I must therefore refer it to the imagination of my readers. The retort courteous was over and over reiterated on both sides without the slightest attempt at any _éclaircissement_.

At length the captain opened his mahogany case, and exhibited therein a pair of what he called his “barking irons,” bright and glittering as if both able and willing to commit most expertly any murder or murders they might be employed in.

“You scoundrel!” vociferated the captain to the cornet, “only that your bones were smashed by your horse, I would not leave a whole one this day in your body. But I suppose your brother here will have no objection to exchange shots _for_ you, and not keep me waiting till you are well enough to be _stiffened_! Have you any objection (turning to me) ‘to take a _crack_?’”

“A very considerable objection,” answered I; “first, because I never fight without knowing _why_; and secondly, because my brother is not in the habit of fighting by proxy.”

“Not know why?” roared the captain. “There! read that! Oh! I wish you were hale and whole, cornet, that I might have the pleasure of a _crack_ with _you_!”

I lost no time in reading the letter; and at once perceived that my unlucky relative had, in the flurry of his love, misdirected each of the two epistles just now spoken of, and consequently informed “the divine Alicia” that he could hold no further intercourse with her, &c.

A fit of convulsive laughter involuntarily seized me, which nothing could restrain; and the captain meanwhile, nearly bursting with rage, reinvited me to be shot at. My brother stood all the time like a ghost, in more pain, and almost in as great a passion as our visitor. He was unable to articulate; and the pillows fixed under each arm rendered him one of the most grotesque figures that a painter could fancy.

When I recovered the power of speaking (which was not speedily), I desired Tennyson to follow me to another room: he took up his pistol-case, and expecting I was about to indulge him with a _crack_ or two, seemed somewhat easier in mind and temper. I at once explained to him the curious mistake, and without the least hesitation the captain burst into a much stronger paroxysm of laughter than I had just escaped from. Never did any officer in the king’s service enjoy a victory more than Captain Edwards did this strange blunder. It was quite to his taste, and on our proposing to make the invalid as happy as exhaustion and fractures would admit of, a new scene, equally unexpected, but of more serious consequences, turned up.

A ruddy, active and handsome country girl came to the door, and sprang with rapidity from a pillion on which she had been riding behind a good-looking rustic lad. Our landlady greeted her new customer with her usual urbanity. “You’re welcome to these parts, miss,” said Mrs. Mahony: “you stop to-night—to be sure you do:—what do you choose, miss?—Clean out the settle-bed parlour:—the chickens and rashers, miss, are capital, so they are.—Gassoon, do run and howld the lady’s beast; go, avourneen, carry him in and wipe him well—do you hear? and throw a wisp of hay before the poor brute. You rode hard, miss, so you did!”

“Oh! where’s the cornet?” cried the impatient maiden, totally disregarding Mrs. Mahony: for it was Jenny —— herself, who had come speedily from Philipstown to forestall the happy moments which my bewildered brother had, in his letter to his Alicia, so delightfully anticipated. Nothing could restrain her impatience; she burst into the little parlour full on the astounded invalid, who was still standing bolt upright, like a statue, in the very position wherein we had left him. His loving Jenny, however, unconscious that his collarbones had been disunited, rushed into his arms with furious affection. “Oh! my dearest Jack!” cried she, “we _never_ part _no_ more! no, never—never!” and tight, indeed, was the embrace wherewith the happy Jenny now encircled the astonished cornet; but, alas! down came one of the pillows! the arm, of course, closed; and one half of the left collar-bone being as ignorant as its owner of the cause of so obstreperous an embrace, and, wishing as it were to see what matter was going forward in the world, instantly divorced itself from the other half, and thrusting its ivory end through the flesh, skin, and integuments (which had obstructed its egress), quickly appeared peeping through the lover’s shirt.

The unfortunate inamorato could stand these accumulated shocks no longer, and sank upon the feather-bed in a state of equal astonishment and exhaustion, groaning pitiously.