PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LORD STOWELL.
My Dear Lord,
The general approbation of a literary work
must be highly gratifying to any Author. But the
cordial approval of an eminent individual, whose grave,
sound judgment, and profound erudition, give authenticity
to his opinions, affords a gratification of an higher
order.
Such was my feeling on your Lordship’s suggestion to
me of a third volume of those Sketches, “composed of
similar materials.” To have amused you gives me pleasure—to
have informed you excites my vanity. My
gratitude for your kindness (when in office) has met no
alloy by retirement from a station where your repute will
find no rivals. Your suggestion is in progress.
Time and declining health impair the vigour of men’s
intellect,—in that point I must bow to Providence. But
such as my coming volume may be, if it does not arrive
at my own wishes, I hope it will not stop very short of
your Lordship’s expectation.
I am, my Dear Lord,
With true regard and respect,
Your Lordship’s sincere Servant, &c.
Jonah Barrington.
10th July, 1828.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
THE FIRE-EATERS.
Passion for duelling in Ireland—Ancient duel before the judges and law authorities, &c. &c. at the Castle of Dublin—List of official and judicial duellists in author’s time—Family weapons described—The Fire-eaters’ Society—Their chiefs—Elegant institution of the Knights of Tara—Description of them—Their exhibitions and meetings—The rules of duelling and points of honour established by the fire-eaters, called the Thirty-six Commandments—Singular duel between the author and Mr. Richard Daley, a remarkable duellist and fop—Daley hit—Author’s second the celebrated Balloon Crosby—His singular appearance and character
Frequency of election duels—Ludicrous affair between Frank Skelton and an exciseman—Frank shoots the exciseman and runs away—His curious reasons—Sir J. Rourke’s quadrille duel, with five hits—Mr. H. D. G * * * y’s remarkable meeting with Counsellor O’Maher—O’Maher hit—Civil proposition of G * * * y’s second—G * * * y’s gallant letter to the author on his election for Maryborough—Honourable Barry Yelverton challenged by nine officers at once—His elucidation of the Fire-eaters’ Resolutions—Lord Kilkenny’s memorable duels and law-suits—His lordship is shot by Mr. Ball, an attorney—The heir to his title (the Hon. Somerset Butler) challenges Counsellor Burrowes—The latter hit, but his life saved by some gingerbread nuts—Lord Kilkenny’s duel with Counsellor Byrne—The counsellor wounded—Counsellor Guinness escapes a rencontre—Sketch of Counsellor M‘Nally—His duel with the author—His three friends: all afterward hanged—M‘Nally wounded—Bon-mot of Mr. Harding—The affair highly beneficial to M‘Nally—His character, marriage, and death—Ancient mode of fighting duels—The lists described—Duel of Colonel Barrington with Squire Gilbert on horseback—Both wounded—Gilbert’s horse killed—Chivalrous conclusion
Curious fatality in the Hartpole family—Characteristic sketch of the last of the name—Description of Shrewl Castle—The chapel and cemetery—Strictures on Epitaph writing—Eccentricities of the Earl of Aldborough—His lordship proposes his sister, Lady Hannah Stratford, as returning officer for the borough of Baltinglass—Consequent disturbances—The North-Briton put on his mettle, but out-manœuvred—“Lending to the Lord”—Successful conspiracy to marry Hartpole to the daughter of a village inn-keeper—He is stabbed by his wife, and deserts her in consequence—He forms an attachment to Miss Maria Otway, whom he marries, under the plea of his previous connexion being illegal—Unfortunate nature of this union—Separation of the parties—Hartpole’s voyage to Portugal, his return and death—Sundry other anecdotes of the Stratford family
Sketch of the character of Mr. Hamilton Rowan—His Quixotic spirit of philanthropy—Case of Mary Neil, taken up by Mr. Rowan—Dinner-club among the briefless barristers of Dublin—Apparition of Mr. Hamilton Rowan and his dog—More frightened than hurt—An unanswerable query—Mr. Rowan’s subsequent adventures—The Rev. Mr. Jackson—He is brought up to receive sentence for high treason, and expires in court
An Irish peasant cutting his own head off by mistake—His reputed ghost—Humours of an Irish wake—Natural deaths of the Irish peasantry—Reflections on the excise laws
Humorous story of Father O’Leary and a bear—Mistaken notions respecting Ireland on the Continent—Lord Ventry and his tenant: an anecdote characteristic of the Irish peasant
Strictures on Dr. Johnson—His biographer, Boswell—False definitions and erroneous ethics—Superstition—Supernatural appearances—Theological argument of the author in favour of his peculiar faith—Original poetry by Miss T * * *—The author purchases Lady Mayo’s demesne, County Wicklow—Terrific and cultivated scenery contrasted—Description of the Golden Belt of Ireland and the beauties of the above-mentioned county—Lord Rossmore—His character—Supernatural incident of a most extraordinary nature, vouched by living witnesses, and attendant on the sudden death of his lordship
Remarks on Lady Morgan’s novel of “The Wild Irish Girl,” &c.—Prince O’Sullivan at Killarney—Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent”—Memoir of Jonathan Clerk—“Florence Macarthy”—Comparison between Lady Morgan and Thomas Moore as writers—The author’s knowledge of both—“Captain Rock” condemned—The “Irish Melodies” by Moore—The harmonising of them by Sir John Stevenson injurious to the national music—Anecdote of Mr. Thomas Moore and Mrs. K * * * y
Poets and poetasters—Major Roche’s extraordinary poem on the battle of Waterloo—“Tears of the British Muse”—French climax of love—A man’s age discovered by his poetry—Evils of a motto—Amorous feelings of youth—Love verses of a boy; of a young man—“Loves of the Angels”—Dinner verses of an Oxonian—“The Highlander,” a poem—Extracts from the poetical manuscripts of Miss Tylden, &c.
The author’s early visits to Crow-street Theatre—Interruptions of the University men—College pranks—Old Mr. Sheridan in “Cato” and in “Alexander the Great”—Curious scene introduced, by mistake, in the latter tragedy—Mr. Digges in the Ghost of Hamlet’s father—Chorus of cocks—The author’s preference of comedy to tragedy—Remarks on Mr. Kean and the London moralists—Liston in “Paul Pry”—Old Sparkes—The Spanish débutante—Irish Johnstone—Modern comedy—The French stage
Public mis-statements respecting that lady—The author’s long acquaintance with her—Début of Mrs. Jordan, at the Dublin Theatre, as Miss Francis—Her incipient talents at that period—Favourite actresses then in possession of the stage—Theatrical jealousy—Mrs. Daly (formerly Miss Barsanti)—Curious inversion of characters in the opera of “The Governess,” resorted to by the manager to raise the wind—Lieut. Doyne proposes for Miss Francis—His suit rejected from prudential considerations—Miss Francis departs for England—Mr. Owenson, Lady Morgan’s father—Comparison between that performer and Mr. John (commonly called Irish) Johnstone—Introduction of the author to his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence—Reflections on the scurrilous personalities of the English press—Mrs. Jordan in the green-room, and on the stage—Her remarks on the theatrical art, and on her own style of acting—Her last visit to Dublin, and curious circumstances connected therewith—Mr. Dwyer the actor and Mr. Sergeant Gold—Mrs. Jordan in private society—Extracts from her letters—Her retirement from Bushy and subsequent embarkation for France
Decline of Mrs. Jordan’s health—Description of her cottage and grounds at Boulogne-sur-Mer—Madame Ducamp and her servant Agnes—Their account of Mrs. Jordan’s habits and manners—Removal of that lady to Versailles and subsequently to St. Cloud—Account of her illness and last moments
Diversity of the author’s pursuits—Superficial acquirements contrasted with solid—Variety and change of study conducive to health—Breeding ideas—How to avoid ennui—The principles of memory and fear—The author’s theory respecting the former, and his motive for its introduction
Letter from the author to Mr. Burne, relating to the political conduct of the former at the period of the Union—Extracts from letters written to the author by Lord Westmoreland—General reflections on the political condition of Ireland at the present time—Hint toward the revival of a curious old statute—Clerical justices—The king in Ireland—The Corporation of Dublin—The “Glorious Memory”—Catholics and Protestants—Mischievous virulence of party feeling
Peace of 1814—The Bourbons and émigrés generally—Motives of the author in visiting the continent—His departure from England with his family—Arrival at Havre de Grace—The Côteau d’Ingouville—Doctor Sorerie and his graduated scale—The Pavillon Poulet—Price of commodities at Havre—Rate of exchange—English assumption abroad—The author’s rural retirement disturbed by Napoleon’s return from Elba—Circumstances attending the announcement of this fact at Havre—Previous demonstrations of the inhabitants of the town, and more particularly of the military quartered there—Uniform of the old guard—Two Russians mutilated by the mob—Retirement of Louis le Désiré from Paris—Curious variety of feeling manifested among the people at Havre—Policy of the priests—Good humour of all parties—Recruiting for the Emperor and the King—Consternation of the English at Havre—Meeting at the house of the consul, Mr. Stuart—A vinous harangue—Prompt embarkation of the British—Accommodations of a storehouse—The huissiers and the spring showers—Signs of the times
A family council—Journey from Havre to Paris—Attention of the French officers to the author and his party—Peaceable condition of the intervening country—Thoughts on revolutions in general—Ireland in 1798—Arrival in the French capital—Admirable state of the police—Henry Thevenot—Misgivings of the author—His interview with Count Bertrand—Polite conduct of the Count—The Emperor’s chapel—Napoleon at mass—His deportment—Treasonable garments—Col. Gowen—Military inspection after mass—Alteration in the manner of the Emperor—Enthusiasm of the soldiers
Doctor and Mrs. Marshall—Col. Macirone, aide-de-camp to Joachim Murat, while king of Naples—General Arthur O’Connor—Lord and Lady Kinnaird—His lordship under the surveillance of the police—Suspected of espionage, and arrested, but set at liberty immediately after—Messrs. Hobhouse and Bruce—Dr. Marshall’s correct information as to passing events—Real character of the coterie at his house—Madame la parente du ministre Fouché—Misconception of the minister’s Swiss porter—Henry Thevenot
The peers and deputies summoned for the 8th of June—Abduction of the regalia by the royalists—Author obtains a ticket of admission to the gallery of the Chamber of Deputies, to witness the ceremony—Grenadiers of the old guard—Enthusiasm of the military, and comparative quiescence of the other ranks—Entrance of Napoleon into the Chamber—Sketch of his appearance and that of Madame Mère—Administration of the oath of allegiance—The Duke of Otranto and Count Thibaudeau—The imperial speech and its ineffective delivery
Apathy of the people—Temporary building in front of the Ecole Militaire—Pont de Jena—Policy of Napoleon regarding Fouché—Procession to the Champ de Mars—Peculiar accoutrements of a regiment of cavalry—Reflections on some points in the history of Napoleon—His mistake in changing the republican into a monarchical government—Coaches of ceremony of the French noblesse and officers of state—The Emperor’s liberality to various members of his court—His personal dejection on this day—Rejoicings succeeding the promulgation—Superiority of the French in matters of embellishment—Gratuitous distribution of provisions and wine—Politeness of the lower orders of French—Display of fireworks—Mr. Hobhouse’s “Second Reign of Napoleon”
Rejoicings on Napoleon’s victory over Blucher and surprise of Lord Wellington—Bulletin issued at St. Cloud—Budget of news communicated by a French cockney—Author’s alarm on account of his family—Proposes quitting Paris—Information of Henry Thevenot: confirmed at Lafitte’s—Napoleon’s return from Waterloo—The author’s sources of intelligence—His visits to the Chamber of Deputies—Garat, minister of justice at the period of Louis’s decapitation—The Rousseau Mss. and their peculiar utility to the author—Fouché’s treachery—Vacillating plan to inform Napoleon thereof, through Count Thibaudeau—Observations on the vicissitudes and political extinction of Bonaparte
Negotiation between the provisional government of Paris and the allies—Col. Macirone’s mission—The author crosses the barrier of the French army, misses the colonel, and is detained on suspicion—Led before Marshal Davoust, Prince d’Eckmuhl and commander-in-chief of the forces at Vilette—The marshal’s haughty demeanour, and the imprecations of the soldiery—A friend in need; or, one good turn deserves another—Remarks of a French officer on the battle of Waterloo—Account of the physical and moral strength and disposition of the army at Vilette—Return of the parlementaires—Awkward mistake of one of the sentries—Liberation of the author—Marshal Davoust’s expressions to the negotiators
Attack on the bridge of Charenton by the Russians—Fouché’s arrangements for the defence of Paris—Bonaparte’s retirement to Malmaison—His want of moral courage—Comparison between Napoleon and Frederick the Great—Extraordinary resolution of the Ex-Emperor to repair to London—Preparations for his undertaking the journey as secretary to Dr. Marshall—The scheme abandoned from dread of treachery on the road to the coast—Termination of the author’s intercourse with Dr. Marshall, and the cause thereof—Remuneration of Col. Macirone by the arch-traitor Fouché
Afternoon ramble on the Boulevard Italien—Interrupted by the report of artillery—Sang froid of the fair sex—Female soldiers—The author repairs to a point commanding the field of battle—Site of the projected palace of the King of Rome—Rapidity of the movements of the French as contrasted with those of the Prussians—Blowing up of the bridge of St. Cloud—Visit of the author to the encampment in the Champ de Mars—The wounded soldier
Retirement of the army of Vilette behind the Loire—Occupation of the French capital by the allies—Thoughts on the disposition of the Bourbon government towards Great Britain—Conduct of the allies after their possession of Paris—Infringements of the treaty—Removal of the works of art from the Louvre—Reflections on the injurious result of that measure to the British student—Liberal motive operating on the English administration of that period—Little interludes got up between the French King and the allies—Louis the Eighteenth’s magnanimous letters—Threatened destruction of the Pont de Jena by Marshal Blucher—Heroic resolution of His Most Christian Majesty to perish in the explosion
The Catacombs of Paris—Ineffective nature of the written description of these as compared with the reality—Author’s descent into them—His speedy return—Contrast presented by the cemetery of Père la Chaise—Tomb of Abelard and Heloise—An English capitalist’s notions of sentiment
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
Passion for duelling in Ireland—Ancient duel before the judges and law authorities, &c. &c. at the Castle of Dublin—List of official and judicial duellists in author’s time—Family weapons described—The Fire-eaters’ Society—Their chiefs—Elegant institution of the Knights of Tara—Description of them—Their exhibitions and meetings—The rules of duelling and points of honour established by the fire-eaters, called the Thirty-six Commandments—Singular duel between the author and Mr. Richard Daley, a remarkable duellist and fop—Daley hit—Author’s second the celebrated Balloon Crosby—His singular appearance and character.
It may be objected that anecdotes of duelling
have more than their due proportion of space in
these sketches, and that no writer should publish
feats of that nature (if feats they can be called),
especially when performed by persons holding
grave offices, or by public functionaries. These
are very plausible, rational observations, and are
now anticipated for the purpose of being answered.
It might be considered a sufficient excuse, that
these anecdotes refer to events long past; that
they are amusing, and the more so as being matters
of fact, (neither romance nor exaggeration,) and
so various that no two of them are at all similar.
But a better reason can be given;—namely, that
there is no other species of detail or anecdote
which so clearly illustrates the character, genius,
and manners of a country, as that which exemplifies
the distinguishing propensities of its population
for successive ages. Much knowledge of
a people will necessarily be gained by possessing
such a series of anecdotes, and by then going on
to trace the decline of such propensities to the
progress of civilization in that class of society
where they had been prevalent.
As to the objection founded on the rank or profession
of the parties concerned, it is only necessary
to subjoin the following short abstract from a
long list of official duellists who have figured away
in my time, and some of them before my eyes.—The
number of grave personages who appear to
have adopted the national taste, (though in most
instances it was undoubtedly before their elevation
to the bench that they signalised themselves
in single combat,) removes from me all imputation
of pitching upon and exposing an unusual frailty;
and I think I may challenge any country in Europe
to show such an assemblage of gallant judicial
and official antagonists at fire and sword as is
exhibited even in the following list.[1]
1. Single combat was formerly a very prevalent and favourite
mode of administering justice in Ireland; the letter of that law
existed in England; and, not being considered so brutal as bullfights,
or other beastly amusements of that nature, it was legally
authorised, and frequently performed before the high authorities
and their ladies, in the castle-yard of Dublin;—bishops, judges,
and other persons of high office, generally honouring the spectacle
with their presence.
The last exhibition of that nature I have read of was between
two Irish gentlemen, Connor Mac Cormac O’Connor, and
Teige Mac Kilpatrick O’Connor. They fought with broadswords
and skeens (large knives), in the castle of Dublin, in
the presence of the archbishop and all the chief authorities and
ladies of rank. They had hewed each other for a full hour,
when Mr. Mac Kilpatrick O’Connor happening to miss his
footing, Mr. Mac Cormac O’Connor began to cut his head off
very expertly with his knife; which, after a good deal of cutting,
struggling, and hacking, he was at length so fortunate as
to effect; and, having got the head clear off the shoulders, he
handed it to the lords justices (who were present), and by whom
the head and neck was most graciously received.
Earl Clare, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, fought
the Master of the Rolls, the Right Honourable
John Philpot Curran, with twelve-inch pistols.
The Earl of Clonmell, Chief Justice of the
King’s Bench, fought Lord Tyrawly, about his
wife, and the Earl Landaff, about his sister; and
others, with sword or pistol, on miscellaneous
subjects.
The Judge of the County of Dublin, Egan, fought
the Master of the Rolls, Roger Barrett,[2] and three
others; one with swords.
2. On the duel between Judge Egan and Counsellor Roger
Barret a curious incident occurred, of hackneyed celebrity,
but very illustrative of that volatile eccentricity with which the
gravest events were frequently accompanied in that country.
On the combatants taking their ground (secundum consuetudinem),
Roger (who was the challenger) immediately fired
without much aim, and missing his antagonist, coolly said,
“Egan, now my honour is satisfied,” and began to walk away
with great stateliness and composure.
The judge, however, (who had not fired,) cried aloud, “Hulloa,
Roger—hulloa!—stop—stop, Roger; come back here;
stay till I take a shot at your honour!”
Roger obeyed; and with the same composure cried out,
“Very well, fire away, Jack.”
Egan presented, and seemed by his motions determined to
finish Roger:—at length he cried out, “Pho! pho! I won’t
humour you, by G—d! I wouldn’t be bothered shooting you,
Roger!—so now you may go to the devil your own road; or
shake hands, whichever you like best.”
The finale may be anticipated. This circumstance is truly
Irish; it took place on the site of Donnybrook fair, and some
hundreds of amateurs were present.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Right
Honourable Isaac Corry, fought the Right Honourable
Henry Grattan, a privy counsellor, and
the chancellor was hit. He also exchanged shots
or thrusts with two other gentlemen.
A baron of the exchequer, Baron Medge, fought
his brother-in-law and two others—a hit.
The Chief Justice, C. P., Lord Norbury, fought
Fire-eater Fitzgerald, and two other gentlemen,
muzzle to muzzle, and frightened Napper Tandy
and several besides: one hit only.—Napper was
near being hanged for running away!
The Judge of the Prerogative Court, Doctor
Duigenan, fought one barrister and frightened another
on the ground.—The latter case a very curious
one.
The First Counsel to the Revenue, Henry
Deane Grady, Esq., K. C., fought Counsellor
O’Maher, Counsellor Campbell, and others:—very
stout work.
The Right Honourable the Master of the Rolls
fought Lord Buckinghamshire, (Chief Secretary,
&c.) because he would not dismiss an official person.
The Provost of the University of Dublin, the
Right Honourable Hely Hutchinson, fought Mr.
Doyle, master in Chancery: they went to the
plains of Minden to fight!
N.B. The spirit of the Hutchinson family was
proverbial, and their good nature was no less
so.
The Chief Justice C. P. Patterson fought three
country gentlemen, one of them with swords, another
with guns, and wounded all of them.
The Right Honourable George Ogle, the Orange
chieftain, a privy counsellor, fought Barny Coyle,
a whiskey distiller, because he was a papist.—They
fired eight shots without stop or stay, and no hit
occurred: but Mr. Ogle’s second broke his own
arm by tumbling into a potatoe-trench.
Sir Harding Gifford, late Chief Justice of Ceylon,
fought the rebel General Bagenal Harvey at
a place called the Scalp, near Dublin. The Chief
Justice received a severe, but very odd wound.—He
eventually, however, suffered no important injury.
Counsellor Dan O’Connell fought the Orange
chieftain, who had been halloo’d at him by the
corporation. The champion of Protestant ascendancy
never rose to fight again.
The Collector of the Customs of Dublin, the
Honourable Francis Hutchinson, fought the Right
Honourable Lord Mountnorris:—a hit. Cum multis
aliis quæ nunc enumerare longum est.
The reader of this dignified list (which, as I
have said, is only a very short abridgment[3]) will
surely see no great indecorum in an Admiralty
Judge having now and then, when required so to
do, exchanged broadsides, more especially as they
did not militate against the law of nations, and no
ghost was the consequence.
3. Two hundred and twenty-seven memorable duels have
actually been fought during my grand climacteric.
However, it must be owned that there were occasionally
peaceable and forgiving instances among the
barristers.—A brave, thrice-proven, but certainly
capricious individual, Mr. Curran, was whipped
by a very savage nobleman, Lord Clanmorris;
and another eminent barrister was said to have had
his eye saluted by a messenger from a gentleman’s
lips in the body of the House of Commons.—Yet
both those little incivilities were arranged very
amicably, and without the aid of any deadly weapon
whatsoever, I suppose for variety’s sake. But
the people of Dublin used to observe, that a judgment
came upon Counsellor O’Callaghan, for having
kept his friend, Mr. Curran, quiet in the horse-whipping
affair, inasmuch as his own brains were
literally scattered about the ground by a Galway
attorney very soon after he had turned pacificator.
To speak after the manner of a Bulletin:—“In
my time, the number of killed and wounded
among the bar was very considerable.—The other
learned professions suffered much less.”
It is nearly incredible what a singular passion
the Irish gentlemen (though in general excellent-tempered
fellows) formerly had for fighting each
other and immediately becoming friends again.
A duel was indeed considered a necessary piece
of a young man’s education, but by no means a
ground for any future animosity with his opponent:—on
the contrary, proving the bravery of both, it
only cemented their friendship.
One of the most humane men existing, an intimate
friend of mine, and a prominent and benevolent
public character, but who (as the expression
then was) had frequently played both “hilt to
hilt” and “muzzle to muzzle,” in desperate rencontres,
was heard endeavouring to keep a little
son of his quiet who was crying for something:—“Come,
now, do be a good boy! Come, now,”
said my friend, “don’t cry, and I’ll give you a case
of nice little pistols to-morrow. Come, now, don’t
cry, and we’ll shoot them all in the morning.”—“Oh,
yes! yes! papa! we’ll shoot them all in the
morning!” responded the child, drying his little
eyes and delighted at the notion.
I have heard Sir Charles Ormsby, who affected
to be a wit, though at best but a humourist and
gourmand, liken the story of my friend and his son
to a butcher at Nenagh, who in a similar manner
wanted to keep his son from crying, and effectually
stopped his tears by saying,—“Come, now,
be a good boy! don’t cry, and you shall kill a lamb
to-morrow! now, won’t you be good?”—“Oh
yes, yes,” said the child, sobbing; “Father, is
the lamb ready?”
Within my recollection, this national relish for
fighting was nearly universal,—originating (I
think) in the spirit and habits of former times.
When men had a glowing ambition to excel in all
manner of feats and exercises, as their forefathers
had done, they naturally conceived that single
combat in an honest way (that is, not knowing
which would be perforated) was the most chivalrous
and gentlemanly of all possible accomplishments;
and this idea gave rise to an assiduous
cultivation of personal tactics, and dictated laws
for carrying them into execution with regularity,
honour, and dispatch, among the nobility and gentry
of that punctilious nation.
About the year 1777, Fire-eating was in great
repute in Ireland. No young fellow could finish
his education till he had exchanged shots with some
of his friends or acquaintances. The first questions
asked as to a young man’s respectability and
qualifications (particularly when he proposed for
a lady-wife) were, “What family is he of?”—“Did
he ever blaze?”—His fortune was then the
last inquiry; because the reply was seldom satisfactory.
Tipperary and Galway were the ablest schools
of the duelling science. Galway was most scientific
at the sword: Tipperary most practical and
prized at the pistol: Mayo not amiss at either:
Roscommon and Sligo had many professors and a
high reputation in the leaden branch of the pastime.
When I was at the university, Jemmy Keogh,
Buck English,[4] Cosey Harrison, Crowe Ryan,
Reddy Long, Amby Bodkin, Squire Fulton, Squire
Blake, Amby Fitzgerald, Terry Magrath, and
some others, were supposed to understand the
points of honour better than any men in Ireland,
and were constantly referred to.—Terry Magrath
especially was counted a very good opinion.
4. The celebrated Buck English was expelled for killing by
foul play, and had like to be hanged. The “Fire-eaters”
outlawed him.—Foul play was never known to occur in that
society—save in this instance. English was saved, on his trial,
by one juror holding out against his eleven brethren:—however,
as they could not agree, Baron Hamilton ordered them all to be
packed in turf kishes, conveyed on cars to the boundary of the
county, twenty-seven miles off, and there discharged on foot.
At the ensuing assizes all the witnesses against English were
duly disposed of—none appeared—and he was acquitted of
course.
In the North, the Fallons and the Fentons were
the first hands at it; and most counties could then
boast their regular point-of-honour men. The late
chief justice of the common pleas was supposed
to understand the thing as well as any gentleman
in Ireland, and was frequently referred to by the
high circles.
In truth, these oracles were in general gentlemen
of good connexions[5] and most respectable
families, otherwise nobody would either fight or
consult them.
5. There was an association in the year 1782, (a volunteer
corps) which was called the “Independent Light Horse.”
They were not confined to one district, and none could be admitted
but the younger brothers of the most respectable families.
They were all both “hilt and muzzle adepts;”—and,
that no member might set himself up as greater than another,
every individual of the corps was obliged, on entering, to give
his honour “that he could cover his fortune with the crown of
his hat, and had exchanged a shot or thrust before he was ballotted
for.”
Roscommon and Sligo then furnished some of the finest young
fellows (fire-eaters) I ever saw: their spirit and decorum were
equally admirable, and their honour and liberality conspicuous
on all occasions.
Every family had then a case of hereditary pistols,
which descended as an heir-loom, together
with a long silver-hilted sword, for the use of
their posterity. Our family pistols, denominated
pelters, were brass (I believe my second brother
has them still): the barrels were very long and
point-blankers. They were included in the armoury
of our ancient castle of Ballynakill in the reign of
Elizabeth, (the stocks, locks, and hair-triggers
were, however, modern,) and had descended from
father to son from that period: one of them was
named “sweet lips,” the other “the darling.” The
family rapier was called “skiver the pullet” by my
grand-uncle, Captain Wheeler Barrington, who
had fought with it repeatedly and run through
different parts of their persons several Scots officers,
who had challenged him all at once for some
national reflection. It was a very long, narrow-bladed,
straight cut-and-thrust, as sharp as a razor,
with a silver hilt, and a guard of buff leather inside
it. I kept this rapier as a curiosity for some time;
but it was stolen during my absence at Temple.
I knew Jemmy Keogh extremely well, when he
was pretty old. He was considered in the main a
peace-maker, for he did not like any body to fight
but himself; and it was universally admitted that
he never killed any man who did not well deserve
it. He was a plausible, although black-looking
fellow, with remarkably thick, long, curled eyebrows
closing with a tuft over his nose. He spoke
deliberately, reasoned well, and never showed
passion. When determined to fight, his brows
knit, his eyes fixed, and (as an antagonist) he cut
a very unprepossessing figure. I never heard that
he was wounded. When he tried to restrain his
anger, he set his teeth, kept his tongue a close
prisoner, and appeared like one with a locked jaw.
No man was more universally known in Ireland.
He unfortunately shot a cripple in the Phœnix
Park, which, though fair enough, did him great
mischief. He was land-agent to Bourke of Glinsk,
to whom he always officiated as second.
At length, so many quarrels arose without sufficiently
dignified provocation, and so many things
were considered as quarrels of course, which were
not quarrels at all,—that the principal fire-eaters
of the South clearly saw disrepute was likely to
be thrown both on the science and its professors,
and thought it full time to interfere and arrange
matters upon a proper, steady, rational, and moderate
footing; and to regulate the time, place, and
other circumstances of duelling, so as to govern
all Ireland on one principle—thus establishing a
uniform, national code of the lex pugnandi; proving,
as Hugo Grotius did, that it was for the
benefit of all belligerents to adopt the same regulations.
In furtherance of this object, a branch society
had been formed in Dublin termed the “Knights
of Tara,” which met once a month at the theatre,
Capel-street, gave premiums for fencing, and proceeded
in the most laudably systematic manner.
The amount of admission-money was laid out
on silver cups, and given to the best fencers, as
prizes, at quarterly exhibitions of pupils and amateurs.
Fencing with the small-sword is certainly a
most beautiful and noble exercise: its practice
confers a fine, bold, manly carriage, a dignified
mien, a firm step, and graceful motion. But, alas!
its professors are now supplanted by contemptible
groups of smirking quadrillers with unweaponed
belts, stuffed breasts, and strangled loins!—a set
of squeaking dandies, whose sex may be readily
mistaken, or, I should rather say, is of no consequence.
The theatre of the Knights of Tara, on these
occasions, was always overflowing:—the combatants
were dressed in close cambric jackets,
garnished with ribbons, each wearing the favourite
colour of his fair one: bunches of ribbons also
dangled at their knees, and roses adorned their
morocco slippers, which had buff soles, to prevent
noise in their lunges. No masks or visors
were used as in these more timorous times; on
the contrary, every feature was uncovered, and its
inflections all visible. The ladies appeared in full
morning dresses, each handing his foil to her champion
for the day, and their presence animating the
singular exhibition. The prizes were handed to
the conquerors by the fair ones from the stage-boxes,
accompanied each with a wreath of laurel,
and a smile then more valued than a hundred victories!
The tips of the foils were blackened, and
therefore instantly betrayed the hits on the cambric
jacket, and proclaimed without doubt the successful
combatant. All was decorum, gallantry,
spirit, and good temper.
The Knights of Tara also had a select committee
to decide on all actual questions of honour referred
to them:—to reconcile differences, if possible; if
not, to adjust the terms and continuance of single
combat. Doubtful points were solved generally
on the peaceable side, provided women were not
insulted or defamed; but when that was the case,
the knights were obdurate, and blood must be seen.
They were constituted by ballot, something in the
manner of the Jockey Club; but without the possibility
of being dishonourable, or the opportunity
of cheating each other.
This most agreeable and useful association did
not last above two or three years. I cannot tell
why it broke up: I rather think, however, the original
fire-eaters thought it frivolous, or did not like
their own ascendancy to be rivalled. It was said
that they threatened direct hostilities against the
knights; and I am the more disposed to believe
this, because, soon after, a comprehensive code of
the laws and points of honour was issued from the
Southern fire-eaters, with directions that it should
be strictly observed by all gentlemen throughout
the kingdom, and kept in their pistol-cases, that
ignorance might never be pleaded. This code was
not circulated in print, but very numerous written
copies were sent to the different county clubs, &c.
My father got one for his sons; and I transcribed
most of it on some blank leaves. These rules
brought the whole business of duelling into a focus,
and have been much acted upon down to the present
day. They called them in Galway “the
thirty-six commandments.”
As far as my copy went, they appear to have
run as follows:—
The practice of duelling and points of honour
settled at Clonmell summer assizes, 1775, by the
gentlemen delegates of Tipperary, Galway, Mayo,
Sligo, and Roscommon, and prescribed for general
adoption throughout Ireland.
Rule 1.
The first offence requires the first apology,
though the retort may have been more offensive
than the insult: example;—A tells B he is impertinent,
&c. B retorts, that he lies: yet A must
make the first apology, because he gave the first
offence, and then (after one fire) B may explain
away the retort by subsequent apology.
Rule 2.
But if the parties would rather fight on, then,
after two shots each, (but in no case before,) B
may explain first, and A apologise afterwards.
N.B. The above rules apply to all cases of
offences in retort not of a stronger class than the
example.
Rule 3.
If a doubt exist who gave the first offence, the
decision rests with the seconds: if they won’t decide
or can’t agree, the matter must proceed to two
shots, or to a hit, if the challenger require it.
Rule 4.
When the lie direct is the first offence, the aggressor
must either beg pardon in express terms;
exchange two shots previous to apology; or three
shots followed up by explanation; or fire on till a
severe hit be received by one party or the other.
Rule 5.
As a blow is strictly prohibited under any circumstances
amongst gentlemen, no verbal apology
can be received for such an insult: the alternatives
therefore are—first, the offender handing a cane
to the injured party, to be used on his own person,
at the same time begging pardon;—second, firing
on until one or both are disabled; or thirdly, exchanging
three shots, and then asking pardon,
without the proffer of the cane.
If swords are used, the parties engage till one is
well blooded, disabled, or disarmed; or until, after
receiving a wound, and blood being drawn, the
aggressor begs pardon.
N.B. A disarm is considered the same as a disable:
the disarmer may (strictly) break his adversary’s
sword; but if it be the challenger who is
disarmed, it is considered as ungenerous to do so.
In case the challenged be disarmed, and refuses
to ask pardon or atone, he must not be killed, as
formerly; but the challenger may lay his own
sword on the aggressor’s shoulder, then break the
aggressor’s sword, and say, “I spare your life!”
The challenged can never revive that quarrel—the
challenger may.
Rule 6.
If A gives B the lie, and B retorts by a blow
(being the two greatest offences), no reconciliation
can take place till after two discharges each, or a
severe hit;—after which, B may beg A’s pardon
humbly for the blow, and then A may explain
simply for the lie;—because a blow is never allowable,
and the offence of the lie therefore merges
in it. (See preceding rule.)
N.B. Challenges for undivulged causes may be
reconciled on the ground, after one shot. An explanation
or the slightest hit should be sufficient
in such cases, because no personal offence transpired.
Rule 7.
But no apology can be received, in any case,
after the parties have actually taken their ground,
without exchange of fires.
Rule 8.
In the above case, no challenger is obliged to
divulge his cause of challenge (if private), unless
required by the challenged so to do before their
meeting.
Rule 9.
All imputations of cheating at play, races, &c.
to be considered equivalent to a blow; but may
be reconciled after one shot, on admitting their
falsehood, and begging pardon publicly.
Rule 10.
Any insult to a lady under a gentleman’s care
or protection, to be considered as, by one degree,
a greater offence than if given to the gentleman
personally, and to be regulated accordingly.
Rule 11.
Offences originating or accruing from the support
of ladies’ reputation, to be considered as less
unjustifiable than any others of the same class, and
as admitting of slighter apologies by the aggressor:—this
to be determined by the circumstances
of the case, but always favourably to the lady.
Rule 12.
In simple unpremeditated rencontres with the
small sword, or couteau-de-chasse the rule is—first
draw, first sheath; unless blood be drawn: then
both sheath, and proceed to investigation.
Rule 13.
No dumb-shooting or firing in the air admissible
in any case. The challenger ought not to have
challenged without receiving offence; and the
challenged ought, if he gave offence, to have made
an apology before he came on the ground: therefore,
children’s play must be dishonourable on one
side or the other, and is accordingly prohibited.
Rule 14.
Seconds to be of equal rank in society with the
principals they attend, inasmuch as a second may
either choose or chance to become a principal, and
equality is indispensable.
Rule 15.
Challenges are never to be delivered at night,
unless the party to be challenged intend leaving
the place of offence before morning; for it is desirable
to avoid all hot-headed proceedings.
Rule 16.
The challenged has the right to choose his own
weapon, unless the challenger gives his honour he
is no swordsman; after which, however, he cannot
decline any second species of weapon proposed
by the challenged.
Rule 17.
The challenged chooses his ground: the challenger
chooses his distance: the seconds fix the
time and terms of firing.
Rule 18.
The seconds load in presence of each other,
unless they give their mutual honours they have
charged smooth and single, which should be held
sufficient.
Rule 19.
Firing may be regulated—first, by signal; secondly,
by word of command; or, thirdly, at pleasure—as
may be agreeable to the parties. In the
latter case, the parties may fire at their reasonable
leisure, but second presents and rests are strictly
prohibited.
Rule 20.
In all cases, a miss-fire is equivalent to a shot,
and a snap or a non-cock is to be considered as a
miss-fire.
Rule 21.
Seconds are bound to attempt a reconciliation
before the meeting takes place, or after sufficient
firing or hits, as specified.
Rule 22.
Any wound sufficient to agitate the nerves and
necessarily make the hand shake, must end the
business for that day.
Rule 23.
If the cause of meeting be of such a nature that
no apology or explanation can or will be received,
the challenged takes his ground, and calls on the
challenger to proceed as he chooses: in such cases,
firing at pleasure is the usual practice, but may
be varied by agreement.
Rule 24.
In slight cases, the second hands his principal
but one pistol; but, in gross cases, two, holding
another case ready-charged in reserve.
Rule 25.
Where seconds disagree, and resolve to exchange
shots themselves, it must be at the same
time and at right angles with their principals,
thus:—
S
|
|
P-----------P
|
|
S
If with swords, side by side, with five paces interval.
N.B. All matters and doubts not herein mentioned
will be explained and cleared up by application
to the committee, who meet alternately at
Clonmell and Galway, at the quarter-sessions, for
that purpose.[6]
Crow Ryan, President,
James Keogh, }
Amby Bodkin,} Secretaries.
6. The residue of the rules I have found among other papers
since the first edition of this book was printed—but they are
much defaced. There were eleven or twelve of them only, on
points of honour. The rules of combat are all given; and they
are full of a pugnacious sophistry, which would scarcely entertain
the reader.
Additional Galway Articles.
Rule 1.
No party can be allowed to bend his knee, or
cover his side with his left hand; but may present
at any level from the foot to the eye.
Rule 2.
None can either advance or retreat, if the ground
be measured. If no ground be measured, either
party may advance at his pleasure, even to touch
muzzle; but neither can advance on his adversary
after the fire, unless the adversary step forward
on him.
N.B. The seconds on both sides stand responsible
for this last rule being strictly observed, bad
cases having accrued from neglect of it.
These rules and resolutions of the “Fire-eaters”
and “Knights of Tara” were the more deeply
impressed on my mind, from my having run a
great chance of losing my life, when a member of
the university, in consequence of the strict observance
of one of them. A young gentleman of Galway,
Mr. Richard Daly, then a Templar, had the
greatest predilection for single combat of any person
(not a society fire-eater) I ever recollect: he
had fought sixteen duels in the space of two
years; three with swords and thirteen with pistols;—yet,
with so little skill or so much good
fortune, that not a wound worth mentioning occurred
in the course of the whole. This gentleman
was called to the Bar; figured afterwards for
many years as patentee of the Theatre Royal,
Dublin; and had the credit of first introducing
that superior woman and actress, Mrs. Jordan,
when Miss Francis, on the Dublin boards.
I was surprised one winter’s evening by receiving
a written challenge, in the nature of an invitation,
from Mr. Daly, to fight him early the ensuing
morning. I never had spoken a word to him in
my life, and scarcely of him, and no possible cause
of quarrel that I could guess existed between us:
however, it being then a decided opinion that a
first overture of that nature could never be declined,
I accepted the invitation without any inquiry;
writing, in reply, that as to place, I chose
the field of Donnybrook fair as the fittest spot for
all sorts of encounters. I had then to look out for
a second, and resorted to a person with whom I
was very intimate, and who, as he was a curious
character, may be worth noticing. He was brother
to the unfortunate Sir Edward Crosby, Bart.,
who was murdered by a court-martial at Carlow,
May, 1798. My friend was afterward called
“Balloon Crosby,” being the first aeronaut who
constructed an Hibernian balloon, and ventured to
take a journey into the sky from Ireland (from
Ranelagh Gardens).[7]
7. His second ascent was a most unfortunate one for the
spectators. It took place from the Duke of Leinster’s lawn,
Merrion-square: the crowds outside were immense, and so
many squeezed together and leaned against a thick parapet wall
fronting the street, that it yielded to the weight and pressure,
and the spectators and parapet wall came tumbling down together
a great depth. Several were killed and many disabled;
while Crosby sailed quietly over their heads, in all human probability,
to be drowned before an hour had expired.
Crosby was of immense stature, being near six
feet three inches high: he had a comely-looking,
fat, ruddy face, and was, beyond comparison, the
most ingenious mechanic I ever knew. He had a
smattering of all sciences, and there was scarcely
an art or trade of which he had not some practical
knowledge. His chambers at college were like a
general workshop for all kinds of artisans: he was
very good tempered, exceedingly strong, and as
brave as a lion—but as dogged as a mule: nothing
could change a resolution of his when once made;
and nothing could check or resist his perseverance
to carry it into execution. He highly approved of
my promptness in accepting Daly’s invitation; but
I told him that I unluckily had no pistols, and did
not know where to procure any against the next
morning. This puzzled him: but on recollection,
he said he had no complete pistols neither; but he
had some old locks, barrels, and stocks, which, as
they did not originally belong to each other, he
should find it very difficult to make any thing of:
nevertheless, he would fall to work directly. He
kept me up till late at night in his chambers to
help him in filing the old locks and barrels, and
endeavouring to patch up two or three of them so
as to go off and answer that individual job. Various
trials were made: much filing, drilling, and
scouring were necessary. However, by two
o’clock in the morning we had completed three
entire pistols, which, though certainly of various
lengths and of the most ludicrous workmanship,
struck their fire right well, and that was all we
wanted of them,—symmetry (as he remarked) being
of no great value upon these occasions.
It was before seven o’clock on the 20th of
March, with a cold wind and a sleety atmosphere,
that we set out on foot for the field of Donnybrook
fair, after having taken some good chocolate and a
plentiful draught of cherry-brandy, to keep the
cold wind out. On arriving, we saw my antagonist
and his friend (Jack Patterson, nephew to
the chief justice) already on the ground. I shall
never forget Daly’s figure. He was a very fine-looking
young fellow, but with such a squint that
it was totally impossible to say what he looked at,
except his nose, of which he never lost sight. His
dress (they had come in a coach) made me ashamed
of my own: he wore a pea-green coat; a large
tucker with a diamond brooch stuck in it; a three-cocked
hat with a gold button-loop and tassels,
and silk stockings; and a couteau-de-chasse hung
gracefully dangling from his thigh. In fact, he
looked as if already standing in a state of triumph,
after having vanquished and trampled on his antagonist.
I did not half like his steady position,
showy surface, and mysterious squint; and I certainly
would rather have exchanged two shots with
his slovenly friend, Jack Patterson, than one with
so magnificent and overbearing an adversary.
My friend Crosby, without any sort of salutation
or prologue, immediately cried out “Ground, gentlemen!
ground—ground! come, d—n measurement,
to work!” and placing me on his selected spot,
whispered into my ear “Medio tutissimus ibis: never
look at the head or the heels: hip the maccaroni! the
hip for ever, my boy! hip, hip!”—when my antagonist’s
second, advancing and accosting mine, said,
Mr. Daly could not think of going any further with
the business; that he found it was totally a mistake
on his part, originating through misrepresentation,
and that he begged to say he was extremely sorry
for having given Mr. Barrington and his friend the
trouble of coming out, hoping they would excuse
it and shake hands with him. To this arrangement
I certainly had no sort of objection; but
Crosby, without hesitation, said, “We cannot
do that yet sir: I’ll show you we can’t: (taking a
little manuscript book out of his breeches pocket,)
there’s the rules!—look at that, sir,” continued he,
“see No. 7.:—‘No apology can be received after
the parties meet, without a fire.’ You see, there’s
the rule,” pursued Crosby, with infinite self-satisfaction;
“and a young man on his first blood cannot
break rule, particularly with a gentleman so
used to the sport as Mr. Daly. Come, gentlemen,
proceed! proceed!”
Daly appeared much displeased, but took his
ground, without speaking a word, about nine paces
from me. He presented his pistol instantly, but
gave me most gallantly a full front.
It being, as Crosby said, my first blood, I lost
no time, but let fly without a single second of delay,
and without taking aim: Daly staggered back
two or three steps; put his hand to his breast;
cried, “I’m hit, sir!” and did not fire. Crosby
gave me a slap on the back which staggered me,
and a squeeze of the hand which nearly crushed
my fingers. We got round him: his waistcoat
was opened, and a black spot, about the size of a
crown-piece, with a little blood, appeared directly
on his breast-bone. I was greatly shocked: fortunately,
however, the ball had not penetrated;
but his brooch had been broken, and a piece of
the setting was sticking fast in the bone. Crosby
stamped, cursed the damp powder or under-loading,
and calmly pulled out the brooch: Daly said
not a word; put his cambric handkerchief doubled
to his breast, and bowed. I returned the salute,
extremely glad to get out of the scrape, and so we
parted without conversation or ceremony; save
that when I expressed my wish to know the cause
of his challenging me, Daly replied that he would
now give no such explanation, and his friend then
produced his book of rules, quoting No. 8.:—“If
a party challenged accept the challenge without
asking the reason of it, the challenger is never
bound to divulge it afterward.”
My friend Crosby, as I have mentioned, subsequently
attempted to go off from Dublin to England
in a balloon of his own making, and dropped
between Dublin and Holyhead into the sea, but
was saved. The poor fellow some time after went
abroad, and was supposed to have died far too
early for friendship,—which he was eminently
capable of exciting. I never saw two persons in
face and figure more alike than Crosby and my
friend Daniel O’Connell: but Crosby was the
taller by two inches, and it was not so easy to
discover that he was an Irishman.[8]
8. It has since been discovered that death did not master him
for many years after this report. His history is not a common
one. I have lately received a considerable quantity of documents
and Mss. collected or written during the period he was
supposed to be dead, and at many different places, till a late
day. Most of them are to me utterly unintelligible; but there
is sufficient to furnish matter for one of the most curious memoirs
that can be conceived, and altogether novel. So
multifarious, however, are the materials, that I fear their due
arrangement would be quite beyond my powers.
DUELLING EXTRAORDINARY.
Frequency of election-duels—Ludicrous affair between Frank Skelton and an exciseman—Frank shoots the exciseman and runs away—His curious reasons—Sir J. Bourke’s quadrille duel, with five hits—Mr. H. D. G * * * y’s remarkable meeting with Counsellor O’Maher—O’Maher hit—Civil proposition of G * * *’s second—G * * *’s gallant letter to the author on his election for Maryborough—Honourable Barry Yelverton challenged by nine officers at once—His elucidation of the Fire-eaters’ Resolutions—Lord Kilkenny’s memorable duels and law-suits—His Lordship is shot by Mr. Ball, an attorney—The heir to his title (the Hon. Somerset Butler) challenges Counsellor Burrowes—The latter hit, but his life saved by some gingerbread nuts—Lord Kilkenny’s duel with Counsellor Byrne—The counsellor wounded—Counsellor Guinness escapes a rencontre—Sketch of Counsellor M‘Nally—His duel with the author—His three friends: all afterward hanged—M‘Nally wounded—Bon-mot of Mr. Harding—The affair highly beneficial to M‘Nally—His character, marriage, and death—Ancient mode of fighting duels—The lists described—Duel of Colonel Barrington with Squire Gilbert on horseback—Both wounded—Gilbert’s horse killed—Chivalrous conclusion.
Our elections were more prolific in duels than
any other public meetings: they very seldom originated
at a horse-race, cock-fight, hunt, or at any
place of amusement: folks then had pleasure in
view, and “something else to do” than to quarrel:
but at all elections, or at assizes, or, in fact,
at any place of business, almost every man, without
any very particular or assignable reason, immediately
became a violent partisan, and frequently
a furious enemy to somebody else; and
gentlemen often got themselves shot before they
could tell what they were fighting about.
At an election for Queen’s County, between
General Walsh and Mr. Warburton, of Garryhinch,
about the year 1783, took place the most
curious duel of any which occurred within my
recollection. A Mr. Frank Skelton, one of the
half-mounted gentlemen described in the early
part of the first volume,—a boisterous, joking, fat
young fellow, called a harmless blackguard,—was
prevailed on, much against his grain, to challenge
Roberts, the exciseman of the town, for running
the butt-end of a horse-whip down his throat the
night before, while he sat drunk and sleeping with
his mouth open. The exciseman insisted that
snoring at a dinner-table was a personal offence
to every gentleman in company, and would therefore
make no apology.
Frank, though he had been nearly choked, was
very reluctant to fight; he said “he was sure to
die if he did, as the exciseman could snuff a candle
with his pistol-ball; and as he himself was as big
as a hundred dozen of candles, what chance could
he have?” We told him jocosely to give the exciseman
no time to take aim at him, by which
means he might perhaps hit his adversary first,
and thus survive the contest. He seemed somewhat
encouraged and consoled by the hint, and
most strictly did he adhere to it.
Hundreds of the towns-people went to see the
fight on the green of Maryborough. The ground
was regularly measured; and the friends of each
party pitched a ragged tent on the green, where
whiskey and salt beef were consumed in abundance.
Skelton having taken his ground, and at
the same time two heavy drams from a bottle his
foster-brother had brought, appeared quite stout
till he saw the balls entering the mouths of the
exciseman’s pistols, which shone as bright as silver,
and were nearly as long as fusils. This vision
made a palpable alteration in Skelton’s sentiments:
he changed colour, and looked about him as if he
wanted some assistance. However, their seconds,
who were of the same rank and description, handed
to each party his case of pistols, and half-bellowed
to them—“blaze away, boys!”
Skelton now recollected his instructions, and
lost no time: he cocked both his pistols at once;
and as the exciseman was deliberately and most
scientifically coming to his “dead level,” as he
called it, Skelton let fly.
“Holloa!” said the exciseman, dropping his
level, “I’m battered, by J—s!”
“Oh! the devil’s cure to you!” said Skelton,
instantly firing his second pistol.
One of the exciseman’s legs then gave way, and
down he came on his knee, exclaiming, “Holloa!
holloa! you blood-thirsty villain! do you want to
take my life?”
“Why, to be sure I do!” said Skelton. “Ha!
ha! have I stiffened you, my lad?” Wisely judging,
however, that if he staid till the exciseman
recovered his legs, he might have a couple of shots
to stand, he wheeled about, took to his heels, and
got away as fast as possible. The crowd shouted;
but Skelton, like a hare when started, ran the
faster for the shouting.
Jemmy Moffit, his own second, followed, overtook,
tripped up his heels, and cursing him for a
disgraceful rascal, asked “why he ran away from
the exciseman?”
“Ough thunther!” said Skelton, “how many
holes did the villain want to have drilled into his
carcase? Would you have me stop to make a
riddle of him, Jemmy?”
The second insisted that Skelton should return
to the field, to be shot at. He resisted, affirming
that he had done all that honour required. The
second called him “a coward!”
“By my sowl,” returned he, “my dear Jemmy
Moffit, may be so! you may call me a coward, if
you please; but I did it all for the best.”
“The best? you blackguard!”
“Yes,” said Frank: “sure it’s better to be a
coward than a corpse! and I must have been either
one or t’other of them.”
However, he was dragged up to the ground by
his second, after agreeing to fight again, if he had
another pistol given him. But, luckily for Frank,
the last bullet had stuck so fast between the bones
of the exciseman’s leg that he could not stand.
The friends of the latter then proposed to strap
him to a tree, that he might be able to shoot
Skelton; but this being positively objected to by
Frank, the exciseman was carried home: his first
wound was on the side of his thigh, and the
second in his right leg; but neither proved at all
dangerous.
The exciseman, determined on gauging Frank,
as he called it, on his recovery challenged Skelton
in his turn. Skelton accepted the challenge,
but said he was tould he had a right to choose
his own weapons. The exciseman, knowing that
such was the law, and that Skelton was no swordsman,
and not anticipating any new invention,
acquiesced. “Then,” said Skelton, “for my weapons,
I choose my fists: and, by the powers, you
diabolical exciseman, I’ll give you such a basting
that your nearest relations shan’t know you.”
Skelton insisted on his right, and the other not
approving of this species of combat, got nothing
by his challenge; the affair dropped, and Skelton
triumphed.
The only modern instance I recollect to have
heard of as applicable to No. 25., (refer to the regulations
detailed in last sketch,) was that of old
John Bourke, of Glinsk, and Mr. Amby Bodkin.
They fought near Glinsk, and the old family
steward and other servants brought out the present
Sir John, then a child, and held him upon a
man’s shoulder, to see papa fight. On that occasion,
both principals and seconds engaged: they
stood at right angles, ten paces distant, and all
began firing together on the signal of a pistol discharged
by an umpire. At the first volley, the
two principals were touched, though very slightly.
The second volley told better;—both the seconds,
and Amby Bodkin, Esq. staggered out of their
place: they were well hit, but no lives lost. It
was, according to custom, an election squabble.
The Galway rule, No. 2., was well exemplified
in a duel between an old and very particular
friend of mine and a Counsellor O’Maher, who
had given offence, yet I believe was the challenger:
no ground was measured; they fired ad
libitum. G., never at a loss upon such occasions,
took his ground at once, and kept it steadily.
O’Maher began his career at a hundred paces distance,
advancing obliquely, and gradually contracting
his circle round his opponent, who continued
changing his front by corresponding movements;
both parties now and then aiming, as
feints, then taking down their pistols. This pas
de deux lasted more than half an hour, as I have
been informed:—at length, when the assailant
had contracted his circle to firing distance, G.
cried out, suddenly and loudly: O’Maher obeyed
the signal, and instantly fired: G. returned the
shot, and the challenger reeled back hors de combat.
On the same occasion, Mr. O’Maher’s second
said to G.’s, (the famous Counsellor Ned Lysight,)
“Mr. Lysight, take care:—your pistol is cocked!”—“Well,
then,” said Lysight, “cock yours, and
let me take a slap at you, as we are idle!” However,
this proposition was not acceded to.
There could not be a greater game-cock (the Irish
expression for a man of determined courage) than
my friend G—. That he was not only spirited
himself, but the cause of infusing spirit into others,
will appear from the following humorous letter
which I received from him during my contested
election for Maryborough. That election gave
rise to many characteristic Irish adventures, for
which this volume does not afford compass. Lord
Castlecoote, the returning officer, (himself also a
joint proprietor,) evinced an excessive horror of becoming
acquainted with the reporters. Some person
having jocularly told him of my friend’s letter,
it became a subject of great amusement, and afforded
a variety of anecdotes for the Honourable
Robert Moore, who supported me on that election
against his brother, the Marquis of Drogheda.
“Dublin, Jan. 29th, 1800.
“My dear Jonah,
“I have this moment sent to the mail
coach-office two bullet-moulds, not being certain
which of them belongs to the reporters: suspecting,
however, that you may not have time to melt
the lead, I also send half-a-dozen bullets, merely
to keep you going while others are preparing.
“I lament much that my situation and political
feeling prevent me from seeing you exhibit at Maryborough.
“Be bold, wicked, steady, and fear nought!
“Give a line to yours, truly,
“H. D. G.
“Jonah Barrington, Esq.”
I took his advice:—our friendship was long and
close; and we never (that I am aware of) had
any cause for coolness.
There could not be a better elucidation of Rule
No. 5. of the code of honour, than an anecdote of
Barry Yelverton, second son of Lord Avonmore,
baron of the exchequer.—Barry was rather too
odd a fellow to have been accounted at all times
perfectly compos mentis. He was a barrister. In
a ball-room on circuit, where the officers of a
newly arrived regiment had come to amuse themselves
and set the Munster lasses agog, Barry,
having drunk too many bumpers, let out his natural
dislike to the military, and most grossly insulted
several of the officers; abusing one, treading on
the toes of another, jostling a third, and so forth,
till he had got through the whole regiment.
Respect for the women, and the not choosing to
commit themselves with the black gowns on the
first day of their arrival, induced the insulted
parties to content themselves with only requiring
Barry’s address, and his hour of being seen the
next morning. Barry, with great satisfaction,
gave each of them his card, but informed them
that sending to him was unnecessary;—that he
was his own second, and would meet every man of
them at eight o’clock next morning, in the ball-room;
concluding by desiring them to bring their
swords, as that was always his weapon. Though
this was rather a curious rendezvous, yet, the
challenged having the right to choose his weapon,
and the place being à propos, the officers all attended
next day punctually, with the surgeon of
the regiment and a due proportion of small-swords,
fully expecting that some of his brother gownsmen
would join in the rencontre. On their arrival,
Barry requested to know how many gentlemen
had done him the honour of giving him
the invitation, and was told their names, amounting
to nine. “Very well, gentlemen,” said Yelverton,
“I am well aware I abused some of you,
and gave others an offence equivalent to a blow,—which
latter being the greatest insult, we’ll dispose
of those cases first, and I shall return in a
few minutes fully prepared.”
They conceived he had gone for his sword, and
friends. But Barry soon after returned alone, and
resumed thus:—“Now, gentlemen, those to each
of whom I gave an equivalent to a blow will
please step forward.” Four of them accordingly
did so, when Barry took from under his coat a
bundle of switches, and addressed them as follows:—“Gentlemen,
permit me to have the honour
of handing each of you a switch, (according to the
rule No. 5. of the Tipperary Resolutions,) wherewith
to return the blow, if you feel any particular
desire to put that extremity into practice. I fancy,
gentlemen, that settles four of you; and as to the
rest, here, (handing one of his cards to each, with
I beg your pardon written above his name) that’s
agreeable to No. 1. (reading the Rule). Now I
fancy all your cases are disposed of; and having
done my duty according to the Tipperary Resolutions,
which I will never swerve from,—if, gentlemen,
you are not satisfied, I shall be on the
bridge to-morrow morning, with a case of barking-irons.”
The officers stared, first at him, then at
each other: the honest, jolly countenance and
drollery of Barry were quite irresistible; first a
smile of surprise, and then a general laugh, took
place, and the catastrophe was their asking Barry
to dine with them at the mess, where his eccentricity
and good humour delighted the whole regiment.
The poor fellow grew quite deranged at
last, and died, I believe, in rather unpleasant circumstances.
The late Lord Mount Garret (afterward Earl of
Kilkenny) had for several years a great number of
law-suits on his hands at once, particularly with
some insolvent tenants, whose causes had been
gratuitously taken up by Mr. Ball, an attorney;—Mr.
William Johnson and several other gentlemen
of the circuit took their briefs. His Lordship was
dreadfully tormented. He was naturally a very
clever man, and devised a new mode of carrying
on his law-suits, not being able, as he said, to trust
his attorney out of his sight.
He engaged a clientless attorney, named Egan,
as his working solicitor, at a very liberal yearly
stipend, upon the express terms of his undertaking
no other business whatsoever, and holding his office
solely in his Lordship’s own house and under his
own eye and direction. His Lordship applied
to Mr. Fletcher (afterward judge) and to myself,
requesting an interview; whereupon, he informed
us of his situation: that there were generally eight
or ten counsel pitted against him; but that he
would have much more reliance on the advice
and punctual attendance of two certain, than of ten
straggling gentlemen; and that, under the full
conviction that one of us at least would always
attend the court when his causes were on, and not
leave him in the lurch as he had been left, he
had directed his attorney to mark on our two
briefs ten times the amount of what the fees should
be on the other side: “Because,” said his Lordship,
“if you don’t attend, to a certainty I must
engage ten counsel, as well as my opponents.”
The singularity of the proposal set us laughing, in
which his Lordship joined.
Fletcher and I accepted the offer: we did
punctually and zealously attend these numerous
trials, and were most liberally feed; but most
unsuccessful in our efforts; for we never were
able to gain a single cause, verdict, or motion, for
our client.
The principle of strict justice certainly was with
his Lordship; but certain formalities of the law
were decidedly against him: he had, in fact,
adopted an obsolete mode of proceeding as a short
cut: thus, perceiving himself likely to be foiled,
he determined to take another course, quite out of
our line, and a course whereby no suit is decided
in modern days—namely fight it out, “muzzle to
muzzle,” with the attorney and all the counsel
on the other side.
The first procedure on this determination was
a direct challenge from his Lordship to the attorney,
Mr. Ball: it was accepted, and a duel immediately
followed, in which his Lordship got the
worst of it. He was wounded by the attorney at
each shot, the first taking place in his Lordship’s
right arm, which probably saved the solicitor, as
his Lordship was a most accurate marksman. The
noble challenger received the second bullet in his
side, but the wound was not dangerous. The
attorney’s skin remained quite whole.
My Lord and the attorney having been thus
disposed of for the time being, the Honourable
Somerset Butler (his Lordship’s son) now took the
field, and proceeded, according to due form, by a
challenge to Mr. Peter Burrowes, &c., the senior
of the adversaries’ counsel (now judge commissioner
of insolvents). The invitation not being
refused, the combat took place, one chilly morning,
near Kilkenny. Somerset knew his business
well; but Peter had had no practice whatever in
that line of litigation—being good tempered and
peaceable.
Few persons feel too warm on such occasions, of
a cold morning, and Peter formed no exception to
the general rule. An old woman who sold spiced
gingerbread nuts in the street they passed through
accosted the party, extolling her nuts to the very
skies, as being well spiced, and fit to expel the
wind, and to warm any gentleman’s stomach and
bowels as well as a dram. Peter bought a pennyworth
on the advice of his second, Dick Waddy,
an eminent attorney, and duly receiving the
change of a sixpenny-piece, marched off to the
scene of action munging his gingerbread.
Preliminaries being soon arranged—the pistols
given—ten steps measured—the flints hammered—and
the feather-springs set—Somerset, a fine
dashing young fellow, full of spirit, activity, and
animation, after making a few graceful attitudes,
and slapping his arms together as hackney-coachmen
do in frosty weather, to make their fingers
supple—gave elderly Peter (who was no posture-master)
but little time to take his fighting position:—in
fact, he had scarcely raised his pistol to
a wabbling level, before Somerset’s ball came
crack-dash against Peter’s body! The halfpence
rattled in his pocket: Peter dropped; Somerset
fled; Dick Waddy roared “murder,” and called
out to Surgeon Pack. Peter’s clothes were ripped
up; and Pack, secundum artem, examined the
wound:—something like a black hole designated
the spot where the lead had penetrated the abdomen.
The doctor shook his head, and pronounced
but one short word—“mortal!”—it was, however,
more expressive than a long speech. Peter groaned;
his friend Waddy began to think about the
coroner; his brother barristers sighed heavily, and
Peter was supposed to be departing this world
(but, as they all endeavoured to persuade him, for
a better);—when Surgeon Pack, after another
fatal, taking leave of Peter, and leaning his hand
on the grass to assist him in rising, felt something
hard, took it up, and looked at it curiously: the
spectators closed in the circle, to see Peter die;
the patient turned his expiring eyes toward Surgeon
Pack, as much as to say—“Good bye to you
all, lads!”—when lo! the doctor held up to the
astonished assembly the identical bullet, which,
having rattled among the heads and harps, and
gingerbread nuts, in Peter’s waistcoat-pocket, had
flattened its own body on the surface of a copper,
and left His Majesty’s bust distinctly imprinted
and accurately designated, in black and blue
shading, on his subject’s carcase! Peter’s heart
beat high; and finding that his Gracious Sovereign,
and the gingerbread, had saved his life, lost as little
time as possible in rising from the sod: a bandage
was applied round his body, and in a short
time he was able (though of course he had no reason
to be over-willing) to begin another combat.[9]
His Lordship having now, on his part, recovered
from the attorney’s wounds, considered it high time
to recommence hostilities according to his original
plan of the campaign; and the engagement immediately
succeeding was between him and the late
Counsellor John Byrne, king’s counsel, and next
in rotation of his learned adversaries.
His Lordship was much pleased with the spot
upon which his son had chosen to hit Counsellor
Peter, and resolved to select the same for a hit on
Counsellor John. The decision appeared to be
judicious; and, as if the pistol itself could not be
ignorant of its destination, and had been gratified
at its own previous accuracy and success, (for it
was the same,) it sent a bullet in the identical
level, and Counsellor Byrne’s carcase received a
precisely similar compliment with Counsellor Burrowes’s:—with
this difference; that as the former
had no gingerbread nuts, the matter appeared
more serious. I asked him during his illness how
he felt when he received the crack? he answered,
just as if he had been punched by the mainmast
of a man of war!—certainly a grand simile; but
how far my friend Byrne was enabled to form the
comparison he never divulged to me.
9. Mr. Peter Burrowes, K. C., was my old friend and schoolfellow.
He was one of those persons whom every body likes:—there
never was a better hearted man! We were at Temple
together.
My Lord having got through two counsellors,
and his son a third, it became the duty of Captain
Pierce Butler (brother to Somerset) to take his
turn in the lists. The barristers now began not
much to relish this species of argument; and a
gentleman who followed next but one on the list
owned fairly to me, that he would rather be on
our side of the question: but it was determined
by our noble client, so soon as the first series of
combats should be finished, to begin a new one,
till he and the lads had tried the mettle or “touched
the inside” of all the remaining barristers. Mr.
Dick Guinness, a very good-humoured, popular,
lisping,[10] dapper little pleader, was next on the
list; and the Honourable Pierce Butler, his intended
slaughterer, was advised, for variety’s sake,
to put what is called the onus on that gentleman,
and thereby force him to become the challenger,—which
he was told by a young parson
would considerably diminish the crime of killing
him.
10. Lord Clare (when attorney-general) coming out of the
Exchequer, which was much crowded, was asked who was
speaking. “Speaking!” said Fitzgibbon; “nobody—Dick
Guinness is whistling a demurrer.”
Dick’s friends kindly and candidly informed him
that he could have but little chance—the Honourable
Pierce being one of the most resolute of a
courageous family, and quite an undeviating marksman:
that he had, besides, a hot, persevering,
thirsty spirit, which a little fighting would never
quench: and as Dick was secretly informed that
he would to a certainty be forced to battle (it being
his turn), and his speedy dissolution being nearly
as certain, he was recommended to settle all his
worldly concerns without delay.
But it was to be otherwise.—Providence took
Dick’s part, and decided that there should be
no coroner’s inquest held on his body. The Honourable
Pierce injudiciously put his onus (and rather
a wicked one) on Dick in open court before the
judge; an uproar ensued, and the Honourable
Pierce hid himself under the table: however, the
sheriff lugged him out, and prevented that encounter
effectually; Pierce with great difficulty escaping
immediate incarceration on giving his honour
never to meddle with Dick, his members, or appurtenances,
for three years, commencing from the
day of his onus. This was an interruption which
the Kilkenny family could not have foreseen; and
at length his Lordship, finding that neither the
laws of the land, nor those of battle, were likely to
adjust affairs to his satisfaction, suffered them to
be terminated by the three duels already narrated.
Counsellor Leonard M‘Nally, well known both
at the English and Irish bars, and in the dramatic
circles as author of that popular little piece “Robin
Hood,” &c., was one of the strangest fellows in
the world. His figure was ludicrous: he was very
short, and nearly as broad as long: his legs were of
unequal length, and he had a face which no washing
could clean: he wanted one thumb, the absence
of which gave rise to numerous expedients on
his part; and he took great care to have no nails,
as he regularly eat every morning the growth of
the preceding day: he never wore a glove, lest he
should appear to be guilty of duplicity in concealing
the want of thumb. When in a hurry, he generally
took two thumping steps with the short leg,
to bring up the space made by the long one;—and
the bar, who never missed a favourable opportunity
of naming people, called him “one pound two.”
As being a poet, the bar wags termed him “Olympus.”
He possessed, however, a fine eye, and by
no means an ugly countenance; a great deal of
middling intellect; a shrill, full, good forensic
voice; great quickness at cross examination, with
sufficient adroitness at defence; and in Ireland he
was both the staff and standing-dish of the criminal
jurisdictions: in a word, M‘Nally was a good-natured,
hospitable, talented, dirty fellow, and
had, by the latter qualification, so disgusted the
circuit bar, that they refused to receive him at
their mess—a cruelty I set my face against, and
every summer circuit endeavoured to vote him
into the mess, but always ineffectually; his neglect
of his person, the shrillness of his voice, and
his low solicitor company, being assigned as reasons
which never could be got over.
M‘Nally had done something in the great cause
of Napper and Dutton, which brought him into
still further disrepute with the bar. Anxious to
regain his station by some act equalising him with
his brethren, he determined to offend or challenge
some of the most respectable members of the profession,
who, however, showed no inclination to
oblige him in that way. He first tried his hand
with Counsellor * * *, a veteran of the bar, but
who, upon this occasion, according to the decision
of his fellows, refused the combat. M‘Nally, who
was as intrepid as possible, by no means despaired,
and was so obliging as to honour me with the next
chance; in furtherance thereof, on very little provocation,
to my surprise, and by no means to my
satisfaction, gave me the retort not courteous in the
Court of King’s Bench.
I was well aware of his object; and, not feeling
comfortable under this public insult, told him
(taking out my watch), “M‘Nally, you shall meet
me in the Park in an hour.”
The little fellow’s eyes sparkled with pleasure
at the invitation: never, perhaps, was any person
so rejoiced at a good chance of going out of the
world before dinner time. He instantly replied,
“In half an hour, if you please,” comparing, at the
same moment, his watch with mine:—“I hope
you won’t disappoint me,” continued he.
“Never fear, Mac,” answered I, “there’s not
a gentleman at the bar will be ashamed to fight
you to-morrow, provided you live so long, which I
can’t promise;—though I confess I wish you had
selected some other of your friends for so very
disagreeable an operation.”
We had no time to spare, so parted, to get ready.
The first man I met was Mr. Henry Harding, a
huge, wicked, fighting King’s County attorney.—I
asked him to come out with me: to him it was
“fine sport.” I also summoned Rice Gibbon, a
surgeon, who being the most ostentatious fellow
imaginable, brought an immense bag of surgical
instruments, &c. from Mercers Hospital. In forty-five
minutes we were regularly posted in the
middle of the review-ground in the Phœnix-park,
and the whole scene, to any person not so seriously
implicated, must have been irresistibly ludicrous.
The sun shone brightly; and Surgeon Gibbon, to
lose no time in case of a hit, spread out all his
polished instruments, dissecting-knives, forceps,
scalpels, saws, tourniquets, probes of all lengths,
&c., on the grass, glittering in the light on one
side of me. I am sure it looked more like a regimental
preparation before a battle, than for an individual
encounter:—every thing was ranged in
surgical order, ready for the most desperate operations;
while a couple of young pupils from Mercers
Hospital unfurled their three-tailed bandages
like so many streamers. My second having stepped
nine paces, then stood at the other side,
handed me a case of pistols, and desired me to
“work away by J——s.”—M‘Nally stood before
me, very like a beer-barrel on its stilling, and by
his side were ranged three unfortunate barristers,
who were all soon afterward hanged and beheaded
for high-treason;—namely, John Sheers, (who was
his second, and had given him his point-blanks,)
with Henry Sheers and Bagenal Harvey, who
came as amateurs. Both of the latter, I believe,
were amicably disposed, but a negociation would
not be admitted by M‘Nally, (to whom it was of
great consequence to fight a King’s Counsel,) and
to it we went. M‘Nally presented so coolly, that
I could plainly see I had but little chance of being
missed, so I thought it best to lose no time on my
part. The poor fellow staggered, and cried out,
“I am hit!” and I felt some little twitch myself,
which I could not at the moment account for.
Never did I experience so miserable a feeling. He
had received my ball directly in the centre of his
ribs. My doctor rushed at him with the zeal and
activity of a dissecting surgeon, and in one moment,
with a long knife, which he thrust eagerly into his
waistband, ripped up his clothes to the skin, and
exposed his naked carcase to the bright sun.
The ball appeared to have hit the buckle of his
suspenders (vulgariter, gallows), by which it had
been partially impeded, and had turned round, instead
of entering his paunch. While I was still in
dread as to the result, my second, after seeing that
he had been so protected by the suspenders, inhumanly
exclaimed, “By J—, Mac, you are the only
rogue I ever knew that was saved by the gallows!”—I
felt quite happy that he was not dangerously hurt.
On returning home, I found I had not got
off quite so well as I thought; the skirt of
my coat was perforated on both sides, and a
scratch just enough to break the skin had taken
place on both my thighs. I did not know this
while on the ground, but it accounts for the twitch
I spoke of.
My opponent soon recovered, and after the precedent
of being wounded by a King’s Counsel, no
barrister could afterward decently refuse to give
him satisfaction. He was, therefore, no longer
insulted, and the poor fellow has often told me
since that my shot was his salvation. He subsequently
got Curran to bring us together at his
house, and a more zealous partisan I never had
than M‘Nally proved himself, on my contest for
the city of Dublin, during which he did me good
service.
Leonard was a great poetaster; and having
fallen in love with a Miss Ianson, daughter to a
very rich attorney, of Bedford-row, London, he
wrote on her the celebrated song of “The Lass
of Richmond Hill” (her father had a lodge there).
She could not withstand this, and returned his
flame. This young lady was absolutely beautiful,
but quite a slattern in her person. She likewise
had a turn for versification, and was therefore
altogether well adapted to her lame lover, particularly
as she never could spare time from her
poetry to wash her hands; a circumstance in which
M‘Nally was sympathetic. The father, however,
notwithstanding all this, refused his consent; and
consequently, M‘Nally took advantage of his dramatic
knowledge, by adopting the precedent of
Barnaby Brittle, and bribed a barber to lather old
Ianson’s eyes as well as his chin, and with something
rather sharper too than Windsor soap.
Slipping out of the room, while her father was
getting rid of the lather and the smart, this Sappho,
with her limping Phaon, escaped, and were
united in the holy bands of matrimony the same
evening; and she continued making, and M‘Nally
correcting, verses, till it pleased God to call his
angel away. This curious couple conducted themselves,
both generally and toward each other, extremely
well, after their union. Old Ianson partly
forgave them, and made some settlement upon
their children.
The ancient mode of duelling in Ireland was
generally on horseback. The combatants gallopped
past each other, at a distance marked out
by posts which prevented a nearer approach: they
were at liberty to fire at any time from the commencement
to the end of their course; but it must
be at a hand-gallop: their pistols were charged
alike with a certain number of bullets, slugs, or
whatever was most convenient, as agreed.
There had been, from time immemorial, a spot
marked out on level ground near the Doone of
Clapook, Queen’s County, on the estate of my
grand-uncle, Sir John Byrne, which I have often
visited as classic ground. It was beautifully situated,
near Stradbally; and here, according to tradition
and legendary tales, the old captains and
chieftains used to meet and decide their differences.
Often did I walk it over, measuring its
dimensions step by step. The bounds of it are
still palpable, above sixty or seventy steps long,
and about forty wide: large stones remain on the
spot where, I suppose, the posts originally stood to
divide the combatants, which were about eight or
nine yards asunder—being the nearest point from
which they were to fire. The time of firing was
voluntary, so as it occurred during their course,
and, as before stated, in a hand-gallop. If the
quarrel was not terminated in one course, the
combatants proceeded to a second; and if it was
decided to go on after their pistols had been discharged,
they then either finished with short
broad-swords on horseback, or with small-swords
on foot; but the tradition ran, that when they
fought with small-swords, they always adjourned
to the rock of Donamese, the ancient fortress of the
O’Moors and the Princes of Offely. This is the
most beautiful inland ruin I have seen in Ireland.
There, in the centre of the old fort, on a flat green
sod, are still visible the deep indentures of the feet
both of principals, who have fought with small
rapiers, and their seconds: every modern visitor
naturally stepping into the same marks, the indentures
are consequently kept up; and it is probable
that they will be deeper a hundred years
hence than they were a twelvemonth ago.
My grandfather, Colonel Jonah Barrington, of
Cullenaghmore, had a great passion for hearing
and telling stories of old events, particularly respecting
duels and battles fought in his own neighbourhood,
or by his relatives: and as these were
just adapted to make impression on a very young
curious mind, like mine, at the moment nearly a
carte blanche, (the Arabian Nights, for instance,
read by a child, are never forgotten by him,) I
remember, as if they were told yesterday, many
of his recitals and traditionary tales, especially
those he could himself attest; and his face bore,
to the day of his death, ample proof that he had
not been idle among the combatants of his own
era. The battle I remember best, because I heard
it oftenest and through a variety of channels, was
one of my grandfather’s, about the year 1759. He
and a Mr. Gilbert had an irreconcilable grudge.
(I forget the cause, but I believe it was a very
silly one.) It increased every day, and the relatives
of both parties found it must inevitably end
in a combat, which, were it postponed till the sons
of each grew up, might be enlarged perhaps from
an individual into a regular family engagement.
It was therefore thought better that the business
should be ended at once; and it was decided that
they should fight on horseback on the green of
Maryborough; that the ground should be one
hundred yards of race, and eight of distance; the
weapons of each, two holster pistols, a broad-bladed
but not very long sword (I have often seen
my grandfather’s,) with basket handle, and a
skeen, or long broad-bladed dagger: the pistols
to be charged with one ball and swan-drops.
The entire country, for miles round, attended to
see the combat, which had been six months settled
and publicly announced, and the county-trumpeter,
who attended the judges at the assizes, was
on the ground. My grandfather’s second was a
Mr. Lewis Moore, of Cremorgan, whom I well
recollect to have seen—he long survived my grandfather:
Gilbert’s was one of his own name and
family—a captain of cavalry.
All due preliminaries being arranged, the country
collected and placed as at a horse-race, and
the ground kept free by the gamekeepers and
huntsmen mounted, the combatants started, and
gallopped toward each other. Both fired before
they reached the nearest spot, and missed. The
second course was more fortunate. My grandfather
received many of Gilbert’s shot full in his face:
the swan-drops penetrated no deeper than his
temple and cheek-bones; the large bullet luckily
passed him. The wounds, not being dangerous,
only enraged old Jonah Barrington; and the other
being equally willing to continue the conflict, a
fierce battle, hand to hand, ensued: but I should
think they did not close totally, or they could not
have escaped with life.
My grandfather got three cuts, which he used
to exhibit with great glee; one on the thick of the
right arm, a second on his bridle-arm, and the
third on the outside of the left hand. His hat,
which he kept to the day of his death, was also
sliced in several places; but both had iron skull-caps
under their hats, which probably saved their
brains from remaining upon the green of Maryborough.
Gilbert had received two pokes from my grandfather
on his thigh and his side, but neither disabling.
I fancy he had the best of the battle,
being as strong as, and less irritable than, my
grandfather, who, I suspect, grew, toward the last,
a little ticklish on the subject; for he rushed headlong
at Gilbert, closed, and instead of striking at
his person, thrust his broad-sword into the horse’s
body as often as he could, until the beast dropped
with his rider underneath him: my grandfather
then leaped off his horse, threw away his sword,
and putting his skeen, or broad dagger, to the
throat of Gilbert, told him to ask his life or die, as
he must do either one or the other in half a minute.
Gilbert said he would ask his life only upon the
terms that, without apology or conversation, they
should shake hands heartily and be future friends
and companions, and not leave the youths of two
old families to revenge their quarrel by carving
each other. These terms being quite agreeable
to my grandfather, as they breathed good sense,
intrepidity, and good heart, he acquiesced; and
from that time they were the most intimately
attached and joyous friends and companions of the
county wherein they resided.
My grandfather afterward fought at Clapook
Squire Neddy Fitzgerald, who was badly shot. On
this occasion, old Gilbert was my grandfather’s second:—I
remember well seeing him; as I do also,
about the same time, the late Chief Justice (then
Serjeant) Pattison, who had come down to Cullenaghmore
to visit my grandfather, and, as I afterward
discovered, to cheat him of a borough and two
seats in parliament, which he effected. Gilbert
brought me a great many sweet things; and I
heard that evening so many stories of fights at
Clapook, and on the ridge of Maryborough, that
I never forgot them; and it is curious enough that
I have all my life taken the greatest delight in
hearing of, or reading about, ancient battles and
chivalrous adventures. Nothing amuses me more
to this day; and hence perhaps it is, that I recollect
those tales and traditions at the present moment
with perfect distinctness and accuracy: my
memory seldom fails me in any thing, and least
of all in recitals such as the foregoing.[11]
11. I have found many notes respecting such-like matters, in
old Ms. books, &c. &c.; particularly two or three at the end
of an old Cookery book, in Ms., by my great-grandmother
Lady Byrne, of Timogue, in her own hand-writing, in 1729,
with several receipts purporting to be by Lady Rory O’Neil,
of Smithfield, Dublin, who died in 1741, at a great age. I
shall revive this subject in another volume, which I contemplate.
GEORGE HARTPOLE.
Curious fatality in the Hartpole family—Characteristic sketch of the last of the name—Description of Shrewl Castle—The chapel and cemetery—Strictures on epitaph-writing—Eccentricities of the Earl of Aldborough—His Lordship proposes his sister, Lady Hannah Stratford, as returning-officer for the borough of Baltinglass—Consequent disturbances—The North-Briton put on his mettle, but out-manœuvred—“Lending to the Lord”—Successful conspiracy to marry Hartpole to the daughter of a village inn-keeper—He is stabbed by his wife, and deserts her in consequence—He forms an attachment to Miss Maria Otway, whom he marries, under the plea of his previous connexion being illegal—Unfortunate nature of this union—Separation of the parties—Hartpole’s voyage to Portugal, his return, and death—Sundry other anecdotes of the Stratford family.
In the year 1791, George Hartpole, of Shrewl
Castle, Queen’s County, Ireland, had just come
of age. He was the last surviving male of that
name, which belonged to a popular family, highly
respectable, and long established in the county.
Few private gentlemen commenced life with better
promise, and none better merited esteem and happiness.
He was my relative by blood; and though
considerably younger, the most intimate and dearest
friend I had.
His father, Robert, had married a sister of the
late and present Earls of Aldborough. She was
the mother of George; and through this connexion
originated my intercourse with that eccentric
nobleman and his family.
A singular fatality had attended the Hartpole
family from time immemorial. The fathers seldom
survived the attainment of the age of 23 years
by their elder sons, which circumstance gave rise
to numerous traditionary tales of sprites and warnings.[12]
12. The country authorities were very wise, very grave, and
very grim on this subject; but, after all, I suspect the most
natural way of accounting for the fatality alluded to is, that
the old gentlemen were commonly among the hardest livers in
the country, and consequently, the gout was certain to be their
companion, and generally their executioner.
If wood be kept alternately in and out of moisture, it rots
soon:—if it is always in water, it never decays. A man’s constitution
and rum-punch may to a degree resemble wood and
water in this respect. The hardest incessant drinkers I ever
recollect lived to a great age, were generally healthy, and
usually made their exit, at last, by apoplexy, without troubling
either doctor, parson, or apothecary: while, on the contrary,
most of those who were only intermitting boozers, died much
earlier; their finisher being, nine times out of ten, gout in the
head or stomach: a cause, however, occasionally varied by
a broken neck by a fall from a horse, when riding home
from a housewarming, or drowning in a ditch, whilst watering
their horses after the dogh à dourish. A few were smothered
in shaking bogs, whilst attending the turf-cutters, &c. &c.
It required at least three days and nights incessant hard going
to kill a drinker of the first class. It cost Squire Luke Flood
of Roundwood, a place situated in Queen’s County, five days
and nights hard working at port before he could finish either
himself or the piper. Old Squire Lewis Moor of Cremorgan
died, by way of variety, at seventy-six, of a violent passion,
because his wife became jealous of his proceedings with the
kitchen-maid. A few died of Drogheda usquebaugh, and
several of sore ancles. I recollect, in fact, many of the most
curious deaths and burials in Ireland that ever took place in
any country under heaven. None of them were considered as
being melancholy events, since every hard going squire then
generally took his full turn in this world, and died by some
coup de grace, as stated: however, he was commonly regretted
by all his acquaintance and family, except his eldest son.
Robert, as usual with the gentlemen of his day,
was the dupe of agents, and the victim of indolence
and hospitality. He had deposited his consort in
the tomb of her fathers, and had continued merrily
enjoying the convivialities of the world (principally
in the night-time) till his son George had
passed his 22nd year, and then punctually made
way for the succession, leaving George inheritor of
a large territory, a moderate income, a tattered
mansion, an embarrassed rent-roll, and a profound
ignorance (without the consciousness of it) of business
in all departments.
George, though not at all handsome, had completely
the mien and manners of a gentleman.
His features accorded well with his address, bespeaking
the cordiality of a friend and the ardour
of an Irishman. His disposition was mild—his
nature brave, generous, and sincere: on some occasions
he was obstinate and peevish; on others,
somewhat sullen and suspicious; but in his friendships,
George Hartpole was immutable.
His stature was of the middle height, and his
figure exhibited no appearance either of personal
strength or constitutional vigour: his slender form
and the languid fire of his eye indicated excitation
without energy; yet his spirits were moderately
good, and the most careless observer might feel
convinced that he had sprung from no ordinary
parentage—a circumstance which then had due
influence in Ireland, where agents, artisans, and
attorneys had not as yet supplanted the ancient
nobility and gentry of the country.
Shrewl Castle, the hereditary residence of the
Hartpoles, was in no way distinguishable from the
numerous other castellated edifices now in a state
of dilapidation throughout the whole island—ruins
which invariably excite a retrospect of happier
times, when the resident landlord, reverenced and
beloved, and the cheerful tenant, fostered and protected,
felt the natural advantages of their reciprocal
attachment; a reflection which leads us to
a sad comparison with modern usages, when the
absent lord and the mercenary agent have no consideration
but the rents, no solicitude but for their
collection; when the deserted tenantry keep pace
in decline with the deserted mansion; when the
ragged cottager has no master to employ, no
guardian to protect him!—pining, and sunk in the
lowest state of want and wretchedness,—sans
work, sans food, sans covering, sans every thing,—he
rushes forlorn and desperate into the arms of
destruction, which in all its various shapes stands
ready to receive him. The reflection is miserable,
but true:—such is Ireland since the year 1800.
Hartpole’s family residence, picturesquely seated
on a verdant bank of the smooth and beautiful
Barrow, had, during the revolutions of time, entirely
lost the character of a fortress: patched and
pieced after all the numberless orders of village
architecture, it had long resigned the dignity of a
castle without acquiring the comforts of a mansion:
yet its gradual descent, from the stronghold of
powerful chieftains to the rude dwelling of an embarrassed
gentleman, could be traced even by a
superficial observer. Its half-levelled battlements,
its solitary and decrepit tower, and its rough, dingy
walls, (giving it the appearance of a sort of habitable
buttress,) combined to portray the downfall of
an ancient family.
Close bounding the site of this ambiguous heritage
was situate the ancient burial-place of the
Hartpole family and its followers for ages. Scattered
graves, some green—some russet—denoted
the recentness or remoteness of the different interments;
and a few broad flag-stones indented with
defaced or illegible inscriptions, and covering the
remains of the early masters of the domain, just
uplifted their mouldering sides from among weeds
and briars, and half disclosed the only objects
which could render that cemetery interesting.
One melancholy yew-tree, spreading wide its
straggling branches over the tombs of its former
lords and the nave of an ancient chapel, (its own
hollow trunk proclaiming that it could not long
survive,) seemed to await, in awful augury, the honour
of expiring with the last scion of its hereditary
chieftains.
To me the view of this melancholy tree always
communicated a low feverish sensation, which I
could not well account for. It is true, I ever disliked
to contemplate the residence of the dead:[13]
but that of the Hartpole race, bounding their hall
of revelry, seemed to me a check upon all hilarity;
and I never could raise my spirits in any room, or
sleep soundly in any chamber, which overlooked
that sanctuary.
13. I never could get over certain disagreeable sensations and
awe at the interment of any person. So strongly, indeed, have
I been impressed in this way, that I formed a resolution, which
(with one exception) I have strictly adhered to these forty years,—namely,
never to attend the funeral even of a relative. I
have now and then indulged a whim of strolling over a country
church-yard, occasionally to kill time when travelling, in other
instances for statistical purposes: but, in general, the intelligible
and serious inscriptions on the tomb-stones are so mingled and
mixed with others too ridiculous even for the brain of a stone-cutter
to have devised, that the rational and preposterous, alternately
counteracting each other, made a sort of equipoise; and
I generally left an ordinary church-yard pretty much in the
same mood in which I entered it.
The incidents which marked the life of the last
owner of Shrewl Castle were singular and affecting,
and on many points may tend to exhibit an
instructive example. Nothing, in fact, is better
calculated to influence the conduct of society, than
the biography of those whose career has been conspicuously
marked either by eminent virtues or
peculiar events. The instance of George Hartpole
may serve to prove, were proof wanting, that matrimony,
as it is the most irrevocable, so is it the
most precarious step in the life of mortals; and
that sensations of presentiment and foreboding (as
I have already more than once maintained) are not
always visionary.
I was the most valued friend of this ill-fated
young man. To me his whole heart was laid
open;—nor was there one important circumstance
of his life, one feeling of his mind, concealed
from me. It is now many years since he paid his
debt to nature; and, by her course, I shall not
much longer tarry to regret his departure; but,
whilst my pilgrimage continues, that regret cannot
be extinguished.
George had received but a moderate education,
far inadequate to his rank and expectations; and
the country life of his careless father had afforded
him too few conveniences for cultivating his capacity.
His near alliance, however, and intercourse
with the Aldborough family, gave him considerable
opportunities to counteract, in a better class of
society, that tendency to rustic dissipation to which
his situation had exposed him, and which, at first
seductive, soon becomes habitual, and ruinous in
every way to youthful morals.
Whatever were the other eccentricities or failings
of Robert, Earl of Aldborough (the uncle of
Hartpole), the hyperbolical ideas of importance
and dignity which he had imbibed, though in
many practical instances they rendered him ridiculous,
still furnished him with a certain address
and air of fashion which put rustic vulgarity out of
his society, and, combined with a portion of classic
learning and modern belles-lettres, never failed to
give him an entire ascendancy over his ruder
neighbours. This curious character exhibited a
pretty equal proportion of ostentation and meanness.[14]
14. Hartpole, though he despised the empty arrogance of his
uncle, yet saw that his Lordship knew the world well and profited
by that knowledge:—he therefore occasionally paid much
attention to some of my Lord’s worldly lectures; and had he
observed the best of them, though he might possibly have appeared
less amiable, he would doubtless have been far more
fortunate. But Hartpole could not draw the due distinction
between the folly of his uncle’s ostentation and the utility of his
address; disgusted with the one, he did not sufficiently practise
the other; and despised the idea of acting as if he knew the
world, lest he should be considered as affecting to know too
much of it.
The most remarkable act of his Lordship’s life
was an experiment regarding his sister, Lady
Hannah Stratford. The borough of Baltinglass
was in the patronage of the Stratford family; and
on that subject, his brothers, John and Benjamin,
never gave him a peaceable moment: they always
opposed him, and generally succeeded. He was
determined, however, to make a new kind of burgomaster
or returning-officer, whose adherence he
might religiously depend on. He therefore took
his sister, Lady Hannah, down to the corporation,
and recommended her as a fit and proper returning-officer
for the borough of Baltinglass! Many
highly approved of her Ladyship, by way of a
change, and a double return ensued—a man acting
for the brothers, and the lady for the nobleman.
This created a great battle. The honourable ladies
of the family all got into the thick of it: some of
them were well trounced—others gave as good as
they received: the affair made a great uproar in
Dublin, and informations were moved for and
granted against some of the ladies. However, the
brothers, as was just, kept the borough, and his
Lordship never could make any farther hand of it.
The high-ways of Lord Aldborough, and the by-ways
with which he intersected them, are well exhibited
by an incident that occurred to him when
the country was rather disturbed in 1797. He
proceeded in great state, with his carriage, outriders,
&c. to visit the commanding officer of a
regiment of cavalry which had just arrived in that
part of the country. On entering the room, he
immediately began by informing the officer “that
he was the Earl of Aldborough, of Belan Castle;
that he had the finest mansion, demesne, park and
fish-ponds in that county, and frequently did the
military gentlemen the honour of inviting them to
his dinners;”—adding, with what he thought a
dignified politeness, “I have come from my castle
of Belan, where I have all the conveniences and
luxuries of life, for the especial purpose of saying,
Major, I am glad to see the military in my county,
and have made up my mind to give you, Major, my
countenance and protection.” The Major, who
happened to be rather a rough soldier and of a
country not famed for the softness of its manners,
could scarcely repress his indignation at his Lordship’s
arrogant politeness: but when the last sentence
was pronounced, he could restrain himself
no longer:—“Coontenance and proteection!”
repeated he contemptuously, two or three times:
“as for your proteection, Mister my Lord, Major
M‘Pherson is always able to proteect himsel; and
as for your coontenance, by heeven I would not
tak it for your eerldom!”
His Lordship withdrew, and the Major related
the incident as a singular piece of assurance. My
Lord, however, knew the world too well to let the
soldier’s answer stick against himself:—next day
he invited every officer of the regiment to dinner,
and so civilly, that the Major lost all credit with
his brother officers for his surly reply to so hospitable
a nobleman! Nay, it was even whispered
among them at mess, that the Major had actually
invented the story, to show off his own wit and independence;—and
thus Lord Aldborough obtained
complete revenge.
On another occasion, his Lordship got off better
still:—being churchwarden of Baltinglass parish,
he did not please the rector, Bob Carter, as to his
mode of accounting for the money in the poor-boxes.
The peer treated Bob (who was as hard-going,
good-hearted, devil-may-care a parson as
any in Ireland) with the greatest contempt. The
parson, who felt no sort of personal respect for my
Lord, renewed his insinuations of his Lordship’s
false arithmetic, until the latter, highly indignant,
grew wroth, and would give Bob no further satisfaction
on the matter: upon which, the rector
took the only revenge then in his power, by giving
out a second charity sermon, inasmuch as the proceeds
of the first had not been productive. The
hint went abroad, the church was crowded, and
to the infinite amusement of the congregation, Bob
put forth as his text—“Whosoever giveth to the
poor, lendeth to the Lord.” The application was
so clear, that the laugh was irresistible. Bob followed
up his blow all through the sermon, and
“the Lord” was considered to be completely
blown; but skilfully enough, he contrived to give
the matter a turn that disconcerted even the Rev.
Bob himself. After the sermon was concluded,
his Lordship stood up, publicly thanked Bob for
his most excellent text and charity sermon, and
declared that he had no doubt the Lord Lieutenant
or the bishop would very soon promote him,
according to his extraordinary merits, which he
was ready to vouch, in common with the rest of
the parishioners; finally begging of him to have
the sermon printed!
Hartpole’s fortune on the death of his father was
not large; but its increase would be great and
certain, and this rendered his adoption of any
money-making profession or employment unnecessary.
He accordingly purchased a commission
in the army, and commenced his entré into a
military life and general society with all the advantages
of birth, property, manners, and character.
A cursory observation of the world must convince
us of one painful and inexplicable truth;—that
there are some men (and frequently the best)
who, even from their earliest youth, appear born
to be the victims of undeviating misfortune; whom
Providence seems to have gifted with free-agency
only to lead them to unhappiness and ruin. Ever
disappointed in his most ardent hopes—frustrated
in his dearest objects—his best intentions overthrown—his
purest motives calumniated and
abused,—no rank or station suffices to shelter such
an unfortunate:—ennui creeps upon his hopeless
mind, communicates a listless languor to a sinking
constitution, and at length he almost joyfully surrenders
an existence which he finds too burdensome
to be supported.[15]
15. I cannot better illustrate the state of a person so chased by
misery, than by quoting a few unpublished lines, the composition
of a very young lady, Miss M. T., with whom, and with
whose amiable family, I have the pleasure of being intimate.
I am aware that I do her great injustice by quoting these
particular verses—some of the most inferior of her writings;
but they seem so much to the point, that I venture to risk her
displeasure. She is not, indeed, irritable; and I promise to
atone for my error by a few further quotations from her superior
compositions.
I.
I never sought a day’s repose
But some sharp thorn pierced my breast;
I never watch’d the evening’s close,
And hoped a heaven of rest;
But soon a darkling cloud would come
Athwart the prospect bright,
And, pale as twilight on a tomb,
My hopes grew dim in night.
II.
Oft have I mark’d the heav’nly moon
Wandering her pathless way
Along the midnight’s purple noon,
More fair—more loved than day:
But soon she flung her shadowy wreath
O’er dark eternity,
As a faint smile on the cheek of death
’Twixt hope and agony.
III.
Oft on the rainbow’s bloom I’ve gazed,
Arch’d as a gate of heaven,
Till gushing showers its portals razed,
And bathed the brow of even.
’Tis thus young hopes illume the sky
Of Life’s dark atmosphere,
Yet, like the rainbow’s splendid dye,
They meet and disappear.
IV.
Ev’n so, the mirth of man is madness;—
His joy as a sepulchral light,
Which shows his solitude and sadness,
But chaseth not the night.
Such nearly was the lot of the last of the Hartpoles.
He had scarcely commenced a flattering
entrance into public life, when one false and fatal
step, to which he was led first by a dreadful
accident, and subsequently by his own benevolent
disposition, worked on by the chicanery of
others, laid the foundation of all his future miseries.
While quartered with his regiment at Galway,
in Ireland, his gun, on a shooting party, burst in
his hand, which was so shattered, that it was long
before his surgeon could decide that amputation
might be dispensed with.
During the protracted period of his indisposition
he was confined to his chamber at a small
inn, such as Ireland then exhibited in provincial
towns. The host, whose name was Sleven, had
two daughters, both of whom assisted in the business.
The elder, Honor, had long been celebrated
as a vulgar wit and humourist, the cleverest of
all her female contemporaries; and the bar, on
circuits, frequented her father’s house purposely
to be amused by her repartees. Her coarse person
was well calculated to protect her moral conduct;
and she jested and took her glass with reasonable
moderation. Besides entertaining the bar,
she occasionally amused the judges also; and
Lord Yelverton, the chief baron, (who admired
wit in any body,) was Honor’s greatest partisan.
Such females ever appeared to me unnatural
and disgusting. A humorous and vulgar Amazon,
who forgets her own sex, can scarcely expect that
ours will recollect it.
Mary, the younger sister, was of a different appearance
and character. She was as mild and
unassuming as, from her low occupation and habits
of life, could be expected: though destitute
of any kind of talent, she yet appeared as if somewhat
better born than Honor, and her attention to
her guests was at the same time assiduous but properly
reserved; which conduct, contrasted with
the masculine effrontery of the other, gave her, in
my mind, a great superiority.
It must have been remarked by every person
who has observed the habits and manners of provincial
towns, that the distinctions of society are
frequently suspended by the necessary familiarities
of a contracted circle, and that inferior females
frequently excite (especially among youthful military)
sensations of tenderness which in a metropolis
would never have been thought of—at least
in the same point of view. And here the evil
genius of Hartpole first commenced her incantations
for his ruin.
Throughout George’s painful and harassing confinement,
the more than assiduous care of Mary
Sleven could not escape the observation of the too
sensitive convalescent. Hartpole has often described
to me the rise and progress of the giddy,
romantic feeling which then seized upon him; how
he used to catch her moistened eye watching his
interrupted slumbers, or the progress of his recovery;
and when she was conscious of being perceived,
how the mantling blush would betray a
degree of interest far beyond that of an ordinary
attendant.
Mary was rather well-looking; though there
was little to captivate, there was nothing about
her to excite his distaste: he was not permitted
to have society; and thus, being left nearly alone
with this young female during many weeks of pain
and solitude, and accustomed to the solicitude of
a woman, (so exquisite to a man in every state of
suffering,) Hartpole discovered in the sequel, that
a feeling of gratitude of the highest order had sunk
deeper than he wished within his bosom.
He could not but perceive, indeed, that the girl
actually loved him, and his vanity of course was
alive to the disclosure; but his honourable principles
prevented him from taking any advantage
of that weakness, which she could not conceal, and
whereto he could not be blind. It was in truth a
dangerous situation for both. There were, as I
have said, no external objects to divert George’s
mind from this novel sensation; there was no one
to point out its folly or interrupt its progress.
Her partiality flattered him in his seclusion, and
led his thoughts gradually and imperceptibly into
a channel inconsistent with the welfare of himself,
the honour of his family, and the becoming pride
of a gentleman. It certainly was, after all, a sort
of non-descript passion: it was not actually love.
Meanwhile the keen masculine understanding
of Honor soon perceived the game which it would
be wise in her to play, and conceived a project
whereby to wind up Hartpole’s feeling to the pitch
she wanted, and insensibly to lead his gratitude to
love, and his love to matrimony. This was Honor’s
aim; but she overrated her own penetration, and
deceived herself as to Hartpole’s character: she
overacted her part, and consequently diminished
its effect.
At length, awakened from his vision of romantic
gratitude, and beginning to open his eyes to the
views of the two women, my friend felt ashamed
of his facility, and mustered up sufficient resolution
to rescue himself from the toils they were spreading
for his capture. He had never made any species
of proposal to Mary, and she could not, with just
or honest hope, look to marriage with a person so
greatly her superior. On his perfect recovery, he
determined, by going over to England, to avoid all
their machinations; and he also determined that
his departure should be abrupt.
The keen and rapid eye of the designing Honor,
however, soon discovered the secret of his thoughts;
and guessing the extent of his resolution, she artfully
impressed upon him (under the affectation of
concealing it) the entire attachment of her pining
sister; but at the same time communicated Mary’s
resolution to be seen by him no more—“since it
would be useless further to distract her devoted
heart by cultivating society from which she must
so soon be separated for ever.”
Here Honor was again mistaken:—no melting
looks, no softening blandishments, now intervened
to oppose George’s pride or stagger his resolution.
He had only to struggle with himself; and after a
day and night of calm reflection, he fully conquered
the dangers of his high-flown gratitude,
and departed at day-break from the inn without
even desiring to see the love-lorn and secluded
Mary.
The sisters were thus totally disappointed. He
had paid munificently for the trouble he had given
them, written a letter of grateful thanks to Mary,
left her a considerable present, and set off to Dublin
to take immediate shipping for England.
Hartpole now congratulated himself on his
escape from the sarcasms of the world, the scorn
of his family, and his own self-condemnation. He
had acted with honour; he had done nothing
wrong; and he had once more secured that rank
in society which he had been in danger of relinquishing.
In Dublin he stopped at the Marine
Hotel, whence the packet was to sail at midnight,
and considered himself as on the road to Stratford-place,
London, which his uncle, Lord Aldborough,
had built, and where his Lordship then resided.
The time of embarkation had nearly arrived when
a loud shriek issued from an adjoining chamber
to his, at the hotel. Ever alive to any adventure,
Hartpole rushed into the room, and beheld—Mary
Sleven! She was, or affected to be, fainting, and
was supported by the artful Honor, who hung over
her, apparently regardless of all other objects, and
bemoaning, in low accents, the miserable fate of
her only sister.
Bewildered both by the nature and suddenness
of this rencontre, Hartpole told me that for a
moment he nearly lost his sight—nay, almost his
reason; but he soon saw through the scheme, and
mustered up sufficient courage to withdraw without
explanation. He had, in fact, advanced to the
door, and was on the outside step, the boat being
ready to receive him, when a second and more
violent shriek was heard from the room he had
just quitted, accompanied by exclamations of
“She’s gone! she’s gone!” Hartpole’s presence
of mind entirely forsook him; he retraced his
steps, and found Mary lying, as it should seem,
quite senseless, in the arms of Honor: his heart
relented; his evil genius profited by the advantage;
and he assisted to restore her. Gradually Mary’s
eyes opened; she regarded George wildly but intently,
and having caught his eye, closed hers
again—a languid, and, as it were, an involuntary
pressure of his hand, conveying to him her sensations.
He spoke kindly to her: she started at the
sound, and renewed the pressure with increased force.
As she slowly and gradually revived, the scene
became more interesting. A medical man being
(by preconcert) at hand, he ordered her restorative
cordials. Madeira only could at the moment be
procured. She put the glass to her mouth, sipped,
looked tenderly at Hartpole, and offered it him;
her lips had touched it; he sipped also; the patient
smiled; the doctor took a glass; Hartpole pledged
him; glass followed glass, until George was bewildered!
The artful Honor soon substituted
another bottle: it was Hartpole’s first wine after
his accident, and quickly mounted to his brain.
Thus did an hour flit away, and, meanwhile, the
packet had sailed. Another person affected also
to have lost his passage while occupied about the
patient, and this turned out to be a Catholic priest.
Refreshments were ordered: the doctor and the
priest were pressed to partake of the fare: the
Madeira was replenished: the moments fled! The
young man’s brain was inflamed; and it is only
necessary to add, that the morning’s sun arose, not
on the happy George, but on the happy Mary, the
wedded wife of Hartpole.
I will not attempt to describe the husband’s
feelings when morning brought reflection. Every
passion met its foe within his bosom: every resolve
was overwhelmed by an adverse one: his
sensitive mind became the field of contest for
tumultuous emotions; until, worn out by its own
conflicts, it sank into languor and dejection. He
had lost himself! he therefore yielded to his fate,
abandoned all idea of further resistance, and was
led back in chains by the triumphant sisters.
None of his family or connexions would ever
receive her; and George for awhile, sunk and
disgraced, without losing all his attachment for
the girl, had lost all his tranquillity. After two
years’ struggle, however, between his feelings for
her and his aspirations after a more honourable
station in society, the conspiracy which had effected
his ruin, being by chance discovered, arose before
his eye like a spectre, and, as if through a prism,
the deception appeared in the clearest colours.
A revulsion followed, and the conflict became
still more keen within his breast: but, at length,
his pride and resolution prevailed over his sensibility,
and he determined (after providing amply
for her) to take advantage of that statute which
declares null and void all marriages between a
Catholic and a Protestant solemnised by a popish
priest. He made this determination; it was just;
but, unfortunately, he lingered as to its execution.
Her influence was not extinguished; and she succeeded
in inducing him to procrastinate from time
to time the fatal resolve. She could not, it is true,
deny that he had been inveigled, and had made
up her own mind, should he stand firm, to accept
a liberal provision, and submit to a legal sentence,
which indeed could not be resisted.
As the propriety of Mary’s moral conduct had
never been called in question, she might, after all,
be able to obtain a match more adapted to her
station and to every thing except her ambition:
but the coarse and vulgar Honor miscalculated all.
She irritated and wound up Mary almost to madness;
and in this state, her characteristic mildness
forsook her; she became jealous of all other women,
and hesitated not daily to lavish abuse on the passive
and wretched Hartpole.
One morning, in Dublin, where they were residing,
he came to my house in a state of trembling
perturbation. He showed me a wound on his
hand, and another slight one from a knife’s point
indented on his breast-bone. Mary, he said, had,
in a paroxysm of rage, attempted to stab him
whilst sitting at breakfast: he had, with difficulty,
wrested the knife from her grasp, and left the house
never to return to it. He could in fact no longer
feel safe in her society; and therefore, arranging
all his necessary concerns, he repaired to Edinburgh,
where his regiment was quartered.
The suit for a decree of nullity was immediately
commenced, but no effective proceedings were ever
taken, nor any sentence in the cause pronounced,
owing to events still more unfortunate to poor
Hartpole.
Prior to this fatal act of George’s, I had never
observed an attachment on his part toward any
female, save a very temporary one to a young lady
in his neighbourhood, whom few men could see
without strong feelings of admiration;—the second
daughter of Mr. Yates, of Moon, a gentleman of
the old school, almost antediluvian in his appearance,
and of good fortune in County Kildare.
The beauty of Myrtle Yates arose nearly to perfection.
It was of that brilliance with which poets
and romance writers endeavour to adorn the most
favoured of their heroines. Had she lived of yore,
the Grecian sculptor or Roman artist might have
profited by charms which they could never fancy:—she
might have been the model for a Venus, or,
at a later era, sat for a Madonna. Nature, indeed,
seemed to have created her solely for the blandishments
of affection; and her whole form appeared
susceptible of being dissolved in love.
In a word, at twenty, Myrtle Yates was wholly
irresistible; not a youth of her country, who had
a heart, could boast of its insensibility; and perhaps
she owed to the bewildering number of those
admirers the good fortune of not devoting herself
to any of them.
Yet Hartpole’s attachment to Myrtle Yates was
neither deep nor lasting. He considered her too
attractive—perhaps too yielding; and had he always
adhered to the same principle of judgment,
it is possible he might have yet existed.
On his return from Scotland he immediately repaired
to Clifton, to drink the waters for a severe
cold which could no longer be neglected, and required
medical advice and a balmy atmosphere.
Here fate threw in the way of this ill-fated youth
another lure for his destruction, but such a one as
might have entrapped even the most cautious and
prudent. Love, in its genuine and rational shape,
now assailed the breast of the ever-sensitive Hartpole;
and an attachment sprang up fatal to his
happiness, and eventually to his existence.
At Clifton, my friend made the acquaintance of
a lady and gentleman, in whose only daughter
were combined all the attractive qualities of youth,
loveliness, and amiability. Their possessor moved
in a sphere calculated to gratify his pride; and
those who saw and knew the object of George’s
new attachment could feel no surprise at the vehemence
of his passion.
The unfortunate young man, however, sorely
felt that his situation under these circumstances
was even more dreadful than in the former connexion.
Loving one woman to adoration, and as
yet the acknowledged husband of another, it is not
easy to conceive any state more distracting to a
man of honour. His agitated mind had now no
suspension of its misery, save when lulled into a
temporary trance by the very lassitude induced by
its own unhappiness.
He wrote to me, expressing the full extent of his
sensations—that is, as fully as pen could convey
them. But imperfect indeed must be all expression
which attempts to describe intensity of feeling.
It was from blots and scratches, and here and
there the dried-up stain of an hieroglyphic tear,
rather than from words, that I gathered the excess
of his mental agony. He required of my friendship
to advise him—a task, to the execution of which I
was utterly incompetent. All I could properly
advise him to, was what I knew he would not
comply with; namely, to come over to Ireland,
and endeavour to conquer the influence of his passion,
or at least to take no decisive step in divulging
it till the law had pronounced its sentence on
his existing connexion.
Hartpole had strong feelings of honour as to this
latter. For a length of time he could scarcely
reconcile himself to the idea of publicly annulling
what he had publicly avowed; and it was only by
urging on his consideration the fact, that the ceremony
by a popish priest in no such case legally
constituted a marriage, that he was prevailed on
to seek for a decree of nullity. Such decree was
not indeed absolutely necessary; but to have it
upon record was judged advisable. Though the
incipient proceedings had been taken by his
proctor, they were not completed, and Mary
Sleven’s marriage never was formally declared a
nullity by the sentence of the Ecclesiastical Court,
nor was she ever judicially separated from the
deluded Hartpole.
Under all these circumstances, I was totally bewildered
as to what ought to be my friend’s future
conduct, when I was one morning greatly surprised
by the sudden appearance of Hartpole at
my breakfast-table, obviously in better health:—he
looked very superior to what I had expected;
his eye sparkled, and there was an air of satisfaction
diffused both over his features and address
which convinced me that some decisive step had
been taken by him. He lost no time in telling
me that he had actually proposed for Miss Otway
to her father and mother; that she herself had
consented; that Mr. and Mrs. Otway had come
over to have his fortune investigated, and wished
to see me with as little delay as convenient; and
concluded by saying, that he was most anxious to
introduce me to the source of all his terrestrial
happiness.
I could not but start on hearing all this, and declined
entering at all into the business with Mr.
Otway till George had given me a written license
to communicate with him as I pleased. He acceded
to all I desired, and the next morning I
waited on that gentleman—(Mr. Cooke Otway, of
Castle Otway).
I never felt more embarrassed in my life than at
this interview. I had in the interim made myself
master of Mr. Otway’s character, and the knowledge
by no means contributed to ease my scruples
or diminish my embarrassment. However, to
my surprise, a very short time disposed of both,
and in a way which I had heretofore conceived
quite impossible.
I found Colonel Cooke Otway a strong-minded,
decided, gentlemanly man, obviously with more
head than heart,—sensible, and practically good-natured;—in
short, one of those well-trained persons
who appear to be quite off-handed, yet, on
closer remark, are obviously in reservation.
He introduced me to Mrs. Otway, whose character
required no research. It was ordinary, but
amiable: she had evidently great kindness of
heart, and her conduct was uniformly reported to
be such as left nothing to amend either as wife or
mother: she appeared to be in declining health,
whilst her daughter, in the full bloom of youth and
first blush of ripening beauty, presented a striking
contrast.
I also read, as far as its hitherto slight development
would admit, the character of Maria Otway.
I could perceive neither the languor of love
nor the restlessness of suspense at all predominant
in her feelings. Perfect ease and entire resignation
appeared to sit most cheerfully on her brow:
she seemed voluntarily to consider the wish of her
parents as the rule of her destiny; and it was
perceptible that Hartpole had the love entirely at
his own disposal.
Maria united in her appearance, her manners,
and her obvious disposition, most of those amiable
and engaging traits which the age of eighteen can
develope in a female.—Her figure, in height rather
below the middle stature, had arrived at that proportionate
fulness which forms the just medium
between the round and slender, and without the
defects of either gives the advantages of both.
Her limbs, cast in the mould of perfect symmetry,
moved with that ease and moderate activity which
constitute the natural grace of female action. Her
features small, and not justifying the epithet of
“beautiful,” yet formed in their assemblage a
blooming and expressive index of the young heart
that ruled them: the imperfections of the profile
were lost in the brilliant delicacy of the complexion
which embellished it. Her blue eyes were
untutored; but her smile was intoxicating; and
my friend was bound and fettered in the trammels
of female witchery.
In my own judgment, Maria Otway was certainly
at that time a most interesting young female:
still her beauty, obviously aided by youth,
health, and thoughtless happiness, was not of that
animated and vigorous cast on which we so often
see neither time, care, nor age make quick impression:
it was, on the other hand, that soft and delicate
loveliness to which years and family are
such inveterate and sometimes rapid enemies.
Over such a person as Hartpole, the victory of
Miss Otway’s beauty was complete; and the result
of that unfortunate passion convinces me that
a man (unless his judgment be superior to his sensibility)
cannot commit an act of greater folly than
to encourage an attachment to any woman whom
he thinks every body else must admire as well as
himself. George at first was inclined to resist his
passion, but he did not fly from the cause of it, and
he therefore fell a victim to romantic love as he
had before done to romantic gratitude.
Mr. Otway at once opened the business, and
told me Hartpole had referred him to me for a
statement of his estates and financial situation.
On this point I had come fully prepared. Hartpole’s
circumstances exceeded rather than fell below
Mr. Otway’s expectation.
“I am quite satisfied, my dear sir,” said he to
me, with a significant nod; “you know that in
Ireland we always make some allowances for the
Stratford consanguinity.”
I now found my embarrassment recommence,
but determined, at every risk, to free myself from
all future responsibility or reproach: I therefore
informed Col. Otway explicitly of Hartpole’s marriage,
and that no sentence had as yet been pronounced
to declare that marriage a nullity, though
in point of law it was so.
Having heard me throughout with the greatest
complacency, he took me by the hand:—“My
dear sir,” said he with a smile which at first surprised
me, “I am happy to tell you that I was
fully apprised, before I came to Ireland, of every
circumstance you have related to me as to that
woman, and had taken the opinions of several eminent
practitioners on the point, each of whom gave
without any hesitation exactly the same opinion
you have done: my mind was therefore easy and
made up on that subject before I left England,
and I do not consider the circumstance any impediment
to the present negotiation.”
It is not easy to describe the relief thus afforded
me; though, at the same time, I must own I was
somewhat astonished at this seeming nonchalance.
We parted in excellent humour with each other,
and I believe he was my friend to the day of his
death.
The negotiation went on: Miss Sleven was no
more regarded; and after a deal of discussion, but
no difference of opinion, the terms were agreed
on, and settlements prepared, for a marriage, in
all its results as unfortunate for the young people,
and as culpable in the old, as any that ever came
within my recollection.
A circumstance of singular and not very auspicious
nature occurred on the first step toward the
completion of that ill-starred alliance. It was necessary
to procure a license from the Prerogative
Court for the solemnization of the marriage in the
city of Dublin, and Hartpole’s uncle, the Honourable
Benjamin O’Neil Stratford (now Earl of Aldborough),
attended with George upon Doctor
Duigenan, then judge of the prerogative, for that
purpose.
The doctor (who when irritated was the most
outrageous judge that ever presided in a court of
justice) was on the bench officiating upon their
arrival. Benjamin conceived that his rank and
intimacy with the doctor would have procured
him at least common civility; but in this he was
egregiously mistaken.
Benjamin O’Neil Stratford, who attended his
nephew on that dangerous expedition, was endowed
with several good-natured qualities, but, as
folks said, rather inclined to the pleasures of litigation.
In every family which is not very popular,
there is always one, of whom people in general
say, “Oh! he is the best of them:” and this was
Benjamin’s reputation as to the Stratford family.[16]
16. The noble Earl had then also the appellation of “Blind
Ben,” which had been conferred on him by the agreeable and
witty Lady Aldborough, and which ought not to have been by
any means considered derogatory, inasmuch as his name is certainly
Benjamin, and one of his eyes is actually “not at
home;” and as the abrupt mode of its quitting his Lordship’s
service was rather humorous, it may be amusing to mention it.
He had once (as he thought) the honour of killing a crane.
Benjamin’s evil genius, however, maliciously scattered the shot,
and the crane had only been what they call in Ireland kilt;
but feeling pretty sure that her death was determined on, she
resolved to die heroically, and not unrevenged. She fell, and
lying motionless, seduced her assassin to come and wring her
head off, according to the usual rules and practice of humanity
by fowlers. The honourable sportsman approached triumphantly,
and stooping to seize the spolia opima, Madam Crane,
(having as good eyes of her own as the one that took aim at her,)
in return for his compliment, darted her long bill plump into the
head of the Honourable Benjamin O’Neil Stratford, entering
through the very same casement which he had closed the shutters
of to take his aim. In fact, she turned the honourable gentleman’s
eye clean out of its natural residence; and being thus
fully gratified by extinguishing the light in one of her enemy’s
lanterns, she resigned her body to be plucked, stuffed, and
roasted, in the usual manner, as was performed accordingly.
Thus, though her slayer was writhing in agony, his family was
fully revenged by feasting on his tormentor. Daily consultations
were held to ascertain whether her long rapier had not
actually penetrated the brain of the Honourable Benjamin.
One of the tenants being heard to say, in a most untenant-like
manner, that it might in such case be all for the best, was asked
his reason for so undutiful an expression; and replied, that
if she had just pricked his honour’s brain, maybe it might have
let out the humours, which would have done no harm either to
his honour or to Baltinglass.
On their arrival in the presence of the doctor,
who pretended never to know any body in Court,
he asked, “Who those people were?” and on being
informed, proceeded to inquire what business
brought them there.
The Honourable Benjamin answered, “that he
wanted a marriage-license for his nephew, George
Hartpole, of Shrewl Castle, Esq., and Miss Maria
Otway, of Castle Otway, County Tipperary.”
He had scarcely pronounced the words when
the doctor, rising, with the utmost vehemence
roared out, “George Hartpole! George Hartpole!
is that the rascal who has another wife living?”
George, struck motionless, shrank within himself;
but Benjamin, not being so easily frightened,
said something equally warm, whereupon the doctor,
without further ceremony, rushed at him,
seized him by the collar, and cried, “Do you
want me to countenance bigamy, you villains?”
at the same time roaring to his crier and servants
to “turn the fellows out!” which order, if not literally,
was virtually performed, and the petitioners
for a license congratulated themselves upon their
providential escape from so outrageous a judge of
prerogative.
The fact was, a suit of nullity had been actually
commenced in the Court, but its merits never having
been stated, the judge only knew Hartpole as a
married man de facto, and it certainly could not
appear very correct of the Honourable Benjamin
to apply to the same judge who was to try the validity
of the first marriage, to grant his license for
the solemnization of a second while the first remained
undecided. On Hartpole’s mind the circumstance
made an indelible impression, and he
never afterward took any further proceedings in
the cause then instituted.
Hartpole returned to me and recounted the adventure,
affecting to treat it as a jest against his
uncle. But it was a vain disguise; although, by
struggling sharply with his feelings, he in some
degree overcame them.
But what was now to be done, since no license
could be obtained in Dublin? A general consultation
was held; Mr. Otway (still singularly to
me) appeared to regard the circumstance as a mere
bagatelle. I thought far otherwise; and it was so
deeply engraven on Hartpole’s mind, that he mentioned
it to me not three days previous to his dissolution,
as having foreboded all his subsequent
misfortunes.
It was at length agreed on that he should be
married in the diocese of Kildare, by a license
from the bishop’s surrogate there. This was in effect
accomplished. I did not attend at the ceremony;
after which, the parties pursued their journey
to Castle Otway, where, in the midst of every
thing that was desirable on earth, Hartpole commenced
the trial of his new connexion.
In spite of these apparent advantages, however,
my friend soon began either to find or conjure up
new and dangerous sources of uneasiness. He
continued some months at Castle Otway, listless
and devoured by ennui—pining for a change of
scene, and longing to return to his hereditary
domain. His health gradually, although slowly,
declined; yet he took no medical advice: remote
symptoms of consumption began to exhibit themselves,
and the effects of care upon a constitution
naturally irritable favoured their development.
But, amidst all this, he fancied for awhile that he
possessed every thing he could wish for;—his wife
daily improved in her person, her manners were
delightful, her conduct unexceptionable.
Maria was adored by her parents, but adored
to a degree that tended eventually to create her
misery: the thought of separating from them was
to her almost unbearable; she durst scarcely look
at such an event with firmness. Her reluctance
could not be concealed from the sharp eye of her
uneasy husband. Every mark of affection lavished
by her on her parents he considered as if filched
from him. He thought her heart should have no
room for any attachments but to himself, whereas
it had been wholly preoccupied by filial tenderness,
that true passion of nature. In a word, she
had never loved Hartpole, for whom she felt no
other than a neutral species of attachment. Neither
her mind nor her person had arrived at their
full maturity, when she was called upon to love;
and under such circumstances, she really evinced
more affection for her husband than I supposed she
would do, but far less than he expected.
At length it was agreed that they should come,
on a visit, to my house in Dublin for some time,
and that her mother should afterwards stay with
her at Shrewl Castle till Maria was gradually reconciled
to the dreaded change, and to final residence
with a man whom I believe she early discovered
was not exactly calculated to make her
happy. The story of Mary Sleven, I believe, she
had not heard; if she had, I am pretty sure she
never would have left the protection of her father.
When Hartpole arrived at my house, I soon perceived
that my gloomy auguries had been too well
grounded. I found his mind bewildered; he received
no enjoyment from reading; his health did
not permit strong exercise; he took no pleasure in
new and strange society; but, on the contrary,
pined for his own home, his free associates, his
steward, his tenants, his colliers, and above all, for
a passive, fond companion who should have no wish
but her husband’s.
Now, none of these things were to Maria’s taste,
and she yielded to the inroads of discontent, as I
think, unreasonably: still, this feeling never
showed itself with offensive prominence. She
gave way to every desire expressed by her husband,
but her acquiescence seemed to me like that of a
victim. I have often noticed that, even whilst she
intimated her obedience, her averted eye betrayed
a rebel tear, and she only awaited the moment
when it might gush out with safety, and relieve
her.
I perceived that, unless some step was taken to
occupy George’s mind, a residence at Shrewl Castle
would surely proclaim to the world both his folly
and his ruin. I therefore applied to Mr. Pelham,
then secretary in Ireland, to appoint Hartpole to
the office of high sheriff for Queen’s County for
the ensuing year, 1794. My application was immediately
conceded. I also took out for him a
commission of the peace. Meanwhile his old
castle was in part newly furnished, and I was
happy to see that he felt a sort of gratification in
the appointment of sheriff; and though in a state
of health badly calculated to execute the duties of
such an office, the occupation of his mind would,
I hoped, make ample amends for his necessary
personal exertions. If that year had passed favourably,
it was my intention to have recommended
a tour to some foreign country, where
change of climate and of scene might tend to
restore my friend’s health, to amuse his mind, and
perhaps to make a desirable alteration in the feelings
both of himself and his wife:—but Heaven
decreed otherwise.
While on their visit at my house, I perceived, in
Hartpole’s disposition, among other traits which
so close a communion could scarcely fail to develope,
one which I had never before suspected in
him, and calculated to prove the certain and permanent
source of unhappiness. Jealousy is of all
others the most terrible of human passions. When
once it fixes its roots in a hasty, sanguine nature,
it becomes master of every action and every word;
and reason, justice, and humanity, all fly before
it! When it pervades a less ardent spirit, impetuosity
is bridled; but the desire of revenge is no
less powerful, and too often seeks gratification in
the exercise of cold treachery or petty annoyance:
in either case, the eye magnifies every object
which can at all feed the greediness of suspicion.
When this passion has any fair cause, it may be
justifiable, and a crisis generally ends it; but
when no cause exists, save in the distempered
fancy of a sinking constitution, it is permanent
and invincible.
Such was the case with my friend: his jealousy
had no fixed object on which to fasten itself, but
wandered from person to person. Indeed, it could
have no resting-place; for, in this point of view,
Maria was blameless. But in the eye of my friend
she had guilt—the guilt of being attractive. He
conceived that every body must love her as he did
himself, and fancied that a female universally admired
could not be universally ungrateful.
This melancholy and morbid state of mind appeared
to me likely to increase from residence in
a metropolis, and I hastened his departure for
Shrewl Castle, to take upon himself the office of
high sheriff. I did not go with them, for my mind
misgave me: her mother met them there, and
innocently completed the ruin of her children by
a step the consequences whereof should ever be
a warning to wives, to parents, and to husbands!
At Shrewl, Mrs. Otway perceived George’s ideal
malady: she was a silly woman, who fancied she
was wise, and thought she never could do wrong
because she always intended to do right. She
proposed to Maria a most desperate remedy to
cure her husband of his jealousy, though she did
not reflect that it might probably be at the expense
of his existence, and certainly of her daughter’s
duty. They conspired together, and wrote
two or three letters directed to Mrs. Hartpole,
without signature, but professing love and designating
meetings. These they took measures to
drop so as Hartpole might accidentally find some
of them, and thus they thought in the end to convince
him of his folly, and laugh him out of his
suspicions.
The result may be easily anticipated by those
who have read with attention the character of the
husband. He became outrageous; the developement
did not pacify him; and his paroxysm was
nearly fatal. Maria was in consequence but little
better, and the unexpected result of her own injudicious
conduct nearly distracted the unhappy
mother. But it was too late to retrieve their
error: the die was thrown. Hartpole was inflexible;
and the first I heard of it was Maria’s departure
to her father’s, and a final separation:—and
thus, after a marriage of a few months, that
ill-starred young man, completely the sport of fortune,
became once more solitary! Labouring
under the false idea that he could soon conquer
his attachment, he made Maria an ample separate
maintenance, and determined to go to Lisbon,
where he thought a change of scene might, perhaps,
restore his peace, and the climate his shattered
constitution.
Before he sailed, I endeavoured in vain to reconcile
them. She did not love him well enough
to risk a further residence at Shrewl, in the absence
of her connexions; and his mind was case-hardened
against the whole family from which she
sprang. His reasons to me for parting from her
finally were at least plausible.
“I acquit her at once,” said he, “of ever having
shown a symptom of impropriety, nay, even of
giddiness: there I was wrong, and I own it: but
she has proved herself perfectly capable of, and
expert at, deception; and the woman that has
practised deception for my sake would be equally
capable of practising it for her own. So far from
curing my error, she has confirmed me in it; and
when confidence ceases separation ought to ensue.”
Hartpole shortly after embarked for Portugal,
and only returned to terminate his short career by
a lingering and painful death.
On his arrival at Lisbon without any amendment
either in mind or body, I felt, and I am sure
he did himself, that the world was fast receding
from him. The rough manners of one Lieutenant
Waters, the person whom he had chosen as a led
captain, were little congenial to his own characteristic
mildness. He had, however, Simon, a most
faithful Scotch valet; and after a few posts, I conceived,
from his letters, that his spirits had very
much improved, when a circumstance occurred
which, had he been in health, would have been
merely ludicrous; but which the shattered state
of his nerves rendered him almost incapable of
bearing up against.
On his marriage he had given the commission
in the army which he then held to Mr. Otway,
his brother-in-law (I believe, now, General Otway);
on his separation, however, he determined
to resume the profession, and accordingly purchased
a commission in a regiment of the line
then raising by his uncle the late Lord Aldborough;
and he had been gazetted previously to
his departure.
After he had been a short time at Lisbon, some
mischievous person, for some mischievous object,
informed his uncle that he had been dead a fortnight!
and, without further inquiry, that nobleman
resold George’s commission, and an announcement
appeared in the newspapers, that Hartpole
had fallen a victim at Lisbon, to consumption, the
rapid progress of which had rendered his case
hopeless even before he quitted Ireland,—adding
the name of the party who had succeeded him in
his regiment.
Now the fact was, that the climate of Lisbon
had been of great service to his health; and he
was quickly recovering strength and spirits when,
taking up, one day, an English paper, he read the
above-mentioned paragraph.
His valet described to me coarsely the instantaneous
effect of this circumstance on his master’s
mind. It seemed to proclaim his fate by anticipation:—his
commission was disposed of, under
the idea that he was actually dead; every melancholy
reflection crowded upon him; he totally
relapsed; and I firmly believe that paragraph was
his death-blow. After lingering several months
longer, he returned to England, and I received a
letter requesting me to meet him without delay at
Bristol, and stating that he had made his will.
I immediately undertook the journey, and took
him over a horse which I conceived adapted to
him at that time. His sister (the present Mrs.
Bowen, of Rutland-square) was with him. His
figure was emaciated to the last degree, and he
was sinking rapidly into the grave. He was attended
by a very clever young physician of that
place, a Doctor Barrow, and I soon perceived that
the doctor had fallen a victim to the charms of
Miss Hartpole.
The patient had, however, declined but little in
appetite, when the disorder fixed itself in his
throat, and he ceased to have the power of eating:
he now entirely gave himself up as a person who
must die of hunger. This melancholy scene almost
distracted me. The doctor gave us little consolation;
and Hartpole himself, though reduced to
such a state, was really the most cheerful of the
party, evincing a degree of resignation at once
heroic and touching. His will had been prepared
by Mr. Lemans of Bristol, (to me a perfect
stranger,) and executed whilst I was in Ireland:
he informed us all that I was joint executor with
two of his uncles.
On the morning of Hartpole’s death he sent for
me to rise and come to him. I found him in an
agony of hunger—perspiration in large drops rolling
down his face. He said neither food nor liquid
could descend into his stomach; that his ribs had
contracted inward, as if convulsively drawn together;
and that he was in great pain. I cannot
describe my emotion! He walked about his room
and spoke to me earnestly on many subjects, on
some of which I have been, and ever shall be,
totally silent. At length he called me to the window:—“Barrington,”
said he, “you see at a
distance a very green field?” “Yes,” I replied.
“Well,” continued George, “it is my dying request
that I may be buried there to-morrow evening.”
He spoke so calmly and strongly, that I felt
much surprised. He observed this, and said, “It
is true: I am in the agonies of death.” I now called
in the doctor and Hartpole’s servant: the invalid
sat down upon the bed; and when he took me by
the hand, I shuddered, for it was burning hot,
whilst every nerve and sinew seemed to be in
spasmodic action, then iced and clammy. I never
had been in collision with a dying person before:
he pressed my hand with great fervour, and murmured,
“My friend!”—these were the last words
I heard him utter. I looked in his face: his eyes
were glazed—his lips quivered—he laid his head
on the pillow, and expired.
This awful scene, to me so perfectly new, overpowered
me, and for a few minutes I was myself
totally insensible.
I disobeyed Hartpole’s injunctions respecting his
funeral; for I had his body enclosed in a leaden
coffin and sent to be interred at Shrewl Castle, in
the cemetery of his ancestors, wherein his remains
were not admitted without much reluctance by his
ungrateful sister and her husband, who resided
there in his absence.
On the reading of the will, his first bequest
appeared to be to “his friend Barrington, six
thousand pounds,” together with the reversion of
his landed estates and collieries, by moieties, on the
death of each of his sisters without children: one
had been some years married and had none; the
other was unmarried, but soon after made a match
with a respectable gentleman of very considerable
property, but whom I should think few young
ladies of fortune would have fancied.
The uncles would not act as executors; considered
me as an interloper; and commenced a
suit to annul the will, as prepared under undue
influence. Fortunately for my reputation, I had
never known or even seen the persons who prepared
it. I was in another kingdom at the time,
and had not seen Hartpole for many months before
its execution: his sister was with him; not I.—I
was utterly unacquainted with his will or its
contents.
I got a decree without delay. The family of
Stratford, who preferred law to all other species of
pastime, appealed. My decree was confirmed, and
they were burdened with the whole costs; and in
effect paid me six thousand pounds, on an amicable
arrangement. My reversion yielded me nothing;
for I fancy the sisters have since had
nearly twenty children between them to inherit it.
Thus ended Hartpole’s life, and thus did a family
become extinct, of the most respectable description.
I neither looked to nor expected any
legacy from my friend, beyond a mourning-ring.
He left numerous other bequests, including a considerable
one to Mary Sleven, whose fate I never
heard.
The sequel of Maria Otway’s history was not
much less melancholy than that of her unhappy
partner, as she died prematurely, by the most
affecting of all deaths, some time after—childbirth.
I saw her after the separation, but never after
George’s decease. As I predicted, her style of
beauty was not calculated to wear well; and even
before she was out of her teens, Maria Otway had
been much handsomer. Her manner became more
studied—of course, less graceful: and that naïveté,
which had rendered her so engaging to my friend,
was somewhat superseded by the affectation of
fashionable manners.
Maria, I think, never had been attached to Hartpole;
and within two years after his decease, she
made another and a most unexceptionable match—namely,
with Mr. Prittie, the present member
for Tipperary: but Providence seemed to pursue
fatally even the relict of my friend; and, at the
age of twenty-three, death cut off the survivor of
that union which an unconcerned spectator would
have deemed so auspicious. It was said and believed,
(but I do not wish to be understood as
vouching the report,) that after Mrs. Prittie’s
death a prediction of that event was found written
by herself six months before it occurred, designating
the precise time of her departure.
I have been diffuse on the memoirs of Hartpole,
because I felt myself interested in almost every
material event of his career. To overlook our
friendship, indeed, and his liberality, would have
been ungrateful, in any memoir of myself.[17]
Before I quit these “records,” and the associations
which they excite, I am tempted once more
to revert to the peculiarities of the Stratford family,
which indeed present an ample field for anecdote.
More curious or dissimilar characters never, surely,
bore the same name.
Earl Robert, one of those who declared war
against me on Hartpole’s death, was surnamed
“The Peer of a Hundred Wills;” and it is matter
of fact, that, upon a trial at law in County Wicklow,
since his Lordship’s death, fifty-one different wills
were produced, together with a great number of
affidavits, &c., also signed by the Earl. Several
of these documents are of the most singular description,
highly illustrative of the Earl’s character,
and I should think among the most extraordinary
papers existing.
It was a general rule with this peer to make a
will or codicil in favour of any person with whom
he was desirous of carrying a point,—taking especial
care that the party should be made acquainted
with his proceeding: no sooner, however, was his
end accomplished, and other game started, than
a fresh instrument annulled all the provisions of
the preceding one! Thus, if desirous of obtaining
a lady’s regards, he made a will in her favour, and
let her find it by accident. He at length got
50,000l. with a grand-daughter of the Duke of
Chandos, and brought her over to Belan.
In the cause before mentioned I was specially
retained by the late Earl John, to argue that his
brother was mad, and Mr. Plunkett was retained
specially as my opponent, to argue that he was
sane. In support of our positions it was that the
fifty wills were produced; and I hesitate not to
say, that either of them, had it emanated from any
other individual than his Lordship, would have
been deemed conclusive of insanity. But the jury
had known the party whose vagaries they were
summoned to decide upon; and therefore found,
as usual, in favour of his Lordship’s last will. I
subsequently asked one of those gentlemen the
grounds of their verdict; and his answer was—“We
all knew well that the testator was more
* * * * * than fool: did you ever hear of any body
taking him in?”—and, the truth is, the jury were
right; for I never met with a man who had more
worldly tact than Robert, Earl of Aldborough,
and, owing to my close connexion with his nephew,
Hartpole, I had abundant opportunities of
judging, as well as by his extraordinary correspondence
and transactions with myself.
The present Countess Dowager of Aldborough
was in the habit of uttering jeux d’esprit with more
spirit and grace than any woman in the world:
she often cut deeply; but so keen and polished
was the edge of her wit, that the patient was never
mangled; or if he was, nobody consoled him
in his tortures.
The cause of her naming the Honourable and
Reverend Paul Stratford, her brother-in-law,
“Holy Paul,” was droll enough. Mount Neil, a
remarkably fine old country-house, furnished in the
ancient style, was that ecclesiastic’s family mansion,
wherein he resided many years, but of which it
was thought he at last grew tired. One stormy
night, this house (some time after it had been insured
to a large amount) most perversely and miraculously
took fire: (the common people still say,
and verily believe, it was of its own accord:) no
water was to be had; of course the flames raged
ad libitum: the tenants bustled, jostled, and tumbled
over each other, in a general uproar and zeal
to save his Reverence’s “great house:” his Reverence
alone, meek and resigned, beheld the voracious
element devour his hereditary property—piously
and audibly attributing the evil solely to the
just will of Providence as a punishment for his
having vexed his mother some years before, when
she was troubled with a dropsy. Under this impression,
the Honourable and Reverend Paul
adopted the only rational and pious means of extinguishing
the conflagration: he fell on his bare
knees in front of the blazing pile, and, with clasped
and uplifted hands, and in the tone of a saint
during his martyrdom, besought the Lord to show
him mercy, and extinguish a flame which was setting
all human aid at defiance! The people around,
however, did not place equal reliance on the interposition
of Providence,—which, as a country fellow
very judiciously observed, “might be employed
somewhere else at the time, and unable to
look to his Reverence’s consarns:” so they continued,
while practicable, to bring out the furniture
piecemeal, and range it on the grass-plat.
Paul no sooner perceived the result of their exertions
than, still on his knees, he cried out—“Stop!
stop! throw all my valuable goods and
chattels back into the flames! never fly, my friends,
in the face of Heaven! When the Almighty resolved
to burn my house, he most certainly intended
to burn the furniture. I feel resigned. The
Lord’s will be done! Throw it all back again!”
The tenants reluctantly obeyed his orders; but,
unfortunately for “Holy Paul,” the Insurance
Company, when applied to for payment of his
losses, differed altogether from his Reverence as to
the agency of Providence, and absolutely refused
to pay any part of the damage incurred. Paul declared
it would be a crime in him to insist by a
law-suit upon payment; and that he’d rather lose
all his insurance than bring any act of Providence
into the Court of Exchequer, which never was renowned
for any great skill in ecclesiastical polity.
In tithe cases, they showed no sort of partiality to
the clergy; and never would pay the least attention
in any instance to assertions from the board of
first-fruits without putting the clergy to the trouble
of producing their witnesses.
The Honourable and Rev. Paul, however, got
into disrepute by this occurrence, and his nephew
declined being married by him. In fact, the
fault of Holy Paul was, love of money: he had
very good property, but was totally averse to paying
away any thing. He was put into prison by
his niece’s husband, where he long remained rather
than render an account; and when at length
he settled the whole demand, refused to pay a
few pounds fees, and continued voluntarily in confinement
until his death. Notwithstanding, greatly
to his credit, he bestowed large sums in charity.
HAMILTON ROWAN AND THE BAR.
Sketch of the character of Mr. Hamilton Rowan—His Quixotic spirit of philanthropy—Case of Mary Neil taken up by Mr. Rowan—Dinner-club among the briefless barristers of Dublin—Apparition of Mr. Hamilton Rowan and his dog—More frightened than hurt—An unanswerable query—Mr. Rowan’s subsequent adventures—The Rev. Mr. Jackson—He is brought up to receive sentence for high-treason, and expires in Court.
There were few persons whose history was connected
with that of Ireland during my time, who
excited my interest in a greater degree than Mr.
Hamilton Rowan. Points of this gentleman’s character
have been unfavourably represented by
persons who knew little or nothing of his life, and
that too, long after he had ceased to be a politician.
I may claim perfect disinterestedness when I state
that I never had the least social intercourse with
Mr. Rowan, whose line of politics was decidedly
opposed to my own.
Archibald Hamilton Rowan (I believe he still
lives) is a gentleman of most respectable family and
of ample fortune: considered merely as a private
character, I fancy there are few who will not give
him full credit for every quality which does honour
to his station in society. As a philanthropist, he
certainly carried his ideas even beyond reason, and
to a degree of excess which I really think laid in
his mind the foundation of all his enthusiastic proceedings,
both in common life and in politics.
The first interview I had with this gentleman
did not occupy more than a few minutes; but it
was of a most impressive nature, and though now
nearly forty years back, appears as fresh to my
eye as if it took place yesterday: in truth, I believe
it must be equally present to every individual
of the company who survives, and is not too old to
remember any thing.
There is generally in every metropolis some temporary
incident which serves as a common subject
of conversation; something which nominally excites
interest, but which in fact nobody cares a sous
about, though for the day it sells all the newspapers,
and gives employment to every tongue,
till some new occurrence happens to work up curiosity
and change the topic.
In 1788, a very young girl, of the name of Mary
Neil, had been ill-treated by a person unknown,
aided by a woman. The late Lord Carhampton
was reported to be the transgressor, but without
any proof whatsoever of his Lordship’s culpability.
The humour of Hamilton Rowan, which had a sort
of Quixotic tendency to resist all oppression and
to redress every species of wrong, led him to take
up the cause of Mary Neil with a zeal and enthusiastic
perseverance which nobody but the knight
of La Mancha could have exceeded. Day and
night the ill-treatment of this girl was the subject
of his thoughts, his actions, his dreams: he even
went about preaching a kind of crusade in her
favour, and succeeded in gaining a great many
partisans among the citizens; and, in short, he
eventually obtained a legal conviction of the woman
as accessory to a crime, the perpetrator whereof
remained undiscovered, and she accordingly received,
and most justly, sentence of death. Still
Mary Neil was not bettered by this conviction:
she was utterly unprovided for, had suffered much,
and was quite wretched. Yet there were not
wanting persons who doubted her truth, decried
her former character, and represented her story as
that of an impostor: this, though not credited, not
only hurt the feelings and philanthropy, but the
pride of Hamilton Rowan; and he vowed personal
vengeance against all her calumniators, high and
low.
At this time about twenty young barristers, including
myself, had formed a dinner-club in Dublin:
we had taken large apartments for the purpose;
and, as we were not yet troubled with too much
business, were in the habit of faring luxuriously
every day, and taking a bottle of the best claret
which could be obtained.[18]
18. One of us, Counsellor Townley Fitgate, (afterwards chairman
of Wicklow County,) having a pleasure-cutter of his own
in the harbour of Dublin, used to send her to smuggle claret for
us from the Isle of Man: he made a friend of one of the tide-waiters,
and we consequently had the very best wines on the
cheapest possible terms.
There never existed a more cheerful, witty, nor
half so cheap a dinner-club. One day, whilst
dining with our usual hilarity, the servant informed
us that a gentleman below stairs desired to be admitted
for a moment. We considered it to be some
brother-barrister who requested permission to join
our party, and desired him to be shown up. What
was our surprise, however, on perceiving the figure
that presented itself!—a man, who might have
served as a model for a Hercules, his gigantic
limbs conveying the idea of almost supernatural
strength: his shoulders, arms, and broad chest,
were the very emblems of muscular energy; and
his flat, rough countenance, overshadowed by
enormous dark eyebrows, and deeply furrowed by
strong lines of vigour and fortitude, completed one
of the finest, yet most formidable figures I had
ever beheld. He was very well dressed: close by
his side stalked in a baggy Newfoundland dog of
corresponding magnitude, with hair a foot long,
and who, if he should be voraciously inclined,
seemed well able to devour a barrister or two
without overcharging his stomach:—as he entered,
indeed, he alternately looked at us and then up at
his master, as if only awaiting the orders of the
latter to commence the “onslaught.” His master
held in his hand a large, yellow, knotted club, slung
by a leathern thong round his great wrist: he had
also a long small-sword by his side, adorned by a
purple ribbon.
This apparition walked deliberately up to the
table; and having made his obeisance with seeming
courtesy, a short pause ensued, during which
he looked round on all the company with an aspect,
if not stern, yet ill-calculated to set our minds at
ease either as to his or his dog’s ulterior intentions.
“Gentlemen!” at length he said, in a tone and
with an air at once so mild and courteous, nay, so
polished, as fairly to give the lie, as it were, to his
gigantic and threatening figure: “Gentlemen! I
have heard with very great regret that some members
of this club have been so indiscreet as to
calumniate the character of Mary Neil, which,
from the part I have taken, I feel identified
with my own: if any gentleman present hath
done so, I doubt not he will now have the candour
and courage to avow it.—Who avows it?”
The dog looked up at him again: he returned
the glance; but contented himself, for the present,
with patting the animal’s head, and was
silent: so were we. He repeated, “Who avows
it?”
The extreme surprise indeed with which our
party was seized, bordering almost on consternation,
rendered all consultation as to a reply out of
the question; and never did I see the old axiom,
that “what is every body’s business is nobody’s
business,” more thoroughly exemplified. A few
of the company whispered each his neighbour, and
I perceived one or two steal a fruit-knife under the
table-cloth, in case of extremities; but no one
made any reply. We were eighteen in number;
and as neither would or could answer for the
others, it would require eighteen replies to satisfy
the giant’s single query; and I fancy some of us
could not have replied to his satisfaction, and stuck
to the truth into the bargain.
He repeated his demand (elevating his tone
each time) thrice: “Does any gentleman avow
it?” A faint buzz now circulated round the room,
but there was no answer whatsoever. Communication
was cut off, and there was a dead silence:
at length our visitor said, with a loud voice, that
he must suppose, if any gentleman had made observations
or assertions against Mary Neil’s character,
he would have had the courage and spirit to
avow it: “therefore,” continued he, “I shall take
it for granted that my information was erroneous;
and, in that point of view, I regret having alarmed
your society.” And, without another word, he
bowed three times very low, and retired backward
toward the door, (his dog also backing out with
equal politeness,) where, with a parting salute
doubly ceremonious, Mr. Rowan ended this extraordinary
interview. On the first of his departing
bows, by a simultaneous impulse, we all rose and
returned his compliments, almost touching the table
with our noses, but still in profound silence; which
bowing on both sides was repeated, as I have said,
till he was fairly out of the room. Three or
four of the company then ran hastily to the window
to be sure that he and the dog were clear off into
the street; and no sooner had this satisfactory
dénouement been ascertained, than a general roar of
laughter ensued, and we talked it over in a hundred
different ways: the whole of our arguments,
however, turned upon the question “which had
behaved the politest upon the occasion?” but not
one word was uttered as to which had behaved the
stoutest.
This spirit of false chivalry, which took such
entire possession of Hamilton Rowan’s understanding,
was soon diverted into the channels of political
theory; and from the discussion of general politics,
he advanced blindly, but I really believe with the
best intentions, to the contemplation of sedition.
His career in this respect was short:—he was
tried and convicted of circulating a factious paper,
and sentenced to a heavy fine and a long imprisonment,
during which, political charges of a much
more serious nature were arrayed against him.
He fortunately escaped from prison to the house
of Mr. Evans, of Portranne, near Dublin, and got
off in a fishing-boat to France, where, after numerous
dangers, he at length arrived safely.—Mr.
Rowan subsequently resided some years in America,
in which country he had leisure for reflection,
and saw plainly the folly and mischief of his
former conduct. The government found that his
contrition was sincere: he eventually received
his Majesty’s free pardon; and I have since seen
him and his family at the Castle drawing-rooms
in dresses singularly splendid, where they were
well received by the Viceroy and by many of
the nobility and gentry: and people should consider
that his Majesty’s free pardon for political
offences is always meant to wipe away every injurious
feeling from his subjects’ recollection:—where
the error was unaccompanied by any
moral crime, it left no stigma whatever on private
character.
The mention of Mr. Rowan reminds me of an
anecdote of a singular nature, extremely affecting,
and which at the time was the subject of much
conversation: and as a connexion was alleged to
exist between him and the unfortunate gentleman
to whom it relates, (which connexion had nearly
proved fatal to Mr. Rowan,) I consider this not
an inappropriate place to allude to the circumstance.
Mr. Jackson, an English clergyman, who had
come over to assist in organising a revolution in
Ireland, had been arrested in that country, tried,
and found guilty of high treason in corresponding
with the enemy in France. I was in court when
Mr. Jackson was brought up to receive sentence
of death; and I believe whoever was present must
recollect it as one of the most touching and uncommon
scenes which appeared during that eventful
period.
He was conducted into the usual place where
prisoners stand to receive sentence. He was obviously
much affected as he entered; his limbs
seemed to totter, and large drops of perspiration
rolled down his face. He was supposed to fear
death, and to be in great terror. The judge began
the usual admonition before he pronounced sentence:
the prisoner seemed to regard it but little,
appearing abstracted by internal agony. This was
still attributed to apprehension: he covered his
face, and seemed sinking: the judge paused—the
crowd evinced surprise—and the sheriff, on examination,
declared the prisoner was too ill to hear
his sentence. Meanwhile, the wretched culprit
continued to droop: and at length, his limbs
giving way, he fell! A visitation so unexampled
created a great sensation in the court: a physician
was immediately summoned, but too late;
Jackson had eluded his sentence, and was no
more.
It was discovered that, previous to his coming
into Court, he had taken a large quantity of
arsenic and aqua-fortis mixed in tea. No judgment
of course was pronounced against him. He
had a splendid funeral: and, to the astonishment
of Dublin, it was thoughtlessly attended by some
members of parliament and barristers!
It is a singular but a true observation, that I was
always on friendly, nay intimate, terms with many
leading persons of the two most hostile and intolerant
political bodies that could possibly exist together
in one country; and in the midst of the most
tumultuous and bloody scenes, I did not find that I
had an enemy. It is nearly unaccountable, that my
attachment to the government, and my activity in
support of it, yet placed me in no danger from its
inveterate enemies:—and in several instances I
was sought as mediator between the rebels and
Lord Kilwarden (then attorney-general).[19] Now
he is no more, it is but justice to say, that of all
the law officers and official servants of the Crown
I ever had communication with, the most kind-hearted,
clement, and honourable, was he whose
manners and whose name conveyed a different
impression. I know that he had been solicited to
take some harsh measures as to the barristers who
attended Jackson’s funeral; and though he might
have been colourably justified in doing so, he said
“that both the honour of his profession and the
feelings of his own mind prevented him from giving
publicity to, or stamping as a crime, what he
was sure in its nature could only be inadvertency.”
19. He was at that time Mr. Wolfe. An information ex
officio had been filed against a printer in Cork for a seditious
newspaper: it turned out that the two Counsellors Sheers were
the real editors. They begged of me to mediate with the attorney-general.
He had always a strong feeling for the honour
and character of his profession, and forgave all parties, on
conditions which I all but vouched for, but to which they certainly
did not adhere.
SELF-DECAPITATION.
An Irish peasant cutting his own head off by mistake—His reputed ghost—Humours of an Irish Wake—Natural deaths of the Irish peasantry—Reflections on the Excise laws.
Among my memorandums of singular incidents,
I find one which even now affords me as much
amusement as such a circumstance can possibly
admit of: and as it is, at the same time, highly
characteristic of the people among whom it occurred,
in that view I relate it. A man decapitating
himself by mistake is indeed a blunder of true
Hibernian character.[20]
20. This anecdote has been termed “fabulous” by some of the
sapient periodical critics, and a “bounce” by others. “’Tis
quite impossible,” say the scribblers, “for any man to cut his
own head off.” This no doubt singular decapitation, however,
happens to be a well known and comparatively recent fact;
and if either of the aforesaid sceptics will be so obliging as to
try the same species of guillotine that Ned did at the Barrow
water, he may, with the greatest facility, get rid of, probably,
the thickest and heaviest article belonging to him.
The Emperor of Morocco, it is said, to convince his subjects
what an easy matter decapitation was, and what an uncertain
tenure a head has in his dominions, used to cut off the head of a
jack-ass every morning with one back stroke of his sabre.
Should his copper-coloured Majesty honour England with his
august presence, to be feasted, fire-worked, and subsidised like
Don Miguel the First, what noble practice at decapitation, in
the absence of his jack-asses, he might have in London among
the periodical scribblers—without doing much injury to the animals
themselves, and none at all either to the “Société des
lettres,” or what is called in England the “discerning public.”
I think it was in or about the year 1796, a
labourer dwelling near the town of Athy, County
Kildare (where my mother then resided), was walking
with his comrade up the banks of the Barrow
to the farm of a Mr. Richardson, on whose meadows
they were employed to mow; each, in the
usual Irish way, having his scythe loosely wagging
over his shoulder. Lazily lounging close to the
bank of the river, they espied a salmon partly hid
under the bank. It is the nature of this fish that,
when his head is concealed, he fancies no one can
see his tail (there are many wise-acres in the
world, besides the salmon, of the same way of
thinking). On the present occasion the body of
the fish was visible.
“Oh! Ned—Ned, dear!” said one of the
mowers, “look at that big fellow there: it is a
pity we ha’nt no spear, now, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Ned, “we could be after piking
the lad with the scythe-handle.”
“True for you!” said Dennis: “the spike of
yeer handle is longer nor mine; give the fellow a
dig with it at any rate.”
“Ay, will I,” returned the other: “I’ll give
the lad a prod he’ll never forget any how.”
The spike and their sport was all they thought
of: but the blade of the scythe, which hung over
Ned’s shoulders, never came into the contemplation
of either of them. Ned cautiously looked over
the bank; the unconscious salmon lay snug, little
imagining the conspiracy that had been formed
against his tail.
“Now hit the lad smart!” said Dennis: “there,
now—there! rise your fist: now you have the
boy! now, Ned—success!—success!”
Ned struck at the salmon with all his might and
main, and that was not trifling. But whether
“the boy” was piked or not never appeared; for
poor Ned, bending his neck as he struck at the
salmon, placed the vertebræ in the most convenient
position for unfurnishing his shoulders;
and his head came tumbling splash into the Barrow,
to the utter astonishment of his comrade, who
could not conceive how it could drop off so suddenly.
But the next minute he had the consolation
of seeing the head attended by one of his
own ears, which had been most dexterously sliced
off by the same blow which beheaded his comrade.
The head and ear rolled down the river in company,
and were picked up with extreme horror at
a mill-dam, near Mr. Richardson’s, by one of the
miller’s men.
“Who the devil does this head belong to?” exclaimed
the miller.—“Oh Christ—!”
“Whoever owned it,” said the man, “had three
ears, at any rate, though they don’t match.”
A search being now made, Ned’s headless body
was discovered lying half over the bank, and Dennis
in a swoon, through fright and loss of blood,
was found recumbent by its side. The latter,
when brought to himself, (which process was
effected by whisky,) recited the whole adventure.
The body was attended to the grave by a numerous
assemblage of Ned’s countrymen; and the custom
of carrying scythes carelessly very much declined.
Many accidents had happened before from that
cause, and the priest very judiciously told his
flock, after the de profundis, that Ned’s misfortune
was a “devil’s judgment” for his negligence, whereby
he had hurt a child a day or two before.
From that time none of the country-people
would on any occasion go after dark to the spot
where the catastrophe happened, as they say the
doctor stole the head to natomise it; which fact
was confirmed by a man without any head being
frequently seen by the women and children who
were occasionally led to pass the moat of Ascole,
not three miles from Athy, in the night-time; and
they really believed the apparition to be no other
than the ghost of poor Ned Maher looking every
where for his head that the doctor had made away
with.[21]
21. This is only mentioned as indicative of the singular flow of
ideas of the Irish peasantry. The most serious and solemn events
are frequently converted by them into sources of humour and of
comic expression that altogether banish any thing under the
head of gravity.
The lower orders are never half so happy as at a wake—when
they can procure candles, punch, a piper, and tobacco, to
enable them to sit and smoke round a human corpse! No
matter what death it suffered, or disorder it died of (except
indeed the bite of a mad dog). Their hilarity knows no limits;
their humorous phrases and remarks flow in a constant stream
of quaint wit and pointed repartee, but not in the style or tone
of any other people existing. The wake is also their usual place
of match-making; and the marriages or misfortunes of the
ladies are generally decided on “going home from the wake.”
The cheerfulness of the wake, however, is intermitting:—every
hour or two the most melancholy howling that human voices
could raise is set up by the keeners, and continued long enough
to give the recurrence to mirth and fun increased excitement.
These keeners, or mourners, are a set of old women, who practise
for general use the most lachrymose notes, high and low, it
is possible to conceive—which they turn into a sort of song
(without words), at one time sinking into the deepest and
most plaintive strains, then, on a sudden, raised into a howl,
loud, frightful, and continued nearly to a shriek; and then in
long notes descending in a tone of almost supernatural cadence.
They say that this is mimicking wicked souls “undergoing
their punishment in purgatory,” and is used as a defiance to the
devil, and to show him that the corpse they are waking does
not care a “mass for him.” But then, they never trust the
corpse to be left alone, because it could make no resistance to
Belzebub if he came for it; and a priest always remains in the
room to guard the body, if the keeners should happen to go
away.
If you ask a country fellow how he can be so merry over a
“dead man”—
“Ough! plase your honour,” he will probably reply, “why
shouldn’t we be merry when there’s a good corpse to the fore?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mane is it?—fy, sure enough, your honour, Father Corcoran
says (and the devil so good a guess in the town-land) that
after the month’s mind is over, Tom Dempsey, the corpse, will
be happier nor any of us.—Ough! your honour! hell to the rap
of tythe-cess or hearth-money, he’ll have to pay proctor nor parson!—There’s
many a boy in the parish, plase your honour,
would not object to be Tom Dempsey, the corpse, fresh and
fasting, this blessed morning!”
If you begin to reason with him, he will perhaps say—“Why,
plase your honour, sure it’s only his corpse that’s
corpsed;—after the masses he’ll be out of pain, and better off
nor any gentleman in this same county, except our own landlord,
God bless him up or down!”
If you seem to think the defunct’s family will be unhappy in
consequence of his death—
“Oh, plase your honour! Tom was a good frind, sure
enough, and whilst there’s a shovel and sack in the neighbourhood
his family won’t be let to want nothing any how.”
“But his poor wife?”
“Ough! then it’s she that’s sorry for poor Tom, your honour!
Whilst the keeners were washing and stretching the corpse, and
she crying her eyes out of her head—oh, the cratur!—Father
Corcoran whispered all as one as a mass, and plenty of comfort
into Mrs. Dempsey’s own ear, cheek by jowl, and by my sowl
the devil a drop of a tear came out of her afterward, plase
your honour!”
What is termed the Irish cry, is keening on an extensive
scale, and is perhaps the most terrific yell ever yet practised in
any country.
It is used in processions on the roads, as the people are carrying
a dead body to its place of interment—and occasionally, on
any great misfortune where the lamentation should be general.
If there are twenty thousand persons in a procession, they all
set up the same cry as the keeners, but a hundred times more
horrid and appalling. It may be heard many miles from the
spot.
One mode formerly of raising the people in the least possible
time, was the carrying a coffin under pretence of a burial.
The procession, which sets out probably with only a dozen persons,
amounts in the course of an hour to some twenty thousand.
When once the yell is set up, every person within hearing is expected
immediately to join the corpse by the shortest road—scampering
across fields, ditches, &c.; so that, as the numbers
increase, the roar becomes more tremendous, and answers better
than a hundred bells in bringing a population together.
It is usual for every man, woman, and child to pick up a
stone or two, as they go along, and throw them into a heap,
which tradition sometimes marks out as the site of some remarkable
battle, murder, &c.
The above plan was occasionally resorted to by the insurgents
in the year 1798; and there can be no doubt, if they all
set out with processions at one hour of any given day, that it
would be a tremendous species of muster for such a people as
the Irish, who are as little known or understood by the generality
of the English, as the Cossacks.
This cry certainly is not calculated to excite so great a variety
of passions as Mr. Dryden attributes to the music at Alexander’s
Feast. But I will venture to assert, that if his Macedonian
Majesty had been ever so tipsy, and thoroughly bent upon ever
so much mischief, one sudden, thundering burst of the Irish
cry in his banqueting-room would have quickly brought Alexander
and all his revellers to their senses—rendered their heels
as light as their heads—and Miss Thais would have been left
by her lover to the protection of Captain Rock and his merry
men.
I believe the very best of our composers would find it rather
difficult to set the Irish cry to music—though by the new light,
every noise whatsoever must be a note or half a note; and it
is reported that Mr. Moore and Sir John Stephenson used
their joint and several efforts to turn this national cry into melody,
but without success. I cannot see why such able persons
should fail on so interesting a composition. There are plenty of
notes in it whole and half, sharp, flat, and natural;—sufficient to
compose any piece of music. It is only therefore to select the
best among them scientifically; put an “andante affettuoso”
in front; then send it to a barrel organ-builder;—and no doubt
it would grind out to the entire satisfaction of the whole Irish
population.
This leads me to a digression more important.
The superstition of the lower orders of Irish, when
death occurs in any peculiar manner, is superlative.
In truth, the only three kinds of death they
consider as natural are, dying quietly in their own
cabins;—being hanged, about the assize-time;—or
starving when the potato crop is deficient. All
these they regard as matters of course; but any
other species of dissolution is contemplated with
much horror; though, to be sure, they make no
very strong objection to being shot at by a regular
army. They say their “fathers and forefathers
before them were always used to that same;” and
all they expect in such case is, that there should be
some sort of reason for it, which they themselves
frequently furnish. But those manslaughters
which occur through the activity of the revenue-officers
in prevention of distillation, they never can
reconcile themselves to, and never forgive. They
cannot understand the reason for this at all, and
treasure up a spirit of savage revenge to the last
day of their lives against excisemen.[22]
An ignorant poor cottager says to his landlord,
naturally enough, “Ough! then isn’t it mighty
odd, plase your honour, that we are not hindered
from eating oats, whenever we can get any? but if
we attempt to drink them, by J——s, we are kilt
and battered and shot and burned out like a
parcel of dogs by the excisemen, that’s twice greater
rogues nor we are, plase your honour.”
In truth it is to be lamented that this distinction
between solids and fluids should not be better
reconciled to the common sense of the peasantry,
or be somehow regulated so as to prevent perpetual
resort to that erroneous system of mountain warfare
and revenue bloodshed, which ever has kept,
and ever will keep, whole districts of Ireland in a
state of excitement and distraction. I know that
I speak the sentiments of some of his Majesty’s
enlightened Ministers on this subject.
22. To the imperfection of the excise laws, and the totally
erroneous system of licensing public houses, (as to numbers,
qualifications, and police regulations respecting them,) is greatly
to be attributed the increase of crime of late years.
An unconnected and independent board, for the exclusive
purpose of granting licenses and registering complaints; convenient
and responsible country branches, and monthly reports,
would tend much to produce sobriety, and check those drunken
conspiracies, the common sources of robbery and murder. Punishment
rather than prevention is the greatest error a police can
fall into.
FATHER O’LEARY.
Humorous story of Father O’Leary and a bear—Mistaken notions respecting Ireland on the Continent—Lord Ventry and his tenant: an anecdote characteristic of the Irish peasant.
I frequently had an opportunity of meeting at
my father-in-law’s, Mr. Grogan’s, where he often
dined, a worthy and celebrated priest, Father
O’Leary;—and have listened with great zest to
anecdotes which he used to tell with a quaint yet
spirited humour quite unique. His manner, his
air, his countenance, all bespoke wit, talent, and
a good heart. I liked his company excessively,
and have often regretted I did not cultivate his
acquaintance more, or recollect his witticisms
better: but I was then young, not a public person,
and somewhat out of his line in society. It was
singular, but it was fact, that even before Father
O’Leary opened his lips, a stranger would say,
“That is an Irishman,” and at the same time guess
him to be a priest.
One anecdote, in particular, I remember his
relating with singular animation. Coming from
St. Omer, he told us, he stopped a few days to
visit a brother priest in the town of Boulogne sur
Mer (who lives there still). Here he heard of a
great curiosity which all the people were running
to see,—a curious bear that some fishermen had
taken at sea out of a wreck; it had sense, and
attempted to utter a sort of lingo which they
called patois marine, but which nobody understood.
O’Leary gave his six sous to see the wonder,
which was shown at the port by candle-light, and
was a very odd kind of animal, no doubt. The
bear had been taught a hundred tricks, all to be
performed at the keeper’s word of command.
It was late in the evening when O’Leary saw him,
and the bear seemed sulky: the keeper, however,
with a short spike at the end of a pole, made him
move about briskly. He marked on sand what
o’clock it was with his paw, and distinguished the
men and women in a very comical way; in fact,
our priest was quite diverted. The beast at length
grew tired; the keeper hit him with the pole; he
stirred a little, but continued quite sullen: his
master coaxed him—no! he would not work! At
length, the brute of a keeper gave him two or
three sharp pricks with the goad, when he roared
out most tremendously, and rising on his hind
legs, cursed his tormentor in very good Irish.
O’Leary went immediately to the mayor, whom he
informed that the blackguards of fishermen had
sewed up a poor Irishman in a bear-skin, and were
showing him for six sous! This civic dignitary,
who had himself seen the bear, would not believe
it: at last O’Leary prevailed on him to accompany
him to the room. On their arrival the bear was
still upon duty; and O’Leary, stepping up to him,
says, “Gand e tha hawn, Pat?” (How do you do,
Pat?)—“Slonger a mahugouthe,” (Pretty well,
thank’ee,) says the bear. The people were surprised
to hear how plainly he spoke: but the
mayor directly ordered him to be ripped up; and
after some opposition and a good deal of difficulty,
Pat stepped forth (stark naked) out of the bear-skin
wherein he had been fourteen or fifteen days
most cleverly stitched. The women made off; the
men stood astonished; and the mayor ordered the
keepers to be put in gaol unless they satisfied the
bear and the authorities, which was presently done.
The bear afterward told O’Leary that he was very
well fed, and did not care much about the clothing,
only they worked him too hard. The fishermen
had found him at sea on a hen-coop, which had
saved him from going to the bottom with a ship
wherein he had a little venture of dried cod from
Dungarvon, and which was bound from Waterford
to Bilboa. He could not speak a word of any
language but Irish, and had never been at sea
before. The fishermen had brought him in, fed
him well, and endeavoured to repay themselves
by showing him as a curiosity.
O’Leary’s mode of telling this story was quite
admirable. I never heard any anecdote (and I
believe this one to have been true) related with so
much genuine drollery, which was enhanced by
his not changing a muscle himself, while every one
of his hearers was in a paroxysm of laughter.
Another anecdote he used to give, though dry
enough in itself, with incomparable dramatic humour.
By-the-bye, all his stories were in some
way national; and this affords me occasion to remark,
that I think Ireland is at this moment nearly
as little known on many parts of the continent as
it seems to have been then. I have myself heard
it more than once spoken of in Brittany as an
English town.
At Nancy, where Father O’Leary, as he told us,
was travelling, his native country happened to be
mentioned; when one of the société, a quiet French
farmer of Burgundy, asked in an unassuming tone,
“If Ireland stood encore?”—“Encore!” said an
astonished John Bull, a courier coming from Germany,
“encore! to be sure she does: we have her
yet, I assure you, Monsieur.”—“Though neither
very safe nor very sound,” interposed an officer of
the Irish brigade, who happened to be present,
looking over significantly at O’Leary, and not very
complacently at the courier.—“And pray, Monsieur,”
rejoined the John Bull to the Frenchman,
“why encore?”—“Pardon, Monsieur,” replied the
Frenchman, “I heard it had been worn out,
(fatigué) long ago by the great number of people
that were living in it!”
The fact was (I believe it not at all exaggerated),
the Frenchman had been told, and really understood,
that Ireland was a large house where the
English were wont to send their idle vagabonds,
and from whence they were drawn out again as
they were wanted to fill the ships and army:—and
(I speak this from my own personal knowledge,)
in some interior parts of the continent the
existence of Ireland, as a kingdom, is totally unknown;
it is at best considered as about a match
for Jersey, or some other little island. On the
sea-coasts they are better informed. This need
not surprise us, when we have heard of a native of
St. Helena formerly, (who never had been out of
the island,) who seriously asked an English officer
“If there were many landing-places in England?”
This may be a standing jest, but it is highly illustrative.
Some ideas of the common Irish are so strange,
and uttered so unconsciously, that in the mouths
of any other people they might be justly considered
profane. In those of my countrymen, however,
such expressions are idiomatic, and certainly
spoken without the least idea of profanity.
The last Lord Ventry was considered, before his
father’s death, the oldest heir-apparent in the
Irish Peerage, to which his father (originally low
enough) had been raised in 1800, in consequence of
an arrangement made with Lord Castlereagh at the
time of the Union. He had for many years been
bed-ridden, and had advanced to a very great age
latterly without any corresponding utility: yet
little apprehensions were entertained of his speedy
dissolution, and the family were in despair.
A tenant on the estate, the stability of whose
lease depended entirely on the son surviving the
father, and who was beginning to doubt which of
them might die of old age first, said seriously to
the heir-apparent, but without the slightest idea
of any sort of impropriety either as respected God
or man—
“Ah, then, Master Squire Mullins, isn’t it mighty
strange that my poor ould landlord (Heaven preserve
his noble Lordship!) shou’d lie covered up
in the bed all this time past?—I think, plase
your honour, that it would be well done to take
his Lordship (Lord bless his honour!) up to Crow-Patrick,
and hold him up there as high as could
be—just to show his Lordship a bit to the Virgin.
For I’m sure and sartin, plase your honour, if
God Almighty hadn’t quite forgot his Lordship, he
would have taken him home to himself long and
many a day ago.”
The relation of this anecdote appears to have
been ominous, as my Lord the son was also carried
off to his forefathers (if he could find them) a
few months after the first edition of this work was
published.
The eccentric traits of the genuine Irish character
are certainly wearing fast away; and if
some contemporary of by-gone persons and customs
did not take the trouble of recording those traits,
they would be considered (if related in future
times) as ridiculous fabrications.
DEATH OF LORD ROSSMORE.
Strictures on Dr. Johnson—His biographer, Boswell—False definitions and erroneous ethics—Superstition—Supernatural appearances—Theological argument of the author in favour of his peculiar faith—Original poetry by Miss T * * *—The author purchases Lady Mayo’s demesne, County Wicklow—Terrific and cultivated scenery contrasted—Description of the Golden Belt of Ireland and the beauties of the above-mentioned county—Lord Rossmore—His character—Supernatural incident of a most extraordinary nature, vouched by living witnesses, and attendant on the sudden death of his Lordship.
It is not pleasant to differ essentially from the
general opinions of the world, and nothing but a
firm belief that we are right can bear us up in so
doing. I feel my own fallibility poignantly, when
I venture to remark upon the celebrated personage
yclept “the great moralist of England.”
To criticise the labours of that giant of literature
I am unequal: to detract from his ethics is not my
object. But it surely savours not of treason to
avow that parts of his Lexicon I condemn, and
much of his philosophy I dissent from.
It is fortunate for the sake of truth that Boswell
became Johnson’s biographer; for, as the idolaters
of China devoutly attach a full proportion of bad
qualities to the object of their adoration, so in like
manner has “Bozzy” shown no want of candour
as to the Doctor’s failings; and if he had reflected
on the unkind constructions of this wicked world,
his eulogiums would probably have been rendered
less fulsome, and his biography yet more correct.—It
could not be more entertaining.
The English language had been advancing gradually
in its own jog-trot way from the days of
Bayley to those of Johnson: it travelled over a
plain smooth surface and on a gentle ascent.
Every body formerly appeared to understand each
other tolerably well: words were then very intelligible,
and women, in general, found no difficulty
in pronouncing them. But the great lexicographer
soon convinced the British people (the Irish
are out of the question) that they had been reading,
writing, and spouting in a starved, contracted
tongue, and that the magnificent dapimibominus’s
of the Grecian language were ready in polysyllables
to relieve that wretched poverty under which
ours had so long languished.
This noble revolution in letters has made a progress
so rapid, that I found in one essay of a Magazine,
a few months ago, no fewer than twenty
words which required me to make as many references
to our great Lexicon.
Nobody can deny the miraculous labour which
that work must have required: yet now, when
enthusiasm has somewhat abated, and no danger
exists of being clapper-clawed by the Doctor himself,
some ungrateful English grammarians have
presumed to assert that, under the gaberdine of so
great an authority, any body is lawfully entitled
to coin any English word he chooses out of any
foreign language he thinks proper; and that we
may thus tune up our vocabulary to the key of a
lingua franca, an assemblage of all tongues, sounds,
and idioms, dead or living. It has also been asserted,
since his decease, that the Doctor’s logic
is frequently false both in premises and conclusion,
his ethics erroneous, his philosophy often unintelligible,
and his diction generally bombastic.
However, there are so many able and idle gentlemen
of law, physic, and divinity, amply educated,
with pens stuck behind their ears ready for action,
who are much better skilled in the art and practice
of criticism than I am, that I shall content myself
with commenting on one solitary word out of forty
thousand, which word not only bears strongly on
my own tenets and faith, but also affects one of the
most extraordinary occurrences of my life.
This comprehensive and important word, (which
has upon occasion puzzled me more than any other
in the English language,) is “superstition:”—whereof
one of the definitions given by the Doctor,
in his Lexicon, appears to be rather inconsiderate,
namely,—“religion without morality.”—Now, I
freely and fully admit that I am superstitious, yet
I think it is rather severe and somewhat singular
in the Doctor to admit my religion and extinguish
my morality, which I always considered as marching
hand in hand—or, in truth, I thought the latter
should go foremost.
When Dr. Johnson began to learn his own ideas
of morality does not appear (certainly not from
his friend Savage):—I suppose not until he got an
honorary degree from the pedants of Oxford.
Collegiate degrees in general, however, work no
great reformation, I am inclined to believe, in morality;
at least I am certain that when I became
a Doctor of Laws I did not feel my morals in the
least improved by my diploma. I wish the candid
Boswell had mentioned the precise epocha of
the Doctor’s reformation (for he admits him to
have been a little wild in his youth); and then we
might have judged under what state of mind he
gave the strange definition of “religion without morality.”
For myself, I consider faith, grounded on the
phenomena of Nature, not the faith of sectarianism
or fanaticism, as the true source and foundation
of morality;—and morality as the true
source and foundation of religion.
No human demonstration can cope with that
presented by the face of Nature. What proof so
infallible as that the sun produces light and heat
and vegetation?[23]—that the tides ebb and flow—that
the thunder rolls—that the lightning flashes—that
the planets shine?[24] Who can gaze on the
vast orb of day without feeling that it is the visible
demonstration of a superior Being, convincing our
reason and our senses, and even the scanty reason
of illiterate savages?
23. The following lines are by Miss M. Tylden, the young
poetess whom I have before mentioned, and shall again allude
to more fully. In my humble opinion, there are not fourteen
consecutive lines in the English language superior in true sublimity
both of thought and language:
The sun is in the empire of his light,
Throned in the mighty solitude of heaven:
He seems the visible Omnipotent
Dwelling in glory:—his high sanctuary
Do the eyes worship, and, thereon as if
Impiety to gaze, the senses reel,
Drunk with the spirit of his deep refulgence.
Circle of glory!—Diadem of heaven!
Cast in the mould of bright eternity,
And bodying forth the attributes of Him
Who made thee of this visible world supreme;
And thou becamest a wonder and a praise,—
A worship—yea, a pure idolatry!
The image of the glories of our God.
I look upon the personification of God to be the excess of
blasphemy.
24. The reader may deem it curious to compare the two following
stanzas—the first graced with the great name of Mr. Addison;
the second the performance of my accomplished young
friend, and extracted from her common-place book, without any
opportunity given for revision.—She is ignorant that I have
published a line of hers.
ON THE PLANETS.
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens—a shining frame!
Their great Original proclaim.
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing, as they shine,
“The hand that made us is divine!”
Addison.
ON THE PLANETS.
Ye living fires in yon eternal dome,—
Ye lamps, whose light is immortality,—
Hung forth in mercy from our Father’s house,
As beacon-lights to guide us to our God!
Ye are ordain’d man’s faithful monitors,
Gazing like heavenly eyes upon our deeds,
Till guilt is awed, and shrinks beneath your glance.
Ye bright and visible rewards! held forth
From God’s high sanctuary, to work in us
A pure ambition for eternal things,
And glories which our spirit heaves to grasp!
M. Tylden.
It is foreign from the intention of this work to
dilate on theoretical subjects of any kind: suffice
it to say, that the following are simply my own
sentiments, which I must be permitted to retain,
and which indeed nothing on this side the grave
can shake.
The omnipotence of the Deity in our creation
and destruction—in the union and separation of
our bodies and souls—and in rendering the latter
responsible for the acts of the former,—no Christian
denies: and if the Deity be thus omnipotent
in forming, destroying, uniting, separating, and
judging, he must be equally omnipotent in reproducing
that spirit and that form which he originally
created, and which remain subject to his will, and
always in his power.
It follows, therefore, that the Omnipotent Creator
may at will reproduce that spirit which he
reserves for future judgment, or the semblance of
that body which he created, and which once contained
the undecaying soul. The smallest atom
which floats in the sunbeam cannot (as every
body knows), from the nature of matter, be actually
annihilated: death consequently only decomposes
the materials whereof our bodies are formed, and
the indestructible atoms remain susceptible of recombination.
The Christian tenets maintain that
the soul and body must appear for judgment, and
why not before judgment,—if so willed by the
Almighty? The main argument which I have
heard against such appearances tends nearly as
much to mislead, as a general disbelief or denial
of Omnipotence—namely, that though this power
may exist in the Deity, he never would permit such
spectacles on the earth, to terrify the timorous,
and give occasion to paltering with the credulity
of his creatures.
It is truly surprising how rational and pious
men can resort to the reasoning of infidels. When
we admit the Omnipotence, we are bound likewise
to admit the Omniscience of the Deity; and presumptuous
indeed must that man be who overlooks
the contractedness of his own intellectual
vision, or asserts that, because he cannot see a
reason for a supernatural interference, none therefore
can exist in the eye of the Supreme.
The objects of God are inscrutable: an appearance
of the departed upon earth may have consequences
which none—not even those who are affected
by it,—can either discover or suppose.[25] Can any
human wisdom presume to divine—why man was
originally created at all? why one man is cut
short in high-blooming health and youth, and
another lingers long in age and decrepitude? why
the best of men are frequently the most unfortunate,
and the greatest villains the most prosperous?
why the heinous criminal escapes in triumph, and
the innocent being is destroyed by torture? And
is the production of a supernatural appearance,
for the inscrutable purposes of God, more extraordinary,
or less credible, than these other ordinations
of the Deity, or than all those unaccountable
phenomena of nature, which are only, as the rising
and setting sun, disregarded by common minds
from the frequency of their occurrence?
25. Nothing in print places my theory in so distinct, clear, and
pleasing a point of view as Parnell’s Hermit,—a strong, moral,
and impressive tale,—beautiful in poetry, and abounding in
instruction. There the Omniscience of God is exemplified by
human incidents, and the mysterious causes of his actions
brought home to the commonest capacity. The moral of that
short and simple tale says more than a hundred volumes of
dogmatic controversies!—The following couplets appear to me
extremely impressive:—
The Maker justly claims that world he made:
In this the right of Providence is laid:
Its sacred majesty, through all, depends
On using second means to work its ends.
What strange events can strike with more surprise
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just;
And where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust.
This is a subject whereon I feel, and always
have felt, strongly and seriously; and hence it is
that I have been led into so long an exordium. I
regard the belief in supernatural apparitions as
inseparable from my Christian faith and my view
of Divine Omnipotence; and however good and
learned individuals may impugn my reasoning, I
have the consolation of knowing that the bench of
bishops, the Pope, the very best and wisest Doctors
in Divinity and Masters of Arts; in fact, all
the collegians and scholars in the universe, can
possibly have no better or truer information upon
the subject than myself; that I am as much in
my senses as any of them; and that the Deity
has made no sort of distinction between the intellectual
capacity of a bishop and a judge; the
secrets of Heaven being divulged to neither. The
judge does justice to other people, and the bishop
does justice to himself; but both are equally ignorant
of the mysteries of futurity, and must alike
wait until they pass the dim boundary of this
world before they can gain any practical information
as to the next. When a military captain is
ordained a clergyman, (as is somewhat the fashion
during the peace establishment,) does he become
one atom wiser or more knowing as to futurity
than when he was in the army?—probably, on the
other hand, he thinks much less about the matter
than when standing upon the field of battle.
I would not have the reader imagine that I
should be found ready to receive any idle ghost
story which might be told me.—So far contrary,
I have always been of opinion that no incident or
appearance, (and I have expressed as much before
in this work,) however strange, should be considered
as supernatural which could in any way
be otherwise accounted for, or referred to natural
or human agency.
I will proceed at once to the little narrative thus
importantly prefaced. The circumstances will, I
think, be admitted as of an extraordinary nature:
they were not connected with the workings of
imagination; depended not on the fancy of a
single individual: the occurrence was, altogether,
both in its character and in its possible application,
far beyond the speculations of man. But let me
endeavour to soften and prepare my mind for the
strange recital by some more pleasing recollections
connected with the principal subject of it.
Immediately after the rebellion of 1798, the
Countess Dowager of Mayo discovered a man concealed
under her bed, and was so terrified that
she instantly fled from her country residence in
the most beautiful part of County Wicklow: she
departed for Dublin, whence she immediately
sailed for England, and never after returned. Her
ladyship directed her agent, Mr. Davis, immediately
to dispose of her residence, demesne, and
every thing within the house and on the grounds,
for whatever they might bring. All property in
the disturbed districts being then of small comparative
value, and there having been a battle fought
at Mount Kennedy, near her house, a short time
previous, I purchased the whole estate, as it
stood, at a very moderate price, and on the ensuing
day was put into possession of my new mansion.
I found a house not large, but very neat
and in good order, with a considerable quantity of
furniture, some excellent wines, &c. and the lands
in full produce. The demesne was not extensive,
but delightfully situated in a district which, I
believe, for the union of rural beauties and mild
uniformity of climate, few spots can excel.
I have already disclaimed all pretensions, as a
writer, to the power of scenic description or imaginary
landscape—though no person existing is
more gratified than myself with the contemplation
of splendid scenery. In saying this, however, I
do not mean that savage sublimity of landscape—that
majestic assemblage of stupendous mountain
and roaring cataract—of colossal rocks and innumerable
precipices—where Nature appears to
designate to the bear and the eagle, to the boar
or chamois—those trackless wilds which she originally
created for their peculiar accommodation.
To the enthusiastic sketcher and the high-wrought
tourist I yield an exclusive right to those interesting
regions, which are far too sublime for my
ordinary pencil. I prefer that luxurious scenery
where the art and industry of man go hand in
hand with the embellishments of Nature, where
beauty is unaccompanied by danger,—sublimity
has no horrors; and Providence, smiling, combines
her blessings with her beauties.
Were I asked to exemplify my ideas of rural,
animated, cheering landscape, I should say—“My
friend, travel!—visit that narrow region which we
call the Golden Belt of Ireland;[26] explore every
mile from the metropolis to the ‘meeting of the
waters:’ journey which side you please, you will
find the native myrtle and indigenous arbutus
glowing throughout the severest winter, and forming
the cottage fences, together with the waving
cypress and the sweet acacia.”
26. That lovely district extends about thirty miles in length,
and from four to seven in breadth: it commences near Dublin,
and ends at a short distance beyond Avondale: the soil is generally
a warm gravel, with verdant valleys, bounded by mountains
arable to their summits on one side, and by the sea upon
the other. The gold mine is on a frontier of this district; and
it is perhaps the most congenial to the growth of trees and
shrubs of any spot in the British dominions.
The scenery of Wicklow is doubtless on a minor
scale, quite unable to compete with the grandeur
and immensity of continental landscape; even to
our own Killarney it is not comparable; but it
possesses a genial glowing luxury, a contrast and
a variety, whereof more elevated extensive scenery
is often destitute. It is small, but it is in the
world: its beauties seem alive. It blooms: it
blossoms: the mellow climate extracts from every
shrub a tribute of its fragrance; and the atmosphere,
saturated with the perfumes of nature,
creates that delicious medium through which refreshing
showers descend to brighten the hue and
revive the odour of the lively evergreen!
I frankly admit myself an enthusiast as to that
lovely district. In truth, I fear I should have
been enthusiastic on many points, had not law,
the most powerful antidote to all refined enthusiasm,
interposed to check its growth.
The site of my sylvan residence, Drummon,
was nearly in the centre of the Golden Belt, about
fifteen miles from the capital;—but owing to the
varied nature of the country, it appeared far more
distant. Bounded by the beautiful glen of the
Downs, at the foot of the magnificent Bellevue,
and the more distant sugar-loaf mountain of the
Dargle, Tynnehinch, (where is seated that cottage
celebrated for its unrivalled scenery, and honoured
by the residence of Ireland’s first patriot,) the
dark deep glen, the black lake, and mystic vale
and rocks of Luggelough, (that nursery of eagles
and of falcons,) contrasted quite magically with
the highly cultivated beauties of Drummon: (the
parks, and wilds, and sublime cascade of Powerscourt,
and the newly-created magnificence of
Mount Kennedy, abundantly prove that perfection
itself may exist in contrasts:) in fine, I found
myself enveloped by the hundred beauties of that
enchanting district, which, though of one family,
were rendered yet more attractive by the variety
of their features; and had I not been tied to laborious
duties, I should infallibly have sought
refuge there altogether from the cares of the
world.
One of the greatest pleasures I enjoyed whilst
resident at Drummon, was the near abode of the
late Lord Rossmore, at that time commander-in-chief
in Ireland. His lordship knew my father,
and, from my commencement in public life, had
been my friend, and a sincere one. He was a
Scotsman born, but had come to Ireland when
very young, as page to the lord lieutenant. He
had married an heiress; had purchased the estate
of Mount Kennedy; built a noble mansion; laid
out some of the finest gardens in Ireland; and, in
fact, improved the demesne, as far as taste, skill,
and money could accomplish. He was what may
be called a remarkably fine old man, quite the gentleman,
and when at Mount Kennedy quite the
country gentleman. He lived in a style few people
can attain to: his table, supplied by his own
farms, was adapted to the viceroy himself, yet was
ever spread for his neighbours: in a word, no man
ever kept a more even hand in society than Lord
Rossmore, and no man was ever better repaid by
universal esteem. Had his connexions possessed
his understanding, and practised his habits, they
would probably have found more friends when
they wanted them.
This intimacy at Mount Kennedy gave rise to
an occurrence the most extraordinary and inexplicable
of my whole existence—an occurrence
which for many years occupied my thoughts, and
wrought on my imagination. Lord Rossmore was
far advanced in years, but I never heard of his
having had a single day’s indisposition. He bore,
in his old age, the appearance of robust health.
During the viceroyalty of Earl Hardwick Lady
Barrington, at a drawing-room at Dublin Castle,
met Lord Rossmore. He had been making up
one of his weekly parties for Mount Kennedy, to
commence the next day, and had sent down orders
for every preparation to be made. The lord lieutenant
was to be of the company. Every second
week his house was filled by persons of the highest
circle, interspersed with neighbours.
“My little farmer,” said he to Lady Barrington,
addressing her by a pet name, “when you go
home, tell Sir Jonah that no business is to prevent
him from bringing you down to dine with me tomorrow.
I will have no ifs in the matter—so tell
him that come he must!” She promised positively,
and on her return informed me of her engagement,
to which I at once agreed. We retired to our
chamber about twelve; and towards two in the
morning, I was awakened by a sound of a very
extraordinary nature. I listened: it occurred first
at short intervals; it resembled neither a voice
nor an instrument; it was softer than any voice
and wilder than any music, and seemed to float in
the air. I don’t know wherefore, but my heart
beat forcibly: the sound became still more plaintive,
till it almost died away in the air; when a
sudden change, as if excited by a pang, changed
its tone: it seemed descending. I felt every nerve
tremble: it was not a natural sound, nor could I
make out the point whence it came.
At length I awakened Lady Barrington: she
heard it as well as myself, and suggested that
it might be an Eolian harp; but to that instrument
it bore no similitude: it was altogether a different
character of sound. She at first appeared less
affected than myself, but was subsequently more
so.
We now went to a large window in our bedroom
which looked directly upon a small garden
underneath: the sound, which first appeared descending,
seemed then obviously to ascend from
a grass-plot immediately below our window. It
continued: Lady Barrington requested that I
would call up her maid, which I did, and she was
evidently much more affected than either of us. The
sounds lasted for more than half an hour. At last a
deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to issue from
the spot, and was shortly succeeded by a sharp but
low cry, and by the distinct exclamation, thrice
repeated, of “Rossmore!—Rossmore!—Rossmore!”
I will not attempt to describe my own sensations;
indeed I cannot. The maid fled in terror from the
window, and it was with difficulty I prevailed on
Lady Barrington to return to bed: in about a
minute after the sound died gradually away, until
all was silent.
Lady Barrington, who is not superstitious, as
I am, attributed this circumstance to a hundred
different causes, and made me promise that I would
not mention it next day at Mount Kennedy, since
we should be thereby rendered laughing-stocks. At
length, wearied with speculations, we fell into a
sound slumber.
About seven the ensuing morning a strong rap
at my chamber-door awakened me. The recollection
of the past night’s adventure rushed instantly
upon my mind, and rendered me very unfit to be
taken suddenly on any subject. It was light: I
went to the door, when my faithful servant, Lawler,
exclaimed, on the other side, “Oh Lord, Sir!”—“What
is the matter?” said I hurriedly: “Oh,
Sir!” ejaculated he, “Lord Rossmore’s footman
was running past the door in great haste, and told
me in passing that my lord, after coming from
the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health, but
that about half-after two this morning, his own
man hearing a noise in his master’s bed (he slept
in the same room), went to him, and found him in
the agonies of death; and before he could alarm
the other servants, all was over!”
I conjecture nothing. I only relate the incident
as unequivocally matter of fact: Lord Rossmore
was absolutely dying at the moment I heard his
name pronounced! Let sceptics draw their own
conclusions: perhaps natural causes may be
assigned; but I am totally unequal to the discovery.
Atheism may ridicule me: Orthodoxy may despise
me: Bigotry may lecture me: Fanaticism
might burn me: yet in my very faith I would seek
consolation. It is in my mind better to believe
too much than too little, and that is the only theological
crime I can be fairly accused of.
MEMORANDA CRITICA.
Remarks on Lady Morgan’s novel of “The Wild Irish Girl,” &c.—Prince O’Sullivan at Killarney—Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent”—Memoir of Jonathan Clerk—“Florence Macarthy”—Comparison between Lady Morgan and Thomas Moore as writers—The author’s knowledge of both—“Captain Rock” condemned—The “Irish Melodies” by Moore—The harmonising of them by Sir John Stevenson injurious to the national music—Anecdote of Mr. Thomas Moore and Mrs. K * * * y.
It is remarkable that the various gradations of
habit and society in Ireland have been best illustrated
by two female authors,—the one of more
imaginative, the other of purer narrative powers;
but each, in her respective line, possessing very
considerable merit.
Though a fiction not free from some inaccuracies,
much inappropriate dialogue, and forced incident,
it is impossible to peruse “The Wild Irish
Girl” of Lady Morgan without deep interest, or to
dispute its claims as a production of true national
feeling as well as literary talent.
That tale was the first and is perhaps the best
of all her novel writings. Compared with others,
it strikingly exhibits the author’s falling off from
the simple touches of unsophisticated nature to the
less refined conceptions of what she herself styles
“fashionable society.”
To persons unacquainted with Ireland, “The
Wild Irish Girl” may appear an ordinary tale
of romance and fancy; but to such as understand
the ancient history of that people, it may be considered
as a legend. The authoress might perhaps
have had somewhat in view the last descendant
of the Irish princes, who did not altogether
forget the station of his forefathers.
O’Sullivan, lineally descended from the King
of the Lakes, not many years since vegetated on
a retired spot of his hereditary dominions at Killarney;
and, though overwhelmed by poverty and
deprivation, kept up in his mind a visionary dignity.
Surveying from his wretched cottage that
enchanting territory over which his ancestors had
reigned for centuries, I have been told he never
ceased to recollect his royal descent. He was a
man of gigantic stature and strength; of uncouth,
yet authoritative mien—not shaming his pretensions
by his presence. He was frequently visited
by those who went to view the celebrated lakes,
and I have conversed with many who have seen
him: but at a period when familiar intercourse
has been introduced between actual princes and
their subjects, tending undoubtedly to diminish in
the latter the sense of individual respect and distance,
so wholesome to royalty, the poor descendant
of the renowned O’Sullivan had no reason to
expect much commiseration from modern sensibility.
The frequent and strange revolutions of the
world within the last forty years, the radical alterations
in all the material habits of society,—announced
the commencement of a new era: and
the ascendancy of commerce over rank, and of
avarice over every thing, completed the regeneration.
But, above all, the loosening of those ties
which bound kindred and families, in one common
interest, to uphold their race and name;—the extinction
of that spirit of chivalry which sustained
those ties;—and the common prostitution of the
heraldic honours of antiquity;—have steeled the
human mind against the lofty and noble pretensions
of birth and rank; and while we superficially
decry the principles of equality, we are travelling
toward them, by the shortest and most
dangerous road degeneracy and meanness can
point out.
I confess myself to be a determined enemy to
the Utopian vision of political and social equality:
in the exercise of justice alone should the principle
of equality be paramount; in any other sense,
it never did, and never can, for any length of time,
exist in Europe.
Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent” and
“Fashionable Tales” are incomparable in truly
depicting several traits of the rather modern Irish
character: they are perhaps on one point a little
overcharged; but, in some parts, may be said to
exceed the generality of Lady Morgan’s Irish
novels. Fiction is less perceptible in them: they
have a greater air of reality—of what I have myself
often and often observed and noted in full
progress and actual execution throughout my
native country. Nothing is exaggerated: the
stories and names are coined, but the characters
and incidents are “from life.” The landlord, the
agent, and the attorney of “Castle Rackrent” (in
fact every person it describes) were neither
fictitious nor even uncommon characters: and the
changes of landed property in the county where
I was born (where perhaps they have prevailed
to the full as widely as in any other of the united
empire) owed, in nine cases out of ten, their origin,
progress, and catastrophe to circumstances in no
wise differing from those so accurately painted in
Miss Edgeworth’s narrative.
Though moderate fortunes have frequently and
fairly been realised by agents, yet, to be on the
sure side of comfort and security, a country
gentleman who wishes to send down his estate in
tolerably good order to his family should always
be his own receiver, and compromise any claim
rather than employ an attorney to arrange it.
I recollect to have seen in Queen’s County a
Mr. Clerk, who had been a working carpenter,
and when making a bench for the session justices
at the court-house, was laughed at for taking
peculiar pains in planing and smoothing the seat
of it. He smilingly observed, that he did so to
make it easy for himself, as he was resolved he
would never die till he had a right to sit thereupon:
and he kept his word:—he was an industrious
man, and became an agent; honest,
respectable, and kind-hearted, he succeeded in
all his efforts to accumulate an independence: he
did accumulate it, and uprightly: his character
kept pace with the increase of his property, and
he lived to sit as a magistrate on that very bench
that he sawed and planed.
I will not quit the subject without saying a
word about another of Lady Morgan’s works—“Florence
Macarthy,” which, “errors excepted,”
possesses an immensity of talent in the delineation
of the genuine Irish character. The judges,
though no one can mistake them, are totally caricatured;
but the Crawleys are superlative, and
suffice to bring before my vision, in their full
colouring, and almost without a variation, persons
and incidents whom and which I have many a
time encountered. Nothing is exaggerated as to
them; and Crawley himself is the perfect and
plain model of the combined agent, attorney, and
magistrate—a sort of mongrel functionary whose
existence I have repeatedly reprobated, and whom
I pronounce to be at this moment the greatest
nuisance and mischief experienced by my unfortunate
country, and only to be abated by the residence
of the great landlords on their estates.
No people under heaven could be so easily tranquillised
and governed as the Irish: but that
desirable end is alone attainable by the personal
endeavours of a liberal, humane, and resident
aristocracy.
A third writer on Ireland I allude to with more
pride on some points, and with less pleasure on
others; because, though dubbed “The bard of
Ireland,” I have not yet seen many literary productions
of his on national subjects that have
afforded me unalloyed gratification.
He must not be displeased with the observations
of perhaps a truer friend than those who have led
him to forget himself. His “Captain Rock”
(though, I doubt not, well intended), coming at
the time it did and under the sanction of his name,
is the most exceptionable publication, in all its
bearings as to Ireland, that I have yet seen.
Doctor Beattie says, in his Apology for Religion,
“if it does no good, it can do no harm:” but, on
the contrary, if “Captain Rock” does no harm,
it could certainly do no good.
Had it been addressed to, or calculated for, the
better orders, the book would have been less
noxious: but it is not calculated to instruct those
whose influence, example, or residence could
either amend or reform the abuses which the
author certainly exaggerates. It is not calculated
to remedy the great and true cause of Irish ruin—the
absenteeism of the great landed proprietors:
so much the reverse, it is directly adapted to increase
and confirm the real grievance, by scaring
every landlord who retains a sense of personal
danger, and I know none of them who are exempt
from abundance of it, from returning to a country
where “Captain Rock” is proclaimed by the “Bard
of Ireland” to be an Immortal Sovereign. The
work is, in fact, dangerous: it is an effusion of
party, not a remonstrance of patriotism. It is a
work better fitted for vulgar éclat than for rational
approbation. Its effects were not calculated on;
and it appears to me, in itself, to offer one of the
strongest arguments against bestowing on the
lower orders in Ireland the power of reading.
Could reading Captain Rock be of service to the
peasantry?
Perhaps I write warmly myself.[27] I write not
however for distracted cottagers, but for proprietors
and legislators; and I have endeavoured
honestly to express my unalterable conviction that
it is by encouraging, conciliating, reattaching, and
recalling the higher, and not by confusing and
inflaming the lower orders of society, that Ireland
can be eventually tranquillised.
Most undoubtedly Mr. Thomas Moore and Lady
Morgan are among the most distinguished modern
writers of our country: indeed, I know of none
(except Miss Edgeworth) who has at present a
right to be named with either.
But I can never repeat too often that I am not a
literary critic, although I choose to speak my
mind strongly and freely. I hope neither my
friend Moore nor her ladyship will be displeased
at my stating thus candidly my opinion of their
public merits: they would perhaps scout me as an
adulator were I to tell them what I thought of
their private ones. I dare say some of the periodical
writers will announce, that my telling the
world I am a very inefficient critic is mere work
of supererogation: at any rate, it must be owned
that making the confession in advance is to the
full as creditable as leaving the thing to be stated
for me.
In my rambling estimate of the merits of these
two justly celebrated authors, let me bear in mind
that they are of different sexes, and recollect the
peculiar attributes of either.
Both of them are alike unsparing in their use of
the bold language of liberty: but Lady Morgan
has improved her ideas of freedom by contrasts on
the European continent; while Thomas Moore has
not improved his by the exemplification of freedom
in America. Lady Morgan has succeeded in
adulterating her refinement; Thomas Moore has
unsuccessfully endeavoured to refine his grossness:
she has abundant talent; he has abundant genius;
and whatsoever distinction those terms admit of,
indicates, in my mind, their relative merit. This
allowance, however, must be made; that the lady
has contented herself with invoking only substantial
beings and things of this sublunary world,
while the gentleman has ransacked both heaven
and hell, and “the half-way house,” for figurative
assistance.
I knew them both before they had acquired any
celebrity and after they had attained to much. I
esteemed them then, and have reason equally to
esteem them now: it is on their own account that
I wish some portion of their compositions had
never appeared; and I really believe, upon due
consideration, they will themselves be of my way
of thinking. But let it be remembered, that my
esteem and friendship were never yet increased or
diminished by the success or non-success of any
body. Besides, while a man is necessitated to
read much law, he cannot read much literature;
and hence I scarcely saw the writings of either
until the general buzz called my attention to
them.
I recollect Moore being one night at my house
in Merrion Square, during the spring of his celebrity,
touching the piano-forte, in his own unique
way, to “Rosa,” his favourite amatory sonnet:
his head leant back;—now throwing up his ecstatic
eyes to heaven, as if to invoke refinement—then
casting them softly sideways, and breathing
out his chromatics to elevate, as the ladies said,
their souls above the world, but at the same
moment convincing them that they were completely
mortal.
A Mrs. K * * * y, a lady then d’âge mûr, but
moving in the best society of Ireland, sat on a
chair behind Moore: I watched her profile: her
lips quavered in unison with the piano; a sort of
amiable convulsion, now and then raising the upper
from the under lip, composed a smile less pleasing
than expressive; her eye softened, glazed,—and
half melting she whispered to herself the following
words, which I, standing at the back of her chair,
could not avoid hearing: “Dear, dear!” lisped
Mrs. K * * * y, “Moore, this is not for the good
of my soul!”
Almost involuntarily, I ejaculated in the same
low tone, “What is not, Mrs. K * * * y?”
“You know well enough!” she replied (but
without blushing, as people used to do formerly);
“how can you ask so silly a question?” and she
turned into the crowd, but never came near the
piano again that night.
I greatly admire the national, indeed patriotic
idea, of collecting and publishing the Irish Melodies,
so admirably acted on by Mr. T. Moore;
and it were to be wished that some of them had
the appearance of having been written more enthusiastically.[28]
Sir John Stevenson, that celebrated warbler,
has melodised a good many of these; but he certainly
has forgotten poor Carolan, and has also
melo-dramatised a considerable portion. I think
our rants and planxties would have answered just
as well without either symphonies or chromatics,
and that the plaintive national music of Ireland
does not reach the heart a moment the sooner for
passing through a crowd of scientific variations.
Tawdry and modern upholstery would not be very
appropriate to the ancient tower of an Irish chieftain;
and some of Sir John’s proceedings in melodising
simplicity, remind me of the Rev. Doctor
Hare, who whitewashed the great rock of Cashell
to give it a genteel appearance against the visitation.
As I do not attempt (I ought to say presume)
to be a literary, so am I still less a musical critic:
but I know what pleases myself, and in that species
of criticism I cannot be expected to yield to
any body.
As to my own authorship, I had business more
important than writing books in my early life: but
now, in my old days, it is my greatest amusement,
and nothing would give me more satisfaction than
hearing the free and fair remarks of the critics on
my productions.
28. I allude to the public trial as to copyright, by Mr. Power,
when it was stated that Mr. Moore wrote the Melodies for so
much a year. They are certainly very unequal.
I cannot omit one word more, in conclusion, as
to Lady Morgan. It is to me delightful to see a
woman, solely by the force of her own natural
talent, succeed triumphantly in the line of letters
she has adopted, and in despite of the most virulent,
illiberal, and unjust attacks ever yet made on
any author by mercenary reviewers.
MEMORANDA POETICA.
Poets and poetasters—Major Roche’s extraordinary poem on the battle of Waterloo—“Tears of the British Muse”—French climax of love—A man’s age discovered by his poetry—Evils of a motto—Amorous feelings of youth—Love verses of a boy; of a young man—“Loves of the Angels”—Dinner verses of an Oxonian—“The Highlander,” a poem—Extracts from the poetical manuscripts of Miss Tylden, &c.
There cannot be a juster aphorism than “Poeta
nascitur, non fit:” the paucity of those literary
productions which deserve the epithet of poetry,
compared with the thousand volumes of what
rhyming authors call poems, forms a conclusive
illustration.
A true poet lives for ever; a poetaster, just till a
new one relieves him in the circulating libraries,
or on toilets, being used in private families to
keep young ladies awake at night and put them to
sleep in the morning.
There may possibly be three degrees of excellence
in true poetry, but certainly no more. A
fourth-rate poet is, in my idea, a mere forger of
rhymes; a blacksmith of versification: yet if he
minds his prosody, and writes in a style either
“vastly interesting,” “immensely pathetic,” or
“delightfully luxurious,” he will probably find
readers among the fair sex from fifteen to forty-five:
the measure he adopts is of no sort of consequence,
so that it be tender.
Major Roche, an Irishman, who in 1815 printed
and published at Paris a full and true hexameter
account of the great battle of Waterloo, with his
own portrait emblazoned in the front, and the
Duke of Wellington’s in the rear, must certainly
be held to exceed in ingenuity all the poets and
poetasters, great and small, of the present generation.
The alphabetical printed list of subscribers to
Major Roche’s poem sets forth the name of every
emperor, king, prince, nobleman, general, minister,
and diplomatist—Russian, Prussian, Austrian,
German, Swedish, Danish, Dutch, English, Irish,
Scotch, Hanoverian, Don Cossack, &c. &c. Such
an imperial, royal, and every way magnificent list
was in fact never before, nor ever will be again,
appended to any poem, civil, political, military,
religious, or scientific: and as the major thought
very truly that a book so patronised and garnished
must be worth vastly more than any other poem
of the same dimensions, he stated that “a few
copies might still be procured at two guineas each.”
He succeeded admirably, and I believe got more
money at Paris than any one of the army did at
Waterloo, and I am glad of it.
His introduction of the Duke of Wellington in
battle was well worth the money:—he described
his grace as Mars on horseback (new!), riding helter-skelter,
and charging fiercely over every thing
in his headlong course; friends and foes, men,
women, and children, having no chance of remaining
perpendicular if they crossed his way; his
horse’s hoofs striking fire even out of the regimental
buttons of the dead bodies which he galloped
over! while swords, muskets, bayonets, helmets,
spears, and cuirasses, pounded down by his trampling
steed, formed as it were a turnpike-road,
whereupon his grace seemed to fly, in his endeavours
to catch Buonaparte.
I really think Major Roche’s idea of making
Lord Wellington Mars was a much better one than
that of making him Achilles, as the ladies have
done at Hyde-Park-Corner. Paris found out the
weak point of Achilles, and finished him: but
Mars is immortal; and though Diomed knocked
him down, neither his carcase nor character is a
jot the worse. Besides, though Achilles killed
Hector, it certainly was not Lord Wellington who
killed Buonaparte.
A remark of mine which, though of no value, is
however rather a curious one, I cannot omit—namely,
that every man who has been in the
habit of scribbling rhyme of any description, involuntarily
betrays his age and decline by the nature
of his composition. The truth of this observation
I will endeavour to illustrate by quotations from
some jingling couplets written at different periods
of life by a friend of mine, merely to show the
strange though gradual transitions and propensities
of the human mind from youth to maturity,
and from maturity to age. I was brought up at
a school where poetry was cultivated, whether the
soil would bear a crop or not: I early got, however,
somehow or other, an idea of what it was,
which boys in general at that age never think of.
But I had no practical genius, and never set up
for it. Our second master, the son of the principal
one, was a parson, and, as he thought, a poet, and
wrote a thing called “The Tears of the British
Muse,” which we were all obliged to purchase,
and repeat once a month. In fact, of all matters,
prosody was most assiduously whipped into us.
Love is the first theme of all the poets in the
world. Though the French do not understand
that matter a bit better than other folks, yet their
language certainly expresses amatory ideas far more
comprehensively than ours. In talking of love
they do not speak of refinement: I never knew a
Frenchwoman tie them together fast: their terms
of gradation are—L’AMOURnaturel, bien sensible,
très fort, à son goût, superbe: finishing the climax
with pas nécessaire encore. (There certainly is a
touch of despondency in the last gradation.) This
classing of the passion with the palate is a very
simple mode of defining its varieties.
However, the state of the feelings and propensities
of men is much regulated by the amount of
their years (ladies in general stick to their text
longest). In early youth, poetry flows from natural
sensation; and at this period verses in general have
much modesty, much feeling, and a visible struggle
to keep in with refinement.
In the next degree of age, which runs quite
close upon the former, the scene nevertheless
sadly alters. We then see plain amatory sonnets
turning poor refinement out of company, and showing
that it was not so very pure as we had reason
to suppose. Next comes that stage wherein sensualists,
wits, ballad-singers, gourmands, experienced
lovers, and most kinds of poetasters, male
and female, give their varieties. All the organs
of craniology swell up in the brain and begin
to prepare themselves for development: this is
rather a lasting stage, and gently glides into, and
amalgamates with the final one, filled by satirists,
psalmists, epigrammatists, and other specimens of
antiquity and ill-nature. But I fancy this latter
must be a very unproductive line of versification
for the writer, as few ladies ever read such things
till after they begin to wear spectacles. Few persons
like to see themselves caricatured; and the
moment a lady is convinced that she ceases to be
an object of love, she fancies that, as matter of
course, she at once becomes an object of ridicule:
so that she takes care to run no chance of reading
to her own mortification till she feels that it is time
to commence devotee.
I recollect a friend of mine writing a poem of
satire so general, that every body might attribute
it to their neighbours, without taking it to themselves.
The first edition having gone off rapidly,
he published a second, announcing improvements,
and giving as a motto the words of Hamlet:—
“To hold the mirror up to Nature.”
This motto was fatal; the idea of holding up the
mirror condemned the book: nobody would venture
to look into it; and the entire impression is, I
dare say, in the act of dry-rotting at the present
moment.
One short period is the true Paradise of mortals,
that delicious dream of life, when age is too far
distant to be seen, and childhood fast receding
from our vision!—when Nature pauses briefly between
refinement and sensuality—first imparting
to our wondering senses what we are and what we
shall be, before she consigns us to the dangerous
guardianship of chance and of our passions!
That is the crisis when lasting traits of character
begin to bud and blossom, and acquire sap;
and every effort should then be made to crop and
prune, and train the young shoots, while yet they
retain the principle of ductility.
During that period the youth is far too chary to
avow a passion which he does not fully comprehend,
satisfied with making known his feelings by
delicate allusions, and thus contriving to disclose
the principle without mentioning its existence. All
sorts of pretty sentimentalities are employed to
this end:—shepherds and shepherdesses are pressed
into the service; as are likewise tropes of Arcadian
happiness and simplicity, with abundance
of metaphorical roses with thorns to them—perfumes
and flowers.
A particular friend of mine, who, when a young
man, had a great propensity to fall in love and
make verses accordingly, has often told me his
whole progress in both, and says positively that
he should ascertain in a moment a man’s decimal
from his versification. He entertained me one
morning by showing me certain memorandums
which he had from time to time made upon this
subject, and from which he permitted me to take
extracts, as also from some of his own effusions
which he said he had kept out of curiosity.
It appears that at the age of fifteen he fell in
love with a Miss Lyddy St. John, who was herself
a poetess of fourteen, and the most delicate
young Celestial he had ever seen. The purity of
her thoughts and verses filtered all his sentiments
as clear as spring water, and did not leave an atom
of grossness in the whole body of them.
Before he left school he wrote the following
lines on this young lady, which he has suffered to
stand as the poetical illustration of his boyhood:
I.
What sylph that flits athwart the air,
Or hovers round its favourite fair,
Can paint such charms to fancy’s eye,
Or feebly trace
The unconscious grace
Of her for whom I sigh?
II.
As silver flakes of falling snow
Tell the pure sphere from whence they flow,
So the chaste beauties of her eye
Faintly impart
The chaster heart
Of her for whom I sigh.
Lyddy, however, objected to the last line of each
stanza, as she did not understand what he meant
by sighing for her; and he not being able to solve
the question, she seemed to entertain rather a
contempt for his intellects, and palpably gave the
preference to one of his schoolfellows—a bolder
boy.
In the next stage toward maturity the poet and
lover began to know better what he would be at;
and determined to pay a visit to the fair one, and
try if any lucky circumstance might give him a
delicate opportunity of disclosing his sentiments
and sufferings, and why he sighed for her.
He unfortunately found that the innocent cause
of his torment had gone on a tour, and that his interview
must be adjourned sine die: however, he
explored the garden; sat down in all the arbours;
walked pensively over the flower-plats; peeped
into her chamber-window, which was on the
ground-floor, and embroidered with honeysuckles
and jasmine: his very soul swelled with thoughts
of love and rural retirement: and thus his heart, as
it were, burst open, and let out a gush of poetry,
which he immediately committed to writing in the
garb of a lamentation for the fair one’s absence,
and forced under the window-frame of her bed-chamber;
after which he disconsolately departed,
though somewhat relieved by this effort of his
Muse.—The words ran thus:
LAMENTATION OF CRONEROE FOR THE ABSENCE OF ITS SYLVAN NYMPH.
I.
Ah, where has she wander’d? ah, where has she stray’d?
What clime now possesses our lost sylvan maid?—
No myrtle now blossoms; no tulip will blow;
And the lively arbutus now fades at Croneroe.
II.
No glowing carnation now waves round her seat;
Nor crocus, nor cowslip weave turf for her feet;
And the woodbine’s soft tendrils, once train’d by her hand,
Now wild round her arbour distractedly stand.
III.
Her golden-clothed fishes now deaden their hue:
The birds cease to warble—the wood-dove to coo:
The cypress spreads wide, and the willow droops low,
And the noon’s brightest ray can’t enliven Croneroe.
IV.
In the low-winding glen, all embosom’d in green,
Where the thrush courts her muse, and the blackbird is seen,
The rill as it flows, limpid, silent, and slow,
Trickles down the gray rock as the tears of Croneroe.
V.
Then return, sylvan maid, and the flowers will all spring,
And the wood-dove will coo, and the linnet will sing—
The gold-fish will sparkle, the silver streams flow,
And the noon ray shine bright thro’ the glen of Croneroe.
Nothing very interesting occurred for above two
months to our amorous lyrist, when he began to
tire of waiting for the nymph of Croneroe, and
grew fond of one of his own cousins without being
able to give any very particular reason for it,
further than that he was becoming more and more
enlightened in the ways of the world. But this
family flame soon burnt itself out; and he next
fell into a sort of furious passion for a fine, strong,
ruddy, country girl, the parson’s daughter: she
was a capital housekeeper, and the parson himself
a jolly hunting fellow: at his house there was
a good table, and a hearty style of joking,—which
advantages, together with a walk in the shrubbery,
a sillabub under the cow, and a romp in the
hay-making field, soon sent poor refinement about
its business. The poet became absolutely mortal,
and began to write common hexameters. However,
before he was confirmed in his mortality, he
happened one day to mention a sylph to his new
sweetheart; she merely replied that she never saw
one, and asked her mamma privately what it was,
who desired her never to mention such a word again.
But by the time he set out for Oxford he had
got tolerably well quit of all his ethereal visions,
celestials, and snow-drops: and to convince his
love what an admiration he had for sensible, substantial
beauty, like hers, he wrote the following
lines in a blank leaf of her prayer-book, which
she had left in his way, as if suspecting his intention:—
I.
Refinement’s a very nice thing in its way,
And so is Platonic regard;
Melting sympathy too—as the highfliers says—
Is the only true theme for a bard.
Then give them love’s phantoms and flights for their pains;
But grant me, ye gods! flesh and blood and blue veins,
And dear Dolly—dear Dolly Haynes.
II.
I like that full fire and expression of eyes,
Where love’s true materiel presides;
With a glance now and then to the jellies and pies,
To ensure us good living besides.
Ye refiners, take angels and sylphs for your pains;
But grant me, ye gods! flesh and blood and blue veins,
And dear Dolly—dear Dolly Haynes.
I should not omit mentioning here an incident
which at the time extremely amused me. A friend
of mine, a barrister, whose extravagant ideas of
refinement have frequently proved a source of great
entertainment to me, was also a most enthusiastic
admirer of Mr. Thomas Moore’s writings, prose
and verse. I had read over to him the foregoing rather
“of earthy” composition, to which he listened
with a shrug of the shoulders and a contraction of
the upper lip; and I was desirous of drawing out
his opinion thereon by adverting to his own favourite
bard.
“Here,” said I, “we have a fine illustration
of the natural progress from refinement to sensuality—the
amalgamation of which principles is
so beautifully depicted by Mr. Thomas Moore in
his ‘Loves of the Angels.’”
“Your observation is just,” replied my friend:
“I cannot conceive why those elegant amours
have been so much carped at—since their only
object is to prove that flesh and blood is in very
high estimation even with the spirituals.”
“What a triumph to mortality!” replied I.
“And why,” continued he, “should people be
so very sceptical as to the authenticity of these
angelic love-matches? surely there are no negative
proofs; and are we not every day told by the
gravest authorities that we are bound at our peril
to believe divers matters not an atom more intelligible?
For my part, I can’t comprehend why a
poet should not be as credible a witness as a bishop
on matters that are equally and totally invisible
to both of them.”
“True,” observed I, smiling; “and the more
so, as poets, generally residing nearer the sky than
any other members of society, are likely to get
better information.”
“Ay, poor fellows, ‘on compulsion!’” said my
friend, with a compassionate sigh.—“But,” resumed
he, falling in with my tone, “there is one
point which I could have wished that our most
melodious of lyrists had cleared up to my satisfaction—videlicet,
what gender angels really are
of?”
“Very little doubt, by logical reasoning,
need exist upon that point,” answered I: “Mr.
Moore represents his angels in the characters of
gay deceivers, and those characters being performed
by the male sex—ergo, angels must be
males. You perceive the syllogism is complete?”
“Ay, ay,” said my friend; “but how comes
it, then, that when we see a beautiful woman, we
cry out involuntarily, ‘What an angel!’”
“The word homo signifies either man or woman,”
replied I; “give a similar latitude to the
word angel, and you have your choice of sexes!
Divers of the classics, and some of the sculptors,
perfectly authorise Mr. Moore’s delicious ambiguity.”
“That,” said my Moorish friend, “is certainly
the fact, and most elegantly has our lyrist
handled this question of celestial sexuality: he
has paid the highest compliment ever yet conceived
to human beauty, by asserting that ethereal
spirits, instead of taking up with their own
transparent species, prefer the opaque body-colouring
of terrestrial dairy-maids—though fastidious
casuists may, perhaps, call that a depraved
taste.”
“No such thing,” replied I; “it is rather a
proof of refined and filtered epicurism. The
heathen mythology is crammed with precedents
on that point. Every god and goddess in former
times (and the sky was then quite crowded with
them,)——”
“And may be so still,” interrupted my friend,
“for any thing we know to the contrary.”
“They played their several pranks upon our
globe,” continued I, “without the slightest compunction:
even Jupiter himself frequently became
a trespasser on the honour and peace of
several very respectable fleshly families. The
distinction between the spiritual and corporeal is
likewise dexterously touched on by the dramatist
Farquhar, who makes one of his characters[29] exclaim
to another, ‘I’ll take her body, you her
mind: which has the better bargain?’”
“But,” rejoined my friend, “modern sentiment,
which brings all these matters into collision,
had not then been invented: now we can
have both in one lot.”
Finally, we determined to consult Mr. Thomas
Moore himself upon this most interesting consideration,
agreeing that nobody could possibly
understand such a refined subject so well as the
person who wrote a book about it: we therefore
proceeded (as I shall now do) to the next stage of
years and of poetry.
The poet and lover was soon fixed at the university
of Oxford, where he shortly made fast
acquaintance with a couple of hot young Irishmen,
who lost no time in easing him of the dregs
of his sentimentality, and convinced him clearly
that no rational man should ever be in love except
when he is drunk, in which case it signifies little
whom he falls in love with. Thus our youth soon
forgot the parsonage, and grew enamoured of the
bottle: but having some lees of poetry still remaining
within him, the classics and the wine set
them a fermenting; and he now wrote drinking-songs,
hunting-songs, boating-songs, satires on the
shopkeepers’ daughters, and lampoons on the fellows
of Jesus and Brazen-nose; answered letters
in verse; and, in a word, turned out what the lads
called a genius.
The reverend private tutor of these young Irishmen
wrote one day a letter to our poet in verse,
inviting him to “meet at dinner a few fellow-countrymen,
just arrived.” The tutor was a hard-going
old parson, fond of wine and versification,
who had been sent over from Ireland by the father
of the two young men above alluded to, with
direction to “take care that the lads did not fall
into the d——d English morals, which would soon
turn them into snow-balls, and disqualify them ever
after from living in their own proper country and
natural society.” These instructions the tutor
faithfully acted up to; and the young poet very
much amused the whole party by his humour and
turn for rhyming; and was compelled to swear
that he would pay them a visit, for a couple of
years, near Belturbet in Ireland, where they would
show him what living was. Their father was himself
dotingly fond of poetry and the bag-pipes; and
was induced to send them to Oxford only to please
their mother’s brother, who was, most unfortunately,
an Englishman.
My friend’s reply to the parson’s invitation was
also in verse, and ran as follows: it was not amiss
for a young tipster, and smacked, in some degree,
both of Oxford and “Belturbet.”
Please your reverence,—
When parsons and poets their functions unite,
And court the old Muses to sing “an invite,”
The profane and the sacred connected we find,
And are sure of a banquet to every man’s mind.
Though on Pegasus mounted, to Bacchus we fly,
Yet we’ll quaff just like Christians;—our priest tells us why:
“’Tis moist hospitality banishes sin,
For the wine-open’d heart lets benevolence in.”
Then no long canting grace cools our spicy ragout,
While the impatient champagne bristles up his mousseu,
’Tis my old Pagan cream teaches Christians to live!”
Then the pastor and flock quickly empty the bowl,
And its spirit divides ’twixt the head and the soul.
Though the Jove of our banquet no eagle can boast,
We’ll have plenty of “kites flying” all round our host:
Midst loud peals of laughter, undaunted we’ll sit,
And for flashes of lightning have flashes of wit:
Should his reverence perceive that our spirits are laid,
Then hot-pepper’d devils he’ll call to his aid,
And, all Christians surpassing, as Tantalus, see!
The more liquor we quaff, still the drier we’ll be!
But two modes of death sinful mortals should know,
Break their necks from Parnassus, or drown in Bordeaux;
And to which of those deaths I am doom’d from on high,
I’m sure of a parson, who’ll teach me to die.
Then who can refuse to accept of a dinner,
Where the host is from Erin—a priest—saint[30]—and sinner?
In fact, this same friend of mine, of whose
poetry, or rather versification, I have thus given
samples to the reader, is a very peculiar personage:
bred to a profession which he never followed,
with ample means and no occupation, he has arrived
at a ripe age without much increasing his
stock of wisdom, or at all diminishing that of his
peculiarity. He told me, he found his standard
relief against ennui was invoking the Muses, which
by ransacking his ideas and puzzling his genius,
operated as a stimulus to his brain, and prevented
that stagnation of the fluids which our ablest nosologists
say is so often the inducement to suicide.
My friend argues that the inexhaustible variety of
passions, propensities, sentiments, and so forth,
inherent to the human frame, and which poets
(like noblemen’s fools in days of yore) have a license
for dressing in all colours as they think proper,
affords to the language of poetry a vast superiority
over that of prose: which latter being in
its nature but a hum-drum concern, is generally
expected to be reasonably correct, tolerably intelligible,
and moderately decent;—astringent qualifications,
which some of our modern poets appear
to have very laudably disregarded.
My friend, however, observed, that he himself
was not enabled to take other than a limited advantage
of this license—inasmuch as he had been
frequently jilted by the Muses, who never would
do more than flirt with him; and hence, for want
of a sufficient modicum of inspiration, he was generally
necessitated to put up with the ordinary
subjects of verse—such as epigrams, satires, odes
on natal days, epitaphs on lap-dogs and little
children, translations of Greek songs that he never
saw, and of Italian poetry that had never existed,
&c. It was true, he went on to inform me, he
had occasionally flown at higher game in the regions
of poesy; but, somehow or other, no bookseller
would publish his effusions: one said they
were too flat; another that they were too elevated;
a third characterised them as too wild for the
critics; and a fourth pronounced them too tame
for the ladies. At length, however, the true state
of the matter was candidly developed by a very
intelligent presbyterian bookseller in the city, who
told my friend that he was quite too late as to
poetry, with which the publishers were crammed
and the public farcied. Besides, he said, all the
poetic stations in any way productive were already
occupied:—for instance, a Poet Fitzgerald (whom
Lord Byron calls “Hoarse Fitzgerald”) had, ever
since the days of the “Rejected Addresses,” been
considered as the writer, reciter, and proprietor of
the fulsome line of poetry:—the amatory, celestial,
and horticultural departments had long been considered
the property of Mr. Thomas Moore; and
every dactyl or spondee relating to roses, posies,
dew-drops and thorns, grapes, lilies, kisses, blisses,
blushes, angels, &c. would be considered as gross
plagiarism, emanating from any other pen than
that of our justly celebrated lyrist; while, as to
historic or Caledonian poetry, Sir Walter Scott
had not left an idea unappropriated for any fresh
penman: he had raised an obscure people to eternal
celebrity, by recording their murders in English
versification; and by his “Battle of Waterloo”
had proved that his own Muse, in the department
of slaughter, was in a very languishing state, probably
owing to the extraordinary fatigue she had
previously undergone.
My friend was proceeding to detail further the
admonitory conversation of this honest bibliopole,
when I interrupted him by asking, naturally
enough, how he could continue to derive any pleasure
from a pursuit in which he admitted himself
to have been so very unsuccessful? to which he
adroitly replied, “On the very same principle
that a bad shot may have just as much amusement
as a capital sportsman; perhaps more,—one
good hit being as gratifying to him as twenty to
an undeviating fowler.” I coincided in my friend’s
remark, adding, that the same sort of observation
would apply to random jokers as well as rhymesters;
and that I have more than once absolutely
envied the inordinate happiness of a universal punster
when he chanced to say any thing that had a
symptom of wit in it.
My friend then, gravely opening his portfolio,
selected two of his productions, which he gave me
permission to publish, particularly as one of them
had been most abruptly rejected by an eminent
newspaper, and the other by a magazine of considerable
reputation.
The intended Magazine article ran as follows:—but
as one of the attachés was a northern gentleman
of the Edinburgh Review, it was sent
back to my friend with what he called a tantara
rara.
THE HIGHLANDER.
I.
A sans culotte from Caledonia’s wilds,
Rasp’d into form by Nature’s roughest files,
Hearing of savoury meats—of monies made—
Of unsmoked women—and of dexterous trade;—
Resolved, from sooty cot, to seek a town,
And to the low-lands boldly stump it down.
But then, alas! his garb would never do—
The greasy kilt, bare loins, and tatter’d shoe:
Yet urged to better food and better fame,
He borrow’d breeches and assumed a name;
Then truck’d his kilt, barter’d his motley hose,
New nail’d his heels, and capp’d the peeping toes.
His freckled fist a swineherd’s bludgeon wields,—
His tried companion through the sties and fields,
(Full many a grunting brawn had felt its sway)
Now to a cane promoted, helps its master’s way.
Full fifty bawbees Sandy had in store,
And piteous tales had raised him fifty more:
His knife, his pipe, and eke his bawbee bank,
In Basil pouch hung dangling from his flank:
No empty wallet on his shoulder floats:
Hard eggs, soft cheese, tobacco, salt, and oats,
Cramm’d in one end, wagg’d o’er his brawny chest,
And what was once a blanket poised the rest:
Thus wealthy, victuall’d, proud, content, and gay,
Down Grampian’s sterile steeps young Sandy wound his way.
Hail food! hail raiment! hail that happy lot
Which lured such genius from the smoky cot,
To mingle in the ranks of breeches’d men,
And coin a name and family again!
II.
Where fam’d St. Andrew’s turrets tower on high;
Where frozen doctors lecture, doze, and die;
Where Knowledge sleeps, and Science seeks repose,
And mouldering halls more mouldering heads disclose,—
Where Roman Virgil pipes in Celtic verse,
And Grecian Homer sings to gods in Erse;—
’Twas there that Sandy form’d his worldly creed,
Brush’d gowns, swept book-shelves, learn’d to shave and read:
From craft to craft his willing genius rose;
When cash was scarce he wisely wrought for clothes,
And threadbare trophies, once the kirkmen’s pride,
Mickle by mickle swell’d his wallet’s side.
Well turn’d, well scoured, the rags denied their age,
While Sandy’s granite visage aped the sage.
Here, great Lavater! here thy science stands
Confess’d, and proved by more than mortal hands.
Though o’er his features Nature’s skill we see,
Her deepest secrets are disclosed through thee.
The green-tinged eye, curl’d lip, and lowering brows,
Which malice harrows, and which treachery ploughs,
In deep sunk furrows on his front we find,
Tilling the crops that thrive in Sandy’s mind.
No soft sensations can that face impart;
No gratitude springs glowing from the heart;
As deadly nightshade creeping on the ground,
He tries to poison what he cannot wound.
Yet Sandy has a most consistent mind,
Too low to rise, too coarse to be refin’d,
Too rough to polish, and too loose to bind:
Yet if * * * * *
On looking over the residue, I conceived that
I could not with propriety continue the publication:
were I to proceed five or six lines further,
ill-natured people might possibly (though erroneously)
affect to find a pretence for designation,
and I should be very sorry to be considered as
capable of becoming an instrument in so improper
a procedure. My friend assured me he did not
intend to particularise any individual: I, however,
returned the copy to my portfolio, and subsequently
to the author, mentioning my reasons, and
advising him to burn the rest. His reply to me
was laconic—“My dear B * * *, qui caput ille
facit. If any man adopts it, ’tis not my fault.”
The other trifle is a mere jeu d’esprit, and cannot
be disagreeable to any body, unless it may be
taken amiss by some West-Indian proprietor,
whose probable touchiness at the introduction of
the word slavery I do not feel called on to compassionate.
EPIGRAM.
Sir Sidney Smith and Miss Rumbold.
Says Sidney—“I’ll put all white slavery down;
All Europe I’ll summon to arms;”
But fair Rumbold replied—“I’ll reverse my renown,
For all men shall be slaves to my charms.”
If thus, lovely champion, that tongue and those eyes
Can set all mankind by the ears;
Go—fire off your glances, explode a few sighs,
And make captive the Dey of Algiers!
Thus you’ll rival papa both in glory and gains;
He may conquer the tyrant—you’ll lead him in chains.
I cannot conclude these memoranda without
adding a few fragments from some unpublished
and nearly unknown works, the production of
Miss Tylden, the amiable young lady to whom I
have before introduced the reader, (see pages 71,
72, 141, 142,) and who commenced versifying at
the early age of fifteen. Her compositions are
numerous, and comprise a variety of subjects and
of styles; but, with a natural and becoming modesty,
(though in her case, in my opinion, unnecessary,)
she refuses to submit them to the ordeal
of the public. I sincerely hope she may change
her resolution.
THE BARD.
Extracted from an unpublished Poem, called “Boadicea.”
By Miss M. Tylden.
Amid those aged sons of song
One seem’d to tower the rest among:
For though the heavy hand of Time
Had somewhat marr’d his youthful prime;
Though the sunny glow had faded
On the locks his brow that shaded;
Stern Time, not ev’n thy icy sway
Might quench the heaven-enkindled lay
Which waken’d to achievements high
Those heroes of antiquity.
Howe’er it were, from that bright band
Sadly apart he seem’d to stand,
And lowly on his harp he leant
With eye of gloom and eyebrow bent;
But still, despite his sterner mood,
By all with reverence he was view’d,
Such charm of dignity hath age
When on the brow experience sage
Hath stamp’d the worth of years that sleep,
And when the mind hath known to reap
Harvests of scientific lore,
And well secured the precious store;—
When all the stormy dreams of youth
Fade in the beacon-light of truth;
When fiery feelings are repress’d,
The spirit calm’d, the heart at rest!
Then in the form of age we find
Somewhat surpassing earthly kind.
Now forth his harp that minstrel drew,
And o’er the chords his fingers threw,
The while beneath their lighter sway
Murmur’d the scarcely-bidden lay,
In soft half-warbled cadence stealing
O’er the melting soul of feeling:—
But when he caught the transport high
Which mark’d the kindling melody,
His upturn’d eye and heaving breast
The mighty frenzy quick confess’d;
The sympathetic strings beneath
A wild inspiring chorus breathe,
And, borne the lofty halls along,
Floats high the patriot minstrel’s song:—
The mildew of time steeps the laurel-bound wreath,
And the war-sword ingloriously rusts in its sheath,
Which burst on the foe as the bolt from on high,
And sprinkled the blood of revenge to the sky.
The arm is unbraced and the nerves are unstrung
Of him who in combat that dark weapon swung;
For the souls of the heroes of loftier days,
Kindled high in their glory, have sunk in the blaze:
And the laurels of Britain, droop’d, wither’d and shrunk,
And her standard of freedom all hopelessly sunk,
And the sons of the isles, scatter’d thin on the hill,
Stood forsaken and drooping, but dauntlessly still.
Ye sons of the brave! is the bold spirit fled
Which to combat and conquest your forefathers led?
Oh no! it but sleeps in the souls it should warm,
The more fiercely to burn in the day of the storm.
But too long it hath slept: for the hearts of the brave
Are a country’s best bulwarks to guard and to save:
Oh then be the lion aroused in each breast,
Triumphant to conquer, or nobly to rest.
Be it yours to divulge the dark volume of fate;
Be it yours to revenge, ere revenge be too late:
Oh let not the spirit of freedom repose
Till it visit the wrongs of our land on its foes.
’Tis your country that calls; shall that cry be in vain?
All bleeding she lies in the conqueror’s chain:
Chiefs! one struggle more, and her freedom is won:
Let us triumph or die, as our fathers have done.
Like the lightning of heaven be your arms on the heath,
Loud, loud ring your shields with the thunder of death:
As the waves of your ocean rush down to the strife,
And each stroke be for Britain,—for freedom and life!
The bard has ceased: the lofty lay
In long vibrations dies away,
And melts upon the air around
Till silence blends away the sound.
The bard upon each warrior gazed,
To mark what thoughts his strain had raised.
The eye that late flash’d high with mirth
In alter’d cheer now sought the earth;
The cheek that bright with joy had blush’d,
Far other feeling now had flush’d.
It might have seem’d throughout the hall
(So motionless, so mute were all)
As though the spirit of the storm
Had swept along each stately form.
A moment—and what change was wrought
In every look and every thought!
Roused by the breath of life, they seem
To start at once from their death-like dream;
A sudden impulse, wild and strong,
Agitates the moving throng,
And like the billows of the deep,
When darkening tempests o’er it sweep,
In every freeborn heart, that strain
Concordant echoes roused again!
THEATRICAL RECOLLECTIONS.
The author’s early visits to Crow-street Theatre—Interruptions of the University men—College pranks—Old Mr. Sheridan in “Cato” and in “Alexander the Great”—Curious scene introduced, by mistake, in the latter tragedy—Mr. Digges in the Ghost of Hamlet’s father—Chorus of cocks—The author’s preference of comedy to tragedy—Remarks on Mr. Kean and the London moralists—Liston in “Paul Pry”—Old Sparkes—The Spanish débutante—Irish Johnstone—Modern comedy—The French stage.
From my youth I was attached to theatrical
representations, and have still a clear recollection
of many of the eminent performers of my early
days. My grandmother, with whom I resided for
many years, had permanent silver tickets of admission
to Crow-street Theatre, whither I was
very frequently sent.
The playhouses in Dublin were then lighted
by tallow candles, stuck into tin circles hanging
from the middle of the stage, which were every
now and then snuffed by some performer; and
two soldiers, with fixed bayonets, always stood
like statues on each side the stage, close to the
boxes, to keep the audience in order. The galleries
were very noisy and very droll. The ladies
and gentlemen in the boxes always went dressed
out nearly as for court; the strictest etiquette and
decorum were preserved in that circle; whilst the
pit, as being full of critics and wise men, was
particularly respected, except when the young
gentlemen of the University occasionally forced
themselves in, to revenge some insult, real or
imagined, to a member of their body; on which
occasions, all the ladies, well-dressed men, and
peaceable people generally, decamped forthwith,
and the young gentlemen as generally proceeded
to beat or turn out the residue of the audience,
and to break every thing that came within their
reach. These exploits were by no means uncommon;
and the number and rank of the young
culprits were so great, that (coupled with the
impossibility of selecting the guilty,) the college
would have been nearly depopulated, and many
of the great families in Ireland enraged beyond
measure, had the students been expelled or even
rusticated.
I had the honour of being frequently present,
and (as far as in mêlée,) giving a helping hand to
our encounters both in the play-houses and streets.
We were in the habit of going about the latter,
on dark nights, in coaches, and, by flinging out
halfpence, breaking the windows of all the houses
we rapidly drove by, to the astonishment and
terror of the proprietors. At other times, we
used to convey gunpowder squibs into all the
lamps in several streets at once, and by longer or
shorter fuses contrive to have them all burst
about the same time, breaking every lamp to
shivers and leaving whole streets in utter darkness.
Occasionally we threw large crackers into
the china and glass-shops, and delighted to see
the terrified shopkeepers trampling on their own
porcelain and cut-glass, for fear of an explosion.
By way of a treat, we used sometimes to pay the
watchmen to lend us their cloaks and rattles: by
virtue whereof, we broke into the low prohibited
gambling-houses, knocked out the lights, drove
the gamblers down stairs, and then gave all their
stakes to the watchmen. The whole body of
watchmen belonging to one parish (that of the
round church, St. Andrew’s) were our sworn
friends, and would take our part against any other
watchmen in Dublin. We made a permanent
subscription, and paid each of these regularly
seven shillings a week for his patronage. I mention
these trifles, out of a thousand odd pranks, as a
part of my plan, to show, from a comparison of
the past with the present state of society in the
Irish metropolis, the extraordinary improvement
which has taken place in point of decorum within
the last half century. The young gentlemen of
the University then were in a state of great insubordination;—not
as to their learning, but their
wild habits: indeed, the singular feats of some of
them would be scarcely credible now; and they
were so linked together, that an offence to one
was an offence to all. There were several noblemen’s
sons with their gold-laced, and elder sons
of baronets with their silver-laced gowns, who
used to accompany us, with their gowns turned
inside out: yet our freaks arose merely from the
fire and natural vivacity of uncontrolled youth:
no calm, deliberate vices,—no low meannesses,—were
ever committed: that class of young men
now termed “dandies” we then called macaronies;
and we made it a standing rule to thrash
them whenever we got a fair opportunity: such
also as had been long tied to their “mothers’
apron-strings” we made no small sport with when
we got them clear inside the college: we called
them milk-sops, and if they declined drinking as
much wine as ordered, we always dosed them (as in
duty bound) with tumblers of salt and water till
they came to their feeding, as we called it. Thus
generally commenced a young man of fashion’s
novitiate above fifty years ago. However, our
wildness, instead of increasing as we advanced in
our college courses, certainly diminished, and often
left behind it the elements of much talent and virtue.
Indeed, there were to the full as good scholars, and
certainly to the full as high-bred, and much more
talented gentlemen educated in the Dublin University
then, than in this wiser and more cold-blooded
era. But it has utterly degenerated.
I remember, even before that period, seeing
old Mr. Sheridan perform the part of Cato at
one of the Dublin theatres; I do not recollect
which: but I well recollect his dress, which consisted
of bright armour under a fine laced scarlet
cloak, and surmounted by a huge, white, bushy,
well-powdered wig (like Dr. Johnson’s), over
which was stuck his helmet. I wondered much
how he could kill himself without stripping off the
armour before he performed that operation! I also
recollect him particularly (even as if before my
eyes now) playing Alexander the Great, and throwing
the javelin at Clytus, whom happening to miss,
he hit the cup-bearer, then played by one of the
hack performers, a Mr. Jemmy Fotterel. Jemmy
very naturally supposed that he was hit designedly,
and that it was some new light of the great Mr.
Sheridan to slay the cup-bearer in preference to
his friend Clytus, which certainly would have been
a less unjustifiable murder, and that he ought to
tumble down and make a painful end, according
to dramatic custom time immemorial. Immediately,
therefore, on being struck, Mr. James
Fotterel (who was the ugliest cup-bearer ever employed
by any monarch) reeled, staggered, and fell
very naturally, considering it was his first death;
but being determined on this unexpected opportunity
to make an impression upon the audience,
when he found himself stretched out on the boards
at full length, he began to roll about, kick, and
flap the stage with his hands most immoderately;
falling next into strong convulsions, exhibiting
every symptom of exquisite torture, and at length
expiring with a groan so loud and so long that it
paralysed even the people in the galleries, whilst
the ladies believed that he was really killed, and
cried aloud at the misfortune.
Though then very young, I was myself so terrified
in the pit that I never shall forget it. However,
Mr. Jemmy Fotterel being dragged off by
the legs, soon re-entered in rude health, and was
more applauded than any Clytus had ever been;—even
the slayer himself could not help laughing
most heartily at the incident.
The actresses both of tragedy and genteel comedy
formerly wore large hoops, and whenever
they made a speech walked across the stage and
changed sides with the performer who was to
speak next, thus veering backwards and forwards,
like a shuttlecock, during the entire performance.
This custom partially prevailed in the continental
theatres till very lately.
I recollect Mr. Barry, who was accounted the
handsomest man of his day, and his lady (formerly
Mrs. Dancer); also Mr. Digges, who used to play
the Ghost in “Hamlet.” One night in doubling
that part with (I believe) Polonius, Digges forgot,
on appearing as the Ghost, previously to rub off
the bright red paint with which his face had been
daubed for the other character. A sprite with a
large red nose and vermilioned cheeks was extremely
novel and much applauded. There was
also a famous actor who used to play the Cock that
crew to call off the Ghost when Hamlet had done
with him: this performer did his part so well that
every body used to say he was the best Cock that
ever had been heard at Smock-alley; and six or
eight other gentry of the dunghill species were
generally brought behind the scenes, who, on
hearing him, mistook him for a brother cock, and
set up their pipes all together: and thus, by the
infinity of crowing at the same moment, the hour
was the better marked, and the Ghost glided back
to the other world in the midst of a perfect chorus
of cocks—to the no small admiration of the audience.
The distinguishing merits of the old actors I
cannot recollect, and indeed of many of the more
modern ones I profess myself but a very moderate
judge. One thing, however, I am sure of;—that,
man or boy, I never admired tragedy, however
well personated. Lofty feelings and strong
passions may be admirably mimicked therein; but
the ranting, whining, obviously premeditated starting,
disciplined gesticulation, &c.—the committing
of suicide in mellifluous blank verse, and rhyming
when in the agonies of death,—stretch away so
very far from nature, as to destroy all that illusion
whereon the effect of dramatic exhibition in my
mind entirely depends. Unless occasionally to
witness some very celebrated new actor, I have
not attended a tragedy these forty years; nor have
I ever yet seen any tragedian on the British stage
who made so decided an impression on my feelings
as Mr. Kean, in some of his characters, has
done. When I have seen other celebrated men
enact the same parts, I have remained quite tranquil,
however my judgment may have been satisfied: but
he has made me shudder, and that, in
my estimation, is the grand triumph of the tragedian’s
art. I have seldom sat out the last murder
scene of any play except “Tom Thumb,” or
“Chrononhotonthologos,” which certainly are no
burlesques on some of our standard tragedies.
In serious comedy, Kean’s Shylock and Sir Giles
Overreach, seemed to me neither more nor less
than actual identification of those portraitures: so
much so, in fact, that I told him myself, after
seeing him perform the first-mentioned part, that
I could have found in my heart to knock his
brains out the moment he had finished his performance.[31]
31. Nothing could be more truly disgusting than the circumstance
of the most ruffianly parts of the London population,
under the general appellation of a “British audience,” assuming
to themselves the feelings of virtue, delicacy, decorum,
morals, and modesty—for the sole purpose of driving into exile
one of the first performers that ever trod the stage of England!—and
that for an offence which (though abstractedly unjustifiable)
a great number of the gentry, not a few of the nobility,
and even members of the holy church militant, are constantly
committing and daily detected in: which commission and detection
by no means seem to have diminished their popularity,
or caused their reception to be less cordial among saints, methodists,
legal authorities, and justices of the quorum.
The virtuous sentence of transportation passed against Mr.
Kean by the mob of London certainly began a new series of
British morality; and the laudable societies for the “suppression
of vice” may shortly be eased of a great proportion of their
labours by more active moralists, (the frequenters of the upper
gallery) culled from High-street St. Giles’s, the Israelites of
Rag-fair, and the Houses of Correction. Hogarth has, in his
print of “Evening,” immortalised the happy state of the
horned citizens at his period.
Two errors, however, that great actor has in a
remarkable degree: some of his pauses are so long,
that he appears to have forgotten himself; and he
pats his breast so often, that it really reminds one
of a nurse patting her infant to keep it from squalling:
it is a pity he is not aware of these imperfections!
If, however, I have been always inclined to
undervalue tragedy, on the other hand, the great
comic performers of my time in Ireland I perfectly
recollect. I allude to the days of Ryder, O’Keeffe,
Wilks, Wilder, Vandermere, &c. &c. &c.
The effect produced by even one singular actor,
or one trivial incident, is sometimes surprising.
The dramatic trifle or translation called “Paul
Pry” had a greater run, I believe, than any piece
of the kind ever exhibited in London, though it is
a mere bagatelle—in itself nothing. I went to see
it, and was greatly amused—not by the piece, but
by the ultra oddity of one performer. Put any
handsome, or even human-looking person, in Liston’s
place, and take away his umbrella, and Paul
Pry would scarcely bring another audience. His
countenance certainly presents the drollest set of
stationary features I ever saw, and has the uncommon
merit of being exquisitely comic per se,
without the slightest distortion: no artificial grimace,
indeed, could improve his natural. I remember
O’Keeffe, justly the delight of Dublin:
and Ryder, the best Sir John Brute, Ranger, Marplot,
&c. in the world: the prologue of “Bucks,
have at ye all!” was repeated by him four hundred
and twenty-four times. O’Keeffe’s Tony
Lumpkin, Vandermere’s Skirmish, Wilder’s Colonel
Oldboy, Wilks’s Jessamy, and the performances of
several others in the comic line, came as near nature
as acting and mimicry could possibly approach.
There was also a first edition of Liston as to drollery,
on the Dublin stage, usually called “Old Sparkes.”
He was very tall, and of a very large size; with
heavy-hanging jaws, gouty ancles, big paunch,
and sluggish motion; but his comic face and natural
drollery were irresistible. He was a most
excellent actor in every thing he could personate:
his grotesque figure, however, rendered these parts
but few. Peachum, in the “Beggar’s Opera,” Caliban,
(with his own additions) in “The Tempest,”
and all bulky, droll, low characters, he did to the
greatest perfection. At one time, when the audiences
of Smock-Alley were beginning to flag,
Old Sparkes told Ryder, if he would bring out the
afterpiece of “The Padlock,” and permit him to
manage it, he would ensure him a succession of
good nights. Ryder gave him his way, and the
bills announced a first appearance in the part of
Leonora: the débutante was reported to be a Spanish
lady. The public curiosity was excited, and
youth, beauty, and tremulous modesty were all
anticipated; the house overflowed; impatience
was unbounded; the play ended in confusion, and
the overture of “The Padlock” was received with
rapture. Leonora at length appeared; the clapping
was like thunder, to give courage to the débutante,
who had a handsome face, and was very
beautifully dressed as a Spanish donna, which it
was supposed she really was. Her gigantic size,
it is true, rather astonished the audience. However,
they willingly took for granted that the Spaniards
were an immense people, and it was observed
that England must have had a great escape
of the Spanish Armada, if the men were proportionably
gigantic to the ladies. Her voice too was
rather of the hoarsest, but that was accounted for
by the sudden change of climate: at last, Leonora
began her song of “Sweet Robin”—
Say, little foolish fluttering thing,
Whither, ah! whither would you wing?
and at the same moment Leonora’s mask falling
off, Old Sparkes stood confessed, with an immense
gander which he brought from under his cloak,
and which he had trained to stand on his hand and
screech to his voice, and in chorus with himself.
The whim took: the roar of laughter was quite
inconceivable: he had also got Mungo played by
a real black: and the whole was so extravagantly
ludicrous, and so entirely to the taste of the Irish
galleries at that time, that his “Sweet Robin”
was encored, and the frequent repetition of the
piece replenished poor Ryder’s treasury for the
residue of the season.
I think about that time Mr. John Johnstone was
a dragoon. His mother was a very good sort of
woman, whom I remember extremely well. Between
fifty and sixty years ago she gave me a
little book, entitled “The History of the Seven
Champions of Christendom,” which I have (with
several other books of my childhood) to this day.
She used to call at my grandmother’s, to sell run
muslins, &c. which she carried about her hips in
great wallets, passing them off for a hoop. She
was called by the old women, in pleasantry,
“Mull and Jacconot;” sold great bargains, and
was a universal favourite with the ladies. Young
Johnstone was a remarkably genteel well-looking
lad; he used to bring presents of trout to my
grandmother, which he caught in the great canal
then going on close to Dublin. He soon went
into the army: but having a weakness in his legs,
he procured a speedy discharge, and acquired
eminence on the Irish stage.
I never happened to meet Mr. John Johnstone
for many years in private society till we met at
dinner at Lord Barrymore’s, in 1812, where Col.
Bloomfield, my old and good-hearted friend Mr.
Richard Martin, and others, were assembled. I
was glad to meet the distinguished comedian, and
mentioned some circumstances to him which proved
the extent of my memory. He sang that night
as sweetly as ever I heard him on the stage, and
that is saying much.
Mr. Johnstone was a truly excellent performer
of the more refined species of Irish characters;
but Nature had not given him enough of that original
shoulder-twist, and what they call the “pot-sheen-twang,”
which so strongly characterise the
genuine national vis comica of the lower orders of
Irish. In this respect, Owenson was superior to
him, of whom the reader will find a more detailed
account in a future page.
No modern comedy, in my mind, equals those
of the old writers. The former are altogether
devoid of that high-bred, witty playfulness of dialogue
so conspicuous in the works of the latter.
Gaudy spectacle, common-place clap-traps, forced
dialogue, and bad puns, together with ill-placed
mongrel sentiment, ad captandum vulgus, have
been substituted to “make the unskilful laugh,”
and to the manifest sorrow of the “judicious.”
Perhaps so much the better:—as, although there
are now most excellent scene-painters and fire-workers,
the London stage appears to be almost
destitute of competent performers in the parts of
the old genuine comedy, and the present London
audiences seem to prefer gunpowder, resin, brimstone,
musketry, burning castles, dancing ponies,
and German hobgoblins, to any human or Christian
entertainments, evidently despising all those
high-finished comic characters, which satisfy the
understanding and owe nothing to the scenery.
In Paris the scenery and orchestra at the
first theatre for acting in the world (the Theatre
François) are below mediocrity. But there is
another species of theatrical representation extant
in France—namely, scriptural pieces; half burlesque,
half melodrame. These are undoubtedly
among the drollest things imaginable; mixing up
in one unconnected mass, tragedy, comedy, and
farce, painting, music, scenery, dress and undress,
decency and indecency![32]
32. “Samson pulling down the hall of the Philistines” is the
very finest piece of spectacle that can be conceived!—“Susannah
and the Elders” is rather too naked a concern for the English
ladies to look at, unless through their fans: transparent
ones have lately been invented, to save the expense of blushes,
&c. But the most whimsical of their scriptural dramas is the
exhibition of Noah as a ship-builder, preparatory to the deluge:
it is a most splendid spectacle. He is assisted by large gangs
of angels working as his journeymen, whose great solicitude is
to keep their wings clear out of the way of their hatchets, &c.
At length the whole of them strike and turn out for wages, till
the arrival of a body of gens d’armes immediately brings them
to order, by whom they are threatened to be sent back to heaven
if they do not behave themselves!
I have seen many admirable comedians on the
continent. Nothing can possibly exceed Mademoiselle
Mars (for instance) in many characters:
but the French are all actors and actresses from
their cradles; and a great number of performers,
even at the minor theatres, seem to me to forget
that they are playing, and at times nearly make
the audience forget it too! Their spectacle is
admirably good; their dancing excellent, and most
of their dresses beautiful. Their orchestras are
well filled, in every sense of the word, and the level
of musical composition not so low as some of Mr.
Bishop’s effusions. The French singing however
is execrable; their tragedy rant; but their prose
comedy nature itself!
In short, the French beyond doubt exceed all
other people in the world with regard to theatrical
matters: and as every man, woman, and child in
Paris is equally attached to spectacle, every house
is full, every company encouraged,—all tastes find
some gratification. An Englishman can scarcely
quit a Parisian theatre without having seen himself
or some of his acquaintances characteristically
and capitally represented: the Anglais supply certainly
an inexhaustible source of French mimicry;
and as we cannot help it, do what we will, our
countrymen now begin to practise the good sense
of laughing at themselves! John Bull thinks that
roast beef is the finest dish in the whole world,
and that the finest fellow in Europe is the man
that eats it: on both points the Frenchman begs
leave, tout à fait, to differ with John; and nothing
can be sillier than to oppose opinions with a positive
people, in their own country, and who never
yet, right or wrong, gave up an argument.
No part of this world, I believe, combines corporeal
and intellectual luxuries to an equal
extent with Paris; and I am sure no place can
afford them on such easy terms. There is a
variety for the eye, the mind, and the palate
quite inexhaustible, and within the reach of all
purses.—However, no persons but those some
time resident in the metropolis of France can even
imagine its conveniences or its pleasures, and
their cheapness: nor can there be any city where
strangers are more kindly used, or more sedulously
protected. In point of courtesy, sociability,
animated good-nature, address and dress, I regret
to say we cannot approach their well-bred females.
MRS. JORDAN.
Public mis-statements respecting that lady—The author’s long acquaintance with her—Début of Mrs. Jordan, at the Dublin Theatre, as Miss Francis—Her incipient talents at that period—Favourite actresses then in possession of the stage—Theatrical jealousy—Mrs. Daly (formerly Miss Barsanti)—Curious inversion of characters in the opera of “The Governess,” resorted to by the manager to raise the wind—Lieut. Doyne proposes for Miss Francis—His suit rejected from prudential considerations—Miss Francis departs for England—Mr. Owenson, Lady Morgan’s father—Comparison between that performer and Mr. John (commonly called Irish) Johnstone—Introduction of the author to his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence—Reflections on the scurrilous personalities of the English press—Mrs. Jordan in the green-room, and on the stage—Her remarks on the theatrical art, and on her own style of acting—Her last visit to Dublin, and curious circumstances connected therewith—Mr. Dwyer the actor and Mr. Serjeant Gold—Mrs. Jordan in private society—Extracts from her letters—Her retirement from Bushy and subsequent embarkation for France.
The foregoing short and superficial sketches of
the Dublin stage in my juvenile days bring me to
a subject more recent and much more interesting
to my feelings. I touch it nevertheless with pain,
and must ever deeply regret the untimely catastrophe
of a lady who was at once the highest surviving
prop of her profession and a genuine sample
of intrinsic excellence: had her fate descended,
whilst filling her proper station, and in her own
country; or had not the circumstances which attended
some parts of that lady’s career been entirely
mistaken;—had not the cause of her miseries
been grossly misrepresented, and the story of
her desertion and embarrassed state at the time
of her dissolution altogether false;—I probably
should never have done more (under the impression
of its being intrusive, perhaps indelicate) than
mention her professional excellences.
But so much of that lady, and so much relating
to her death, has been recently mis-stated in the
public prints, (not for the purpose of doing her justice,
but of doing another injustice,) that I feel
myself warranted in sketching some traits and incidents
of Mrs. Jordan’s character and life—which
I know to be true, and a proportion whereof I was
personally acquainted with.—Some degree of mystery
has doubtless rested, and will probably continue
to rest, on the cause which led that lady to
repair to a foreign country, where she perished;
all I shall say, however, on that score is, that this
cause has been known to a very limited number
of individuals, and never had, in any shape or degree,
bearing or connexion with her former situation.
The reports current on this head I know to
be utterly unfounded, and many of them I believe
to be altogether malicious.
I am not Mrs. Jordan’s biographer; my observations
only apply to abstract portions of her conduct
and abstract periods of her life. I had the
gratification of knowing, for some time intimately,
that amiable woman and justly celebrated performer.
Her public talents are recorded; her private
merits are known comparatively to few. I
enjoyed a portion of her confidence on some very
particular subjects, and had full opportunity of
appreciating her character.
It was not by a mere cursory acquaintance Mrs.
Jordan could be known:—confidence alone could
develope her qualities, and I believe few of them
escaped my observation. I have seen her in the
busy bustling exercise of her profession:—I have
seen her in the tranquil lap of ease, of luxury, and
of magnificence;—in a theatre, surrounded by a
crowd of adulating dramatists—and when surrounded
by a numerous, interesting, and beloved
offspring. I have seen her happy:—I have seen
her miserable: and I could not help participating
in all her feelings.
At the point of time when I first saw Mrs.
Jordan, she could not be much more I think than
sixteen or seventeen years of age; and had made
her début as Miss Francis, at the Dublin Theatre.
It is worthy of observation, that her early appearances
in Dublin were not in any of those characters
(save one) wherein she afterward so eminently
excelled; though such as, being more girlish, were
better suited to her spirits and age. I was at that
time, of course, somewhat less competent than
now to form a judgment; yet could not then but
observe, that in these parts she was perfect even
on her first appearance: she had no art to study;—Nature
was her sole instructress. Youthful, joyous,
animated, and droll, her laugh arose from her
heart, her tear started ingenuously from her feeling.
Her countenance was all expression, without
being all beauty:—her form, then light and elastic—her
flexible limbs—the juvenile graces of
her every movement impressed themselves, as I
perceived, deeply upon those who attended even
her earliest performances.
Her expressive features and eloquent action at
all periods harmonised blandly with each other—not
by skill, but by intellectual sympathy: when
her figure was adapted to the part she assumed,
she had only to speak the words of an author to
become the very person he delineated. Her voice
was clear and distinct, modulating itself with natural
and winning ease; and when exerted in
song, its gentle flute-like melody formed the most
captivating contrast to the convulsed and thundering
bravura. She was throughout the untutored
child of Nature: she sang without effort, and
generally without the accompaniment of instruments;
and whoever heard her Dead of the Night,
and her Sweet Bird, either in public or private, if
they had any soul, must have surrendered at discretion.
In playful genteel comic characters, such as
Belinda, &c., she was excellent: but in the formal,
dignified, high-bred parts of comedy, her superiority
was not so decided:—her line, indeed, was distinctly
marked out; within its extent she stood
altogether unrivalled—nay, unapproached.
At the commencement of Mrs. Jordan’s theatrical
career she had difficulties to encounter
which nothing but superiority of talent could so
suddenly have surmounted. Both of the Dublin
theatres were filled with performers of high popular
reputation, and thus every important part in
her line of acting was ably preoccupied. The
talent of the female performers, matured by experience
and disciplined by practice, must yet have
yielded to the fascinating powers of her natural
genius, had it been suffered fairly to expand. But
the jealousy which never fails to pervade all professions
was powerfully excited to restrain the
development of her mimic powers; and it was
reserved for English audiences to give full play
and credit to that extraordinary comic genius,
which soon raised her to the highest pitch, at
once of popular and critical estimation.
Mrs. Daly (formerly Miss Barsanti) and Mrs.
Leyster were foremost among the successful occupants
of those buoyant characters to which Miss
Francis was peculiarly adapted:—others had long
filled the remaining parts to which she aspired,
and thus scarcely one was left open to engage her
talents.
Mr. Daly, about this time, resorted to a singular
species of theatrical entertainment, by the novelty
whereof he proposed to rival his competitors of
Smock-Alley; namely, that of reversing characters,
the men performing the female, and the females
the male parts in comedy and opera. The opera
of “The Governess” was played in this way for
several nights, the part of Lopez by Miss Francis.
In this singular and unimportant character the
versatility of her talent rendered the piece attractive,
and the season concluded with a strong
anticipation of her future celebrity.
The company then proceeded to perform in the
provinces, and at Waterford occurred the first
grave incident in the life of Mrs. Jordan. Lieutenant
Charles Doyne, of the third regiment of
heavy horse (Green’s), was then quartered in that
city; and, struck with the naïveté and almost irresistible
attractions of the young performer, his
heart yielded, and he became seriously and
honourably attached to her. Lieutenant Doyne
was not handsome, rather the reverse, but he was
a gentleman and a worthy man. He had been my
friend and companion some years at the university;
I therefore knew him intimately, and he entrusted
me with his passion. (Miss Francis’s mother was
then alive, and sedulously attended her.) Wild
and thoughtless myself, I told him, if he could
win the young lady, to marry her; adding, that
no doubt Fortune must smile, whether she chose or
not, on so disinterested a union; he being no
beauty himself, and having no chance of getting
a moneyed wife by his attractions, as young
ladies seldom fall in love with the unsophisticated
goodness of a lover: an ordinary picture without
either frame or gilding is seldom seen in a fashionable
drawing-room.
Her mother, however, was of a different opinion;
and as she had no fortune but her talent, the
exercise of which was to be relinquished with
the name of Francis, it became matter of serious
consideration whence they were to draw their
support—with the probability too of a family!
Here was a real enigma. His commission was
altogether inadequate, and his private fortune
small.—This, in short, was insurmountable. Mrs.
Francis, also anticipating the future celebrity of
her child, and unwilling to extinguish in obscurity
all chance of fame and fortune by means of the
profession she had adopted, worked upon her
daughter to decline the proposal. The treaty
accordingly ended, and Lieut. Doyne appeared to
me for a time almost inconsolable. Miss Francis
I did not see afterward; she accompanied her
mother, soon after, to England, and soon commenced
her ascent toward the pinnacle of fame.
Lieut. Doyne lately died collector of the Queen’s
County. His esteem for Mrs. Jordan was never
obliterated.
Mr. Owenson, the father of Lady Morgan, was
at that time highly celebrated in the line of Irish
characters, and never did an actor exist so perfectly
calculated, in my opinion, to personify that
singular class of people. Considerably above six
feet in height;—remarkably handsome and brave-looking,—vigorous
and well-shaped,—he was not
vulgar enough to disgust, nor was he genteel enough
to be out of character: never did I see any actor
so entirely identify himself with the peculiarities
of those Irish parts he assumed. In the higher
class of Irish characters (old officers, &c.) he
looked well, but did not exhibit sufficient formal
dignity; and in the lowest, his humour was scarcely
quaint and original enough; but in what might be
termed the “middle class of Paddies,” no man ever
combined the look and the manner with such felicity
as Owenson. Scientific singing was not an Irish
quality; and he sang well enough.—I have heard
Mr. Jack Johnstone warble so sweetly and so very
skilfully, and act some parts so very like a man of
education, that I almost forgot the nation he was
mimicking: that was not the case with Owenson;
he acted as if he had not received too much schooling,
and sang like a man whom nobody had instructed.
He was, like most of his profession,
careless of his concerns, and grew old without
growing rich. His last friend was old Fontaine,
a very celebrated French dancing-master, many
years domiciliated and highly esteemed in Dublin.
He aided Owenson and his family whilst he had
means to do so, and they both died nearly at the
same time—instances of talent and improvidence.
This digression I have ventured on, because in
the first place it harmonises with the theatrical
nature of my subject, and may be interesting—because
it relates to the father of an eminent and
amiable woman; and most particularly, because I
was informed that Mr. Owenson took a warm interest
in the welfare of Miss Francis, and was the
principal adviser of her mother in rejecting Mr.
Doyne’s addresses.
After a lapse of many years I chanced to acquire
the honour of a favourable introduction to
His Royal Highness the Duke of C——, who
became the efficient friend of me and of my family—not
with that high and frigid mien which so
often renders ungracious even the favours of upstart
authorities in the British government, but
with the condescending frankness and sincerity of
a royal prince. He received at an early age, and
educated, my only son with his own, and sent him,
as lieutenant of the fifth dragoon guards, to make
his campaigns in the Peninsula. This introduction
to His Royal Highness gave me unerring
opportunities of knowing, appreciating, and valuing,
Mrs. Jordan. In her there was no guile; her
heart was conspicuous in every word—her feelings
in every action; and never did I find, in any character,
a more complete concentration of every
quality that should distinguish a mother, a friend,
and a gentlewoman.
The outlines of Mrs. Jordan’s public life during
her connexion of twenty-three years with a royal
personage are too well known to require recital
here. But with respect to her memoirs after that
period, so much falsehood and exaggeration have
gone abroad—so many circumstances have been
distorted, and so many invented—some of the latter
possessing sufficient plausibility to deceive even
the most wary—that, if not a duty, it appears at
least not wrong to aid in the refutation of malicious
calumnies.
I have ever felt a great abhorrence of the system
of defamation on hearsay. Public men, as
such, may properly be commented on. It is the
birthright of the British people to speak fairly
their sentiments of those who rule them; but libel
on private reputation is a disgusting excrescence
upon the body of political freedom, and has latterly
grown to an extent so dangerous to individuals,
to families, and to society in general, and
so disgraceful to the press at large, that it may
hereafter afford plausible pretences for curtailing
the liberty of that organ—the pure and legal exercise
of which is the proudest and surest guardian
of British freedom. The present lax, unrestrained,
and vicious exuberance of the periodical press,
stamps the United Kingdom as the very focus of
libel and defamation in all their ramifications. No
reputation—no rank—no character, public or private,
neither the living nor the dead,—can escape
from its licentiousness. One comfort may be drawn
from the reflection—that it can proceed no further;
its next movement must be a retrograde one, and
I trust the legislature will not permit this retrogression
to be long deferred.
That spirit of licentiousness I have been endeavouring
to stigmatise was never more clearly
instanced than by the indefatigable and reiterated
attempts (for several years persevered in) to disparage
a royal personage, whose domestic habits,
and whose wise and commendable abstinence from
political party and conflicting factions, should have
exempted him from the pen and from the tongue
of misrepresentation, and rendered sacred a character
which only requires development to stand
as high in the estimation of every man who regards
the general happiness and power of the
empire, as that of any other member of the
same illustrious house. On this point I speak
not lightly: that which I state is neither the
effusion of gratitude nor the meanness of adulation:
the royal personage I allude to would
not commend me for the one, and would despise
me for the other.
I cannot conclude this digression without reprobating
in no measured terms that most dangerous
of all calumnious tendencies which endeavours
systematically to drag down the highest ranks to
the level of the lowest, and by labouring to excite
a democratic contempt of royal personages, attempts
gradually to sap the very foundation of
constitutional allegiance: such, however, has been
a practice of the day, exercised with all the rancour,
but without any portion of the ability, of
Junius.[33]
33. I rather think that a very good man, and one of the first
advocates of Ireland, carried this observation of mine and its
bearings rather beyond the point I here intended, in his speech
(as reported) in the Court of Chancery, on the arrival of the
present chancellor. The reply of Sir Anthony Hart appeared
to me to be the wisest, the most dignified, effective, and honest,
that could possibly be pronounced by a lord chancellor so circumstanced,
and coming after his noble predecessor.
It is deeply to be lamented that this system
has been exemplified by some individuals whose
literary celebrity might have well afforded them
the means of creditable subsistence, without endeavouring
to force into circulation works of mercenary
penmanship containing wanton slander of
the very highest personage in the United Empire.
I specify no name: I designate no facts;—if they
exist not, it is unimportant; if they are notorious,
the application will not be difficult. It is true
that a libeller cannot fully atone—yet he may repent;
and even that mortification would be a better
penance to any calumniator of distinguished
talent than to run the risk of being swamped between
the Scylla and Charybdis of untruth and
disaffection.
But to return to the accomplished subject of my
sketch:—I have seen her, as she called it, on a
cruise, that is, at a provincial theatre (Liverpool);
having gone over once from Dublin for that purpose:
she was not then in high spirits: indeed
her tone, in this respect, was not uniform; in the
mornings she usually seemed depressed; at noon
she went to rehearsal—came home fatigued, dined
at three, and then reclined in her chamber till it
was time to dress for the performance. She generally
went to the theatre low-spirited.
I once accompanied Mrs. Jordan to the green-room
at Liverpool: Mrs. Alsop, and her old maid,
assiduously attended her. She went thither languid
and apparently reluctant; but in a quarter
of an hour her very nature seemed to undergo a
metamorphosis: the sudden change of her manner
appeared to me, in fact, nearly miraculous; she
walked spiritedly across the stage two or three
times, as if to measure its extent; and the moment
her foot touched the scenic boards her spirit
seemed to be regenerated; she cheered up, hummed
an air, stepped light and quick, and every
symptom of depression vanished! The comic eye
and cordial laugh returned to their mistress, and
announced that she felt herself moving in her darling
element. Her attachment to the practice of
her profession, in fact, exceeded any thing I could
conceive.
Mrs. Jordan delighted in talking over past
events. She had strong impressions of every
thing; and I could perceive was sometimes influenced
rather by her feelings than her judgment.
“How happens it, Mrs. Jordan,” said I to her,
when last in Dublin, “that you still exceed all
your profession even in characters not so adapted
to you now as when I first saw you? How do you
contrive to be so buoyant—nay, so childish, on
the stage, while you lose half your spirits, and degenerate
into gravity, the moment you are off it?”
“Habit!” replied Mrs. Jordan, “old habit! had
I formerly studied my positions, weighed my
words, and measured my sentences, I should have
been artificial, and they might have hissed me:
so, when I had got the words well by heart, I told
Nature I was then at her service to do whatever
she thought proper with my feet, legs, hands,
arms, and features: to her I left the whole matter:
I became, in fact, merely her puppet, and
never interfered further myself in the business. I
heard the audience laugh at me, and I laughed at
myself: they laughed again, so did I: and they
gave me credit for matters I knew very little about,
and for which Dame Nature, not I, should have
received their approbation.
“The best rule for a performer,” said Mrs. Jordan,
“is to forget, if possible, that any audience is
listening. We perform best of all in our closets,
and next best to crowded houses. How singular
the contrast! but I scarcely ever saw a good performer
who was always eyeing the audience. If,”
continued she, “half the gesticulation, half the
wit, drollery, and anecdote which I heard among
you all at Curran’s Priory, at Grattan’s cottage,
and at your house, had been displayed before an
audience, without your knowing that any body was
listening to you, the performance would have been
cheered as one of the finest pieces of comic acting
possible, though, in fact, your only plot was endeavouring
to get tipsy as agreeably as possible!”
This last visit of Mrs. Jordan to the Irish capital
took place in the year 1809, and afforded me a
full opportunity of eliciting the traits of her nature
and disposition. She was greeted in that metropolis
with all the acclamations that her reputation
and talent so fully merited: she was well received
among the best society in Dublin, whose anxiety
was excited beyond measure to converse with her
in private. Here, however, she disappointed all;
for there was about her no display; and the animated,
lively, brilliant mimic, on the boards, was
in the saloon retiring, quiet, nay, almost reserved.
Mrs. Jordan seldom spoke much in company,
particularly in very large assemblies: but then
she spoke well: she made no exertion to appear
distinguished, and became more so by the absence
of effort. The performer was wholly merged in
the gentlewoman; and thus, although on her
entrance this celebrated person failed to impress
the company, she never failed to retire in possession
of their respect.
On that tour she said she was very ill-treated
by the managers. The understanding was, she
told me, that she was to receive half the profits:
yet, although the houses were invariably crowded,
the receipts were inadequate to her expectations.
Many of the performers who had been appointed
to act with her were below mediocrity. One was
forgetful—another drunk. I confess I never myself
saw such a crew. All this rendered Mrs. Jordan
miserable, and she sought relief in the exercise of
her benevolent feelings. Among other objects of
her bounty was an old actor called Barrett, who
had played on the night of her début, and was
then in most indigent circumstances. Him she
made comfortable, and gave efficient assistance
to several others whom she had known in former
years.
The managers (I know not why) acted toward
her not with so much respect as every body, except
themselves, had shown that most amiable woman.
She had found it absolutely necessary to refuse
performing with one or two vulgar fellows belonging
to the set whom they had selected to sustain
her; and she quitted the country at length,
having formed a fixed determination never to repeat
any engagement with the same persons.
She had scarcely arrived in England when some
of the parties, including a Mr. Dwyer, a player,
quarrelled; and actions for defamation were
brought forward among them. A writer of the
name of Corri also published periodical libels, in
one of which he paid Mrs. Jordan the compliment
of associating her with the Duchess of Gordon. I
and my family had likewise the honour of partaking
in the abuse of that libel, and I prosecuted
the printer. On the trial of the cause, one of the
counsel, Mr. Thomas (now Serjeant) Gold, thought
proper (as reported in the newspapers) to indulge
himself in language and statements respecting
Mrs. Jordan neither becoming nor true. In cross-examining
me as a witness, on the prosecution of
the printer, he essayed a line of interrogation highly
improper as to that lady; but he took care not to
go too far with me when I was present: a monosyllable
or two I found quite sufficient to check
the exuberance of “my learned friend;” and on
this occasion he was not backward in taking a
hint. The libeller was found guilty, and justly
sentenced to a protracted imprisonment.
I never knew Mrs. Jordan feel so much as at
the speech of Mr. Gold on that occasion: as it
appeared in several newspapers, it was too bad even
for a vulgar declaimer; and when Mrs. Jordan’s
situation, her family, and her merits were considered,
it was inexcusable. I do not state this
feeling of Mrs. Jordan solely from my own impression:
I received from her a letter indicative of
the anguish which that speech had excited within
her; and I should do injustice to her memory if
(as she enjoined me to do) I did not publish in her
justification an extract of that letter.
“Bushy House, Wednesday.
“My dear Sir,
“Not having the least suspicion of the
business in Dublin, it shocked and grieved me
very much; not only on my own account, but I
regret that I should have been the involuntary
cause of any thing painful to you, or to your
amiable family. But of Mr. Jones I can think
any thing: and I beg you will do me the justice
to believe that my feelings are not selfish. Why
indeed should I expect to escape their infamous
calumnies? Truth, however, will force its way.* * * * *
I wanted nothing from Mr. C * * *’s generosity,
but I had a claim on his justice:—* * * * *
“During the two representations of ‘The Inconstant’
I represented to him the state Mr.
Dwyer was in, and implored him, out of respect
to the audience, if not in pity to my terrors, to
change the play. As to the libel on Mr. Dwyer,
charged to me by Mr. Gold, I never directly or
indirectly, by words or by writing, demeaned
myself by interfering in the most remote degree
with so wretched a concern. I knew no editor—I
read no newspapers while in Dublin. The
charge is false and libellous on me, published, I
presume, through Mr. Gold’s assistance. Under
that view of the case, he will feel himself rather
unpleasantly circumstanced should I call upon
him either to prove or disavow his assertions. To
be introduced any way into such a business shocks
and grieves me: he might have pleaded for his
companions without calumniating me: but, for the
present, I shall drop an irksome subject, which
has already given me more than ordinary uneasiness. * * * * * *
I have seen this accomplished woman in the
midst of one of the finest families in England, surrounded
by splendour, beloved, respected, and
treated with all the deference paid to a member
of high life. I could perceive, indeed, no offset to
her comforts and gratification. She was, in my
hearing, frequently solicited to retire from her profession:
she was urged to forego all further emoluments
from its pursuit; and this single fact gives
the contradiction direct to reports which I should
feel it improper even to allude to further. Her
constant reply was, that she would retire when
Mrs. Siddons did; but that her losses by the fire
at Covent Garden, together with other incidental
outgoings, had been so extensive, as to induce her
continuance of the profession to replace her finances.
Her promise to retire with Mrs. Siddons,
however, she did not act up to, but continued to
gratify the public, with enormous profit to herself,
down to the very last year she remained in England.
It is matter of fact, too, (though perhaps
here out of place,) that, so far from a desertion of
this lady, as falsely reported, to the last hour of
her life the solicitude of her royal friend was, I
believe, undiminished; and though separated, for
causes in no way discreditable to either, he never
lost sight of her interest or her comforts. It was
not the nature of His Royal Highness:—he was
incapable of unkindness toward Mrs. Jordan: those
reports had, indeed, no foundation, save in the
vicious representation of hungry or avaricious editors,
or in the scurrility of those hackneyed and
indiscriminate enemies of rank and reputation,
whose aspersions are equally a disgrace and an
injury to the country wherein they are tolerated.
34. The speeches of counsel on that trial being published in the
newspapers, she requested my advice as to bringing an action
for defamation against some of the parties. My reply to her
was the same that had been pleasantly and adroitly given to
myself by Sir John Doyle.
“If you wrestle with a chimney-sweeper,” said Sir John,
“it is true you may throw your antagonist; but you will be
sure to dirty your own coat by the encounter.” Never was
there a better aphorism. Mrs. Jordan adopted it; and most
properly satisfied herself with despising, instead of punishing,
all her calumniators.
To contribute toward the prevention of all further
doubt as to Mrs. Jordan’s unmixed happiness
at the period of her residence at Bushy, as well
as to exhibit the benevolence of her heart and the
warmth of her attachments, I will introduce at this
point extracts from some other letters addressed to
myself:—
“Bushy.
“My dear Sir,
“I cannot resist the pleasure of informing
you that your dear boy has not only passed,
but passed with great credit, at the Military College:—it
gives us all the highest satisfaction.
My two beloved boys are now at home:—they
have both gone to South-Hill to see your Edward.
We shall have a full and merry house at Christmas;
’tis what the dear duke delights in:—a happier
set, when altogether, I believe never yet existed.
The ill-natured parts of the world never can enjoy
the tranquil pleasures of domestic happiness.
“I have made two most lucrative trips since I
saw you. Adkinson came to see me at Liverpool—quite
as poetical as ever, and the best-natured poet
I believe in the world.
“Yours, ever truly,
“Dora Jordan.”
“Bushy.
“My dear Sir,
“I returned here on the 7th inst. after
a very fatiguing, though very prosperous cruise of
five weeks, and found all as well as I could wish.
Your Edward left us this morning for Marlow: I
found him improved in every thing. I never saw
the duke enjoy any thing more than the poultry
you sent us:[35] they were delicious: he desires me
to offer his best regards to yourself and your ladies.
Lucy is gone on a visit to Lady De Roos.
“Yours, most truly,
“Dora Jordan.”
“Bushy.
“My dear Sir,
“I have returned here:—but, alas! the
happiness I had promised to myself has met a
cruel check at finding the good duke very unwell.
You can scarcely conceive my misery at the cause
of such a disappointment: but there is every appearance
of a favourable result not being very
distant: ’tis his old periodical attack, but not near
so severe as I have seen it. I shall not write to
you as I intended till I can announce His Royal
Highness’s recovery. I shall have neither head
nor nerves to write, or even to think, till I am
able to contribute to your pleasure, by announcing
my own happiness and his recovery.
“* * * * &c.
“Dora Jordan.
“Sir J. Barrington,
“Merrion-square, Dublin.”
35. There were a species of chickens then to be had in Dublin
such as I never saw in any other country;—as white as snow,
very small, fat, and trussed up as round as little balls: the eye
and the palate were equally gratified by them. The crammed
fowls of Dublin were then also unrivalled. I believe they are
now equalled in London, and vastly exceeded by the capons of
Paris, which are quite delicious:—lamb at Paris, too, is
finer than any where else.
“Bushy.
“We have just returned from Maidenhead;
and I postponed writing to you till I could give
you an account of Edward, who, with Colonel
Butler, dined with us there:—he looks wonderfully
well, and the uniform becomes him extremely.
On the ladies leaving the room, Colonel
Butler gave the duke a very favourable account
of him; and I trust it will give you and Lady
Barrington the more satisfaction, when I assure
you that it is by no means a partial account.
“I am sure you will be pleased to hear that
your young friend Lucy is about to be married,
much to my satisfaction, to Colonel Hawker, of
the 14th dragoons: he is a most excellent man,
and has a very good private property: she will
make the best of wives; a better girl never yet
lived: it makes me quite happy, and I intend to
give her the value of 10,000l.
“* * * * &c.
“Dora Jordan.”
The days of Mrs. Jordan continued to pass on,
alternately in the exercise of a lucrative profession
and the domestic enjoyment of an adoring
family, when circumstances (which, because mysterious
to the public, are construed necessarily to
imply culpability somewhere or other) occasioned
a separation:—certainly an event most unexpected
by those who had previously known the happy
state of her connexion. I was at first ignorant of
it, and it would be worse than presumption to
enter into any converse on a subject at once so
private, so delicate, and so interesting. Suffice it
to say, that of all the accounts and surmises as to
that event in which the public prints were pleased
to indulge themselves, not one was true: indeed,
I have good reason to believe that there was
scarcely a single incident whereto that separation
was publicly attributed, that had any degree of
foundation whatsoever. Such circumstances should
ever remain known to those only who feel the impropriety
of amusing the readers at a news-room
with subjects of private importance. I will, however,
repeat, from authority I cannot doubt, that
the separation took effect from causes no way dishonourable
to either party: that it was not sought
for by the one, nor necessary on the part of the
other. It was too hasty to be discreet, and too
much influenced by feelings of the moment to be
hearty. Though not altogether unacquainted with
those circumstances, I never presumed to make an
observation upon the subject, save to contradict,
in direct terms, statements which, at the time I
heard them, I knew to be totally unfounded; and
never was the British press more prostituted than
in the malicious colouring given (and rather recently,
too,) to the conduct of a royal personage
on that occasion.
General Hawker, one of the late King’s aides-de-camp,
had married Miss Jordan; and in the
punctilious honour and integrity of this gentleman,
every body who knew and knows him did
and does rely with unmixed confidence. Such
reliance His Royal Highness evinced by sending,
through him, I believe, carte blanche to Mrs. Jordan,
when the separation had been determined
on, enabling her to dictate whatever she conceived
would be fully adequate to her maintenance,
without recurrence to her profession, in all the
comforts to which she had been so long accustomed;
and every thing she wished for was arranged
to her satisfaction. Still, however, infatuated
with attachment to theatrical pursuits, she
continued to accept of temporary engagements to
her great profit: and it will perhaps scarcely be
credited, that so unsated were British audiences
with Mrs. Jordan’s unrivalled performances, that
even at her time of life, with certainly diminished
powers and an altered person, the very last year
she remained in England brought her a clear profit
of near 7000l. I cannot be mistaken in this
statement; for my authority (a person of truth
and honour in their fullest extent) could not wilfully
err on that point. The malicious representations,
therefore, of her having been left straitened
in pecuniary circumstances were literally fabulous;
for to the very moment of her death she remained
in full possession of all the means of comfort—nay,
if she chose it, of luxury. Why, therefore, she
emigrated, pined away, and expired in a foreign
country (of whose language she was ignorant, and
in whose habits she was wholly unversed), with
every appearance of necessity, is also considered a
mystery by those unacquainted with the cruel circumstances
which led to that unfortunate catastrophe.
It is not by my pen that miserable story,
as I learned it, shall be told. It was a transaction
wherein her royal friend had, directly or indirectly,
no concern, nor did it in any way spring out
of that connexion. She had, in fact, only to
accuse herself of benevolence, confidence, and honour:
to those demerits, and to the ingratitude of
others, she fell a lingering, broken-hearted victim.
When His Royal Highness was informed of the
determination on the part of her friends that Mrs.
Jordan should take up a temporary residence on
the continent, he insisted on her retaining the attendance
of Miss K * * * *, who for many years
had been attached to the establishment at Bushy,
as superintendent and governess of the duke’s
children. This lady, therefore, whose sincere attachment
had been so long and truly proved, accompanied
Mrs. Jordan (as I have understood) as
her companion, and almost to the time of her death
continued to administer to her comforts—endeavouring,
so far as in her lay, by her society and
attentions, to solace the mental misery which
pressed upon her friend’s health and had extinguished
her spirits. She was also accompanied
to the continent by Colonel Hawker, the general’s
brother: but, as she wished, during her residence
in France, to be totally retired, she took no
suite. She selected Boulogne as a place of convenient
proximity to England; and in a cottage
half a mile from that town awaited with indescribable
anxiety the completion of those affairs
which had occasioned her departure, rapturously
anticipating the happiness of embracing her children
afresh after a painful absence.
MRS. JORDAN IN FRANCE.
Decline of Mrs. Jordan’s health—Description of her cottage and grounds at Boulogne-sur-Mer—Madame Ducamp and her servant Agnes—Their account of Mrs. Jordan’s habits and manners—Removal of that lady to Versailles and subsequently to St. Cloud—Account of her illness and last moments.
The circumstances which induced Mrs. Jordan
to repair to the continent were of such a nature,
that the reader need not think it extraordinary that
a deep impression was made upon her health; not
indeed in the shape of actual disease, but by the
workings of a troubled spirit, pondering and drooping
over exaggerated misfortunes. Estranged,
though only temporarily, from those she loved,
and from that profession the resort to which had
never failed to restore her animation and amuse
her fancy, mental malady soon communicated its
contagion to the physical organisation, and sickness
began to make visible inroads on the heretofore
healthy person of that lamented lady.
She established herself first at Boulogne-sur-Mer.
A cottage was selected by her at Maquetra,
about a quarter of a mile from the gate of the
fortress. Often have I since, as if on classic
ground, strolled down the little garden which had
been there her greatest solace. The cottage is
very small, but neat, commodious, and of cheerful
aspect. A flower and fruit garden of corresponding
dimensions, and a little paddock (comprising
much less than half an acre) formed her demesne.
In an adjoining cottage resided her old landlady,
Madame Ducamp, who was in a state of competence,
and altogether an original. She had married
a gardener, much younger and of humbler birth
than herself. I think she had been once handsome:
her story I never heard fully; but it appeared
that she had flourished during the Revolution.
She spoke English when she pleased;
and, like most Frenchwomen, when d’âge mûr,
was querulous, intrusive, and curious beyond limitation,
with as much professed good-nature as would
serve at least fifty of our old English gentlewomen.
She was not, in truth, devoid of the reality as well
as the semblance of that quality: but she overacted
the philanthropist, and consequently did not
deceive those accustomed to look deeper than the
surface. This good lady is still in statu quo, and
very likely to remain so.
Under colour of taking her vacant cottage for a
friend, a party of my family went to Maquetra, to
learn what we could respecting Mrs. Jordan’s
residence there. The old lady recollected her
name, but pronounced it in a way which it was
scarcely possible for us to recognise. A long conversation
ensued, in some parts as interesting, and
in others nearly as light as the subject could admit
of.—Madame Ducamp repeated to us a hundred
times, in five minutes, that she had “beaucoup,
beaucoup de vénération pour cette chère,
chère malheureuse dame Anglaise!” whom she
assured us, with a deep sigh, was “sans doute
un ange supérieur!” She was proceeding to tell us
every thing she knew, or I suppose could invent,
when, perceiving a child in the garden pulling the
flowers, she abruptly discontinued her eulogium,
and ran off to drive away the intruder; having
done which, she returned to resume: but too
late! in her absence her place had been fully and
fairly occupied by Agnes, an ordinary French
girl, Madame Ducamp’s bonne (servant of all work),
whom we soon found was likely to prove a much
more truth-telling person than her mistress.
Agnes informed us, with great feeling, that
“the economy of that charming lady was very
strict: nécessairement, je crains,” added she, with
a slow movement of her head and a truly eloquent
look. They had found out (she said) that their
lodger had been once riche et magnifique; but
when there she was very—very poor indeed!
“But,” exclaimed the poor girl, her eye brightening
up and her tone becoming firmer, “that
could make no difference to me! si j’aime,—j’aime!
J’ai servi cette pauvre dame avec le même zèle (peut-être
encore plus) que si elle eut été une princesse!”
This frank-hearted display of poor Agnes’s sentiments
was extremely affecting; it was, however,
not in fact called for, since Mrs. Jordan might have
commanded, during the whole period of her continental
residence, any sums she thought proper.
She had money in the bank, in the funds, and in
miscellaneous property, and had just before she
came over received some thousands. But she was
become nearly careless as well of pecuniary as
other matters, and took up a whim (for it was nothing
more) to affect poverty,—thus deceiving the
world, and giving, herself, a vantage-ground to the
gossiping and censorious.
Agnes’s information went on to show that Mrs.
Jordan’s whole time was passed in anxious expectation
of letters from England, and on the English
post-days she was peculiarly miserable. We
collected from the girl that her garden and guitar
were her only resources against that consuming
melancholy which steals even the elements of existence,
and plunges both body and mind into a
state of morbid languor—the fruitful parent of
disease, insanity, and death.
At this point of the story Madame Ducamp
would no longer be restrained, and returned to the
charge with redoubled assertions of her own friendship
to “the poor lady,” and bonne nature in general.
“Did you know her, Monsieur?” said she:
“alas! she nearly broke my heart by trying to
break her own!”
“I have heard of her since I arrived here, Madame,”
replied I cautiously.
“Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur,” rejoined Madame
Ducamp, “if you had known her as well as Agnes
and I did, you would have loved her just as
much. I am sure she had been accustomed to
grandeur, though I could never découvrir la cause de
sa ruine. Ah!” pursued Madame, “she was
aimable et honnête beyond description; and though
so very poor, paid her louage like a goddess.” At
this moment some other matter, perhaps suggested
by the word louage, came across the old woman’s
brain, and she again trotted off. The remaining
intelligence which we gathered from Agnes related
chiefly to Mrs. Jordan’s fondness for music
and perpetual indulgence therein, and to her own
little achievements in the musical way on a guitar,
which she produced,—whereby, she told us with
infinite naïveté, she had frequently experienced the
gratification of playing and singing Madame to
sleep! She said that there was some little mutual
difficulty in the first place as to understanding
each other, since the stranger was ignorant of the
French language, and she herself “had not the
honour” to speak English. “However,” continued
Agnes, “we formed a sort of language of
our own, consisting of looks and signs, and in these
Madame was more eloquent than any other person
I had ever known.” Here the girl’s recollections
seemed fairly to overcome her; and with that apparently
exaggerated sensibility which is, nevertheless,
natural to the character of her country,
she burst into tears, exclaiming, “Oh Ciel! oh
Ciel!—elle est morte! elle est morte!”[36]
36. The intermixed French phrases which I have retained in
sketching this conversation at Maquetra may perhaps appear
affected to some; and I frankly admit there are few things in
composition so disagreeable to me as a jumble of words culled
from different tongues, and constituting a mélange which advances
no just claim to the title of any language whatever. But
those who are accustomed to the familiar terms and expressive
ejaculations of French colloquy, know that the idiomatic mode
of expression only can convey the true point and spirit of the
dialogue, and more particularly does this observation apply to
the variegated traits of character belonging to French females.
The conversation with Agnes consisted, on her part, nearly
of broken sentences throughout—I may say, almost of looks
and monosyllables! at all events, of simple and expressive
words in a combination utterly unadapted to the English
tongue. Let a well-educated and unprejudiced gentleman hold
converse on the same topics with an English and a French
girl, and his remarks as to the difference will not fail to illustrate
what I have said.
Far—very far be it from me to depreciate the fair ones of
our own country. I believe that they are steadier and better
calculated to describe facts, or to advise in an emergency: but
they must not be offended with me for adding, that in the expression
of every feeling, either of a lively or tearful nature, as
well as in the graces of motion, their elastic neighbours are immeasurably
superior. Even their eyes speak idioms which our
less pliable language cannot explain. I have seen humble girls
in France who speak more in one second than many of our finest
ladies could utter in almost a century! Chaqu’un a son goût,
however; and I honestly confess, that a sensitive French girl
would make but an ill-assorted match with a thorough-bred
John Bull!
I cannot help thinking that the deep and indelible
impression thus made by Mrs. Jordan upon
an humble unsophisticated servant girl exemplifies
her kind and winning manners better than the
most laboured harangues of a whole host of biographers.
Madame Ducamp meanwhile had been fidgeting
about, and arranging every thing to show off
her cottage to the greatest advantage; and without
further conversation, except as to the price of
the tenement, we parted with mutual “assurances
of the highest consideration.”
I renewed my visits to the old woman; but her
stories were either so fabulous or disconnected,
and those of Agnes so unvaried, that I saw no probability
of acquiring further information, and lost
sight of Mrs. Jordan’s situation for a considerable
time after her departure from Boulogne. I thought
it, by-the-bye, very extraordinary that neither the
mistress nor maid said a word about any attendant
of Mrs. Jordan, even although it was not till long
after that I heard of Col. Hawker and Miss K * * * *
having accompanied her from England. After
Mrs. Jordan left Boulogne, it appears that she repaired
to Versailles, and subsequently, in still
greater privacy, to St. Cloud, where, totally secluded,
and under the name of Johnson, she continued
to await, with agitated impatience, in a
state of extreme depression, the answers to some
letters, by which was to be determined her
future conduct as to the distressing business that
had led her to the continent. Her solicitude arose
not so much from the real importance of this affair
as from her indignation and disgust at the ingratitude
which she had experienced, and which by
drawing aside the curtain from before her unwilling
eyes, had exposed a novel and painful view of
human nature.
At that period I occupied a large hotel adjoining
the Bois de Boulogne. Not a mile intervened
between us; yet, until long after Mrs. Jordan’s
decease, I never heard she was in my neighbourhood.
There was no occasion whatever for such
entire seclusion; but the anguish of her mind had
by this time so enfeebled her, that a bilious complaint
was generated, and gradually increased.
Its growth did not appear to give her much uneasiness—so
dejected and lost had she become.
Day after day her misery augmented, and at
length she seemed (we were told) actually to
regard the approach of dissolution with a kind of
placid welcome!
The apartments she occupied at St. Cloud were
in a house in the square adjoining the palace.
This house appeared to me large, gloomy, cold,
and inconvenient; just the sort of place which
would tell in description in a romance. It seemed
almost in a state of dilapidation. I could not, I
am sure, wander over it at night without a superstitious
feeling. The rooms were numerous, but
small; the furniture scanty, old, and tattered.
The hotel had obviously once belonged to some
nobleman; and a long, lofty, flagged gallery
stretched from one wing of it to the other, which
looked over a large uncultivated garden, and a
charming country beyond. But Mrs. Jordan’s
chambers were wretched: no English comforts solaced
her latter moments! In her little drawing-room,
a small old sofa was the best piece of furniture:
on this she constantly reclined, and on it
she expired.[37]
37. When I first saw Mrs. Jordan’s abode at St. Cloud, it was
on a dismal, chilly winter’s day, and I was myself in corresponding
mood. Hence perhaps every cheerless object was
exaggerated, and I wrote on the spot the above description.
I have again viewed the place: again beheld with melancholy
interest the sofa on which Mrs. Jordan breathed her last.
There it still, I believe, remains; but the whole premises have
been repaired, and an English family has now one wing, together
with an excellent garden, before overgrown with weeds:
the two melancholy cypress-trees I first saw upon the little
terrace yet remain. The surrounding prospect is undoubtedly
very fine; but I would not, even were I made a present of that
mansion, consent to reside in it one month;—in winter, not one
night!
The account given to us of her last moments,
by the master of the house, was very affecting:
he likewise thought she was poor, and offered her
the use of money, which offer was of course declined.
Nevertheless, he said, he always considered
her apparent poverty, and a magnificent
diamond ring which she wore, as quite incompatible,
and to him inexplicable. I have happened
to learn since that she gave four hundred guineas
for that superb ring. She had also with her, as I
heard, many other valuable trinkets; and on her
death, seals were put upon all her effects, which I
understand still remain unclaimed.
From the time of her arrival at St. Cloud, it
appears, Mrs. Jordan had exhibited the most restless
anxiety for intelligence from England. Every
post gave rise to increased solicitude, and every
letter she received seemed to have a different effect
on her feelings. Latterly she appeared more
anxious and miserable than usual: her uneasiness
increased almost momentarily, and her skin
became wholly discoloured. From morning till
night she lay sighing upon her sofa.
At length an interval of some posts occurred
during which she received no answers to her letters,
and her consequent anxiety, my informant said,
seemed too great for mortal strength to bear up
against. On the morning of her death this impatient
feeling reached its crisis. The agitation was
almost fearful: her eyes were now restless, now
fixed; her motion rapid and unmeaning; and her
whole manner seemed to bespeak the attack of
some convulsive paroxysm. She eagerly requested
Mr. C * * *, before the usual hour of delivery, to
go for her letters to the post. On his return, she
started up and held out her hand, as if impatient
to receive them. He told her there were none.
She stood a moment motionless; looked toward
him with a vacant stare; held out her hand again,
as if by an involuntary action; instantly withdrew
it, and sank back upon the sofa from which she
had arisen. He left the room to send up her attendant,
who however had gone out, and Mr.
C * * * returned himself to Mrs. Jordan. On his
return, he observed some change in her looks that
alarmed him: she spoke not a word, but gazed at
him steadfastly. She wept not—no tear flowed:
her face was one moment flushed—another livid:
she sighed deeply, and her heart seemed bursting.
Mr. C * * * stood uncertain what to do: but in a
minute he heard her breath drawn more hardly,
and as it were sobbingly. He was now thoroughly
terrified: he hastily approached the sofa, and
leaning over the unfortunate lady, discovered that
those deep-drawn sobs had immediately preceded
the moment of Mrs. Jordan’s dissolution. She was
already no more!
Thus terminated the worldly career of a woman
at the very head of her profession, and one of the
best-hearted of her sex! Thus did she expire,
after a life of celebrity and magnificence, in exile
and solitude, and literally of a broken heart! She
was buried by Mr. Forster, now chaplain to the
ambassador.
Our informant told this little story with a feeling
which evidently was not affected. The French
have a mode of narrating even trivial matters with
gesticulation and detail, whereby they are impressed
on your memory. The slightest incident
they repeat with emphasis; and on this occasion
Mr. C * * * completed his account without any
of those digressions in which his countrymen so
frequently indulge.
Several English friends at Paris, a few years
ago, entered into a determination to remove Mrs.
Jordan’s body to Père la Chaise, and place a marble
over her grave. The subscription, had the
plan been proceeded in, would have been ample;
but some (I think rather mistaken) ideas of delicacy
at that time suspended its execution. As it
is, I believe I may say, “Not a stone tells where
she lies!”
MEMORY.
Diversity of the author’s pursuits—Superficial acquirements contrasted with solid—Variety and change of study conducive to health—Breeding ideas—How to avoid ennui—The principles of memory and fear—The author’s theory respecting the former, and his motive for its introduction.
My pursuits from my earliest days have been
(right or wrong) all of my own selection: some
of them were rather of a whimsical character;
others merely adopted pour passer le temps; a few
of a graver and more solid cast. (The law was an
indispensable one.) On the whole, I believe I may
boast that few persons, if any, of similar standing
in society adopted a greater variety of occupations
than myself.
The truth is, I never suffered my mind to stagnate
one moment; and unremittingly sought to
bring it so far under my own controul, as to be
enabled to turn its energies at all times, promptly
and without difficulty, from the lightest pursuits to
the most serious business, and vice versâ; and,
for the time being, to occupy it exclusively on a
single subject. These are the arts of managing
thought; a person who can do such things is never
bilious!
My system (if such it may be called) led me to a
dabbling in sciences, arts, and literature—just sufficient
to feed my intellect with varieties, and keep
my mind busy and afloat without being overloaded:
thus, I dipped irregularly into numerous
elementary treatises, embracing a great variety of
subjects—among which, even theology, chemistry,
physic, anatomy, architecture, the trades and mechanical
arts, (to say nothing of politics) were included.
In a word, I looked into every species of
publication I could lay my hands on; and I never
have been honoured by one second of ennui, or felt
a propensity to an hour’s languor during my existence
except when I was actually sick. My mind
is never disordered, and my brain having plenty of
occupation, I never had time to go mad!
This fanciful—the reader may, if he pleases, say
superficial and frivolous species of learning and
self-employment, would, I doubt not, be scouted
with contempt by learned LL. Ds., Bachelors of
Arts, Fellows of Colleges, Wranglers at Universities,
&c. These gentlemen very properly saturate
their capacities with more solid stuff, each imbibing,
even to the dregs, one or two dignified, substantial
sciences, garnished with dead languages,
and served up to their pupils with a proper seasoning
of pedantry and importance. Thus they
enjoy the gratification of being wiser in something
than their neighbours, without much troubling
their organs of variety; a plan, I readily admit,
more appropriate to learning and philosophy, and
perhaps more useful to others: but at the same
time, I contend that mine (and I speak with the
experience of a very long life) is conducive in a
greater degree to pleasure, to health, to happiness;
and I shrewdly suspect far more convenient to the
greater number of capacities.
A certain portion of external and internal variety,
like change of air, keeps the animal functions
in due activity, while it renders the mind
supple and elastic, and more capable of accommodating
itself with promptitude to those difficult
and trying circumstances into which the vicissitudes
of life may plunge it. I admire and respect
solid learning; but even a superficial knowledge
of a variety of subjects tends to excite that inexhaustible
succession of thoughts which, at hand on
every emergency, gives tone and vigour both to
the head and heart, (not infrequently excluding
more unwelcome visitors,) and is a decided and triumphant
enemy to hanging, drowning, shooting,
cutting of throats, and every other species of suicide
except that which so frequently originates from
being too rich—a misfortune which seldom falls to
the lot of persons who follow the system I have recommended.
I do really think, that if a very
rich man, who meditated suicide, would for one moment
reflect what sincere pleasure his heirs, executors,
administrators, and personal representatives
(probably his wife and children) would derive from
his dangling from the ceiling, he would lock up
his rope and become vastly more hospitable.
All my life I perceived the advantage of breeding
ideas: the brain can never be too populous, so
long as you keep its inhabitants in that wholesome
state of discipline, that they are under your command,
not you under theirs; and, above all things,
never suffer a mob of them to come jostling each
other in your head at the same time: keep them
as distinct as possible, or it is a hundred to one
they will make a blockhead of you at last.
From this habit it has ensued that the longest
day is always too short for me. If in tranquil
mood, I find my ideas as playful as kittens; if
chagrined, consolatory fancies are never wanting.
When a man can send the five orders of architecture
to build castles in the firmament, of any shape, size
or materials he may fancy, and furnish it accordingly,
I think a permanent state of melancholy
quite unnecessary. Should I grow weary of
thoughts relating to the present, my memory carries
me back fifty or sixty years with equal politeness
and activity; and never ceases shifting time,
place, and person, till it lights on some matter
more agreeable.
I had naturally very feeble sight: at fifty years
of age, to my extreme surprise, I found it had
strengthened so much as to render the continued
use of spectacles unnecessary; and now I can
peruse the smallest print without any glass, and
can write a hand so minute, that I know several
elderly gentlemen of my own decimal who cannot
conquer it even with their reading-glasses. For
general use I remark, that I have found my sight
more confused by poring for a given length of
time over one book, than in double that time when
shifting from one print to another, and changing
the place I sat in, and of course the quality of
light and reflection: to a neglect of such precautions
I attribute many of the weak and near
visions so common with book-worms.
But another quality of inestimable value which
I did and still do possess, thank Heaven! in a degree
which, at my time of life, if not supernatural,
is not very far from it—is a memory of the most
wide-ranging powers: its retrospect is astonishing
to myself, and has wonderfully increased since
my necessary application to a single science has
been dispensed with. The recollection of one
early incident of our lives never fails to introduce
another; and the marked occurrences of my life
from childhood to the wrong side of a grand climacteric
are at this moment fresh in my memory,
in all their natural tints, as at the instant of their
occurrence.
Without awarding any extraordinary merit either
to the brain, or to those human organs generally
regarded as the seat of recollection, or rather retention
of ideas, I think this fact may be accounted
for in a much simpler way—more on
philosophical than on organic principles. I do not
insist on my theory being a true one; but as it is,
like Touchstone’s forest-treasure, “my own,” I
like it, and am content to hold by it “for better,
for worse.”
The two qualities of the human mind with which
we are most strongly endowed in childhood are
those of fear and memory; both of which accompany
us throughout all our worldly peregrinations—with
this difference, that with age the one
generally declines, while the other increases.
The mind has a tablet whereon Memory begins
to engrave occurrences even in our earliest days,
and which in old age is full of her handy-work, so
that there is no room for any more inscriptions.
Hence old people recollect occurrences long past
better than those of more recent date; and though
an old person can faithfully recount the exploits
of his schoolfellows, he will scarcely recollect
what he himself was doing the day before yesterday.
It is also observable that the recollection, at an
advanced period, of the incidents of childhood,
does not require that extent of memory which at
first sight may appear essential; neither is it
necessary to bound at once over the wide gulf of
life between sixty years and three.
Memory results from a connected sequence of
thought and observation: so that intervening occurrences
draw up the recollection as it were to
preceding ones, and thus each fresh-excited act of
remembrance in fact operates as a new incident.
When a person recollects well (as one is apt to do)
a correction which he received in his childhood, or
whilst a schoolboy, he probably owes his recollection
not to the whipping, but to the name of the
book which he was whipped for neglecting; and
whenever the book is occasionally mentioned, the
whipping is recalled, revived, and perpetuated in
the memory.
I once received a correction at school, when
learning prosody, for falsely pronouncing the word
semisopitus; and though this was between fifty and
sixty years ago, I have never since heard prosody
mentioned but I have recollected that word, and
had the schoolmaster and his rod clearly before my
eyes. I even recollect the very leaf of the book
whereon the word was printed. Every time I look
into a book of poetry, I must of course think of
prosody, and prosody suggests semisopitus, and
brings before me, on the instant, the scene of my
disgrace.
This one example is sufficient for my theory,
and proves also the advantage of breeding ideas,
since, the more links to a chain, the farther it
reaches.
The faculty of memory varies in individuals
almost as much as their features. One man may
recollect names, dates, pages, numbers, admirably,
who does not well remember incidents or anecdotes;
and a linguist will retain fifty thousand
words, not one-tenth part of which a wit can bury
any depth in his recollection.
This admission may tend to excite doubts and
arguments against the general application of my
theory: but I aim not at making proselytes; indeed
I have only said thus much to anticipate
observations which may naturally be made respecting
the extent to which my memory has
carried the retention of bygone circumstances,
and to allay the scepticism which might perhaps
otherwise follow.
POLITICAL CONDUCT OF THE AUTHOR.
Letter from the author to Mr. Burne, relating to the political conduct of the former at the period of the Union—Extracts from letters written to the author by Lord Westmoreland—General reflections on the political condition of Ireland at the present time—Hint toward the revival of a curious old statute—Clerical justices—The king in Ireland—The Corporation of Dublin—The “Glorious Memory”—Catholics and Protestants—Mischievous virulence of party feeling.
The introduction of the following letter and extracts
(though somewhat digressive from my original
intention in compiling this work) is important
to me, notwithstanding they relate to times
so long past by; inasmuch as certain recent calumnies
assiduously propagated against me demanded
at my hands a justification of my conduct
toward government at the period of the Union.
With this view the letter in question was written
to my friend Mr. Burne, whom I requested to
communicate its contents to my connexions in
Dublin, or indeed to any person who might have
been prejudiced against me by those aspersions.
Having, however, reason to fear that only a very
partial circulation of my letter took place, I have
adopted this opportunity of giving it full publicity
by mixing it up with these sketches:—
“Paris, Rue de Richelieu, 2nd May, 1825.
“My dear Friend,
“I am well aware that the reports you
mention as to my ‘having broken trust with the
government in the years 1799 and 1800’ had
been at one period most freely circulated: but I
could scarcely suppose the same would be again
and lately revived, to do me injury on a very important
concern. This has not been altogether
without its operation, and I feel it a duty to myself
unequivocally to refute such imputation. The
fact is proved in few words:—I could not break
my trust with the government, for I never accepted
any trust from them. I never entered into any
stipulation or political engagement with any government;
and every public act which I did—every
instance of support which I gave, resulted
from my own free agency and unbiassed judgment.
“My first return to parliament, in the year
1790, for the city of Tuam, was altogether at my
own expense. I had before stood a contested election
for Ballynakill, formerly my father’s borough.
I was under no tie nor obligation to the government:
I had not then, nor have I ever had, any
patron; I never, in fact, solicited patronage: I
never submitted to the dictation of any man in
my life: my connexion with government therefore
was my own choice, and the consequent support
I gave to Lord Westmoreland’s administration
of my own freewill. I liked Lord Buckinghamshire
(Major Hobart) individually, and lived
much in his society: I respected Lord Westmoreland
highly, and he has always been very obliging
to me during a period of seven-and-thirty years
whenever he had an opportunity. During his administration
I accepted office; and on his recall,
he recommended Lord Camden to return me to
parliament. Mr. Pelham did so for the city of
Clogher; but made no sort of terms with me, directly
or indirectly. In the autumn of 1798 Mr.
Cooke wrote to me, and I had two interviews
with him; on the second, I found that a Union
would probably be submitted to parliament; and
I promptly replied, that I must decline all further
support to any government which should propose
so destructive a measure, at the same time tendering
my seat. He replied, ‘That I should think
better of it.’
“Lord Cornwallis came over to carry this great
measure; and I opposed him, Lord Castlereagh,
and the Union, in every stage of the business, and
by every means in my power, both in and out of
parliament. Lord Cornwallis was defeated: he
tried again;—Lord Castlereagh had purchased or
packed a small majority in the interval, and the
bill was carried. In January, 1800, I received a
letter from Lord Westmoreland, stating that as
Clogher had been a government seat, he doubted
if I could in honour retain it. I had already made
up my mind to resign it when required. I mentioned
the subject to Mr. Forster, the speaker, who
thought I was not bound to resign; however, I
acceded to the suggestion of Lord Westmoreland,
and accepted an escheatorship. But no office in
his Majesty’s gift—no power, no deprivation, would
have ever induced me to support the Union.
“I stood, at my own expense, a very hard-contested
election for Maryborough, Queen’s County,
in which I was supported by Sir Robert Staples,
Mr. Cosby of Stradbally Hall, Dean Walsh, Colonel
Pigot, Mr. Warburton, (member for the
county,) the Honourable Robert Moore, (against
his brother, the Marquess of Drogheda,) &c., and
by the tenantry of the present Lord Maryborough.
I was outvoted by a majority of three, the scale
being turned against me by Lord Castlereagh, who
sent down Lord Norbury, the crown solicitor, and
several such-like gentry for the purpose. With
that election my political career concluded: but
I am happy and proud to state that, at its termination,
I retained the confidence and esteem of
every body whose friendship I considered it desirable
to retain. Lord Westmoreland bears the
most unexceptionable testimony to my straightforward
conduct: I have been honoured by his
friendship, without intermission, down to the present
day; and the following extracts from his
lordship’s letters to me, wherein he states his
desire to bear witness to my strict conduct in my
transactions with government, form the best refutal
of all these calumnies against me.
“Since the period of my retirement from public
life two of my then most intimate friends (namely,
the present Chief Justice Bush and the present
Attorney-general Plunkett) have succeeded beyond
their most sanguine expectations, yet certainly
not beyond their just merits. No government
could pass such men by, at the bar, if they
chose to claim offices. They took the same, and
as strong an anti-Union part as I did; but, after
the Union, my public pursuits were nearly at an
end. Ireland lost all charms for me; the parliament
(the source of all my pride, ambition, and
gratification as a public man) had been bought
and sold; I felt myself as if nobody,—became
languid, careless, and indifferent to every thing.
I was no longer in fact in my proper sphere: my
health rapidly declined; and I neither sought for
nor would have accepted any other government
office in Ireland.
“Most of these facts, my dear Burne, you have
been long acquainted with; and this is solely a
recapitulation of some circumstances which I have
no other means of making generally known. You
will use it as you think may best serve me; and it
only remains for me to repeat, what you already
know, that I am most sincerely
“Yours ever,
“Jonah Barrington.
“John Burne, Esq., K. C.
“Merrion-square.”
Extracts of letters from the Earl of Westmoreland
to Sir Jonah Barrington (enclosed to Mr.
Burne):—
“London, March 28th, 1795.
“My dear Sir,
* * * * * “I shall always be obliged to you
whenever you will have the goodness to let me
know what is going on on your side of the water,
wherein I am convinced you will always bear a
very considerable part. I must at the same time
assure you that no man’s name is more in public
repute than your own.
“Lord Camden left town this morning, and I
have not failed to assure him of your talents and
spirit, which were so useful to my government on
many occasions; and which, as I am satisfied he
will find equally so, so is he equally disposed,
I believe, to give them that countenance they
deserve.
“The state of Ireland since I left you is most
wonderful, but the reign of faction seems drawing
to a close.
“I beg to be remembered to all friends, and
am,
“Dear Sir, yours very faithfully,
“Westmoreland.
“To Jonah Barrington, Esq., one of His
“Majesty’s Counsel at Law, &c. &c.
“Merrion-square, Dublin.”
Much correspondence took place between his
lordship and me after that period, in which he
was always equally kind.[38] Indeed, in that kindness
he never varied; and after knowing me seven-and-thirty
years, (the most important of all revolutions
having during that interval taken place in
Ireland,) and after I had directly and diametrically
opposed, in parliament and out of it, his lordship’s
opinion and acts upon that great question;—the
following extract of another letter from the
same nobleman (dated 1817) proves that he never
has changed his opinion of my honourable conduct
toward the king’s government, (and permits me
to state his approbation of that conduct,) every
part of which he must have well known; since
he had been, with very little intermission, a
member of the British cabinet during the entire
period.
38. He proposed, and superficially effected, a reconciliation
between me and Lord Castlereagh: it had no good practical
effect for me, but occasioned a very important episode in my
history, which I may hereafter mention, though not in the
present work.
(Abstract.)
“Paris, 19th August, 1817.
“Dear Sir,
* * * * “I have enclosed you a letter of introduction
to Sir C. Stuart, and will certainly speak
to him as you wish, and shall have great pleasure
if it should prove of any convenience to you or your
family: and I assure you I have always much
satisfaction in giving my testimony to the honourable
manner in which you have always conducted
yourself in the political relations wherein you have
stood with me.
“I am your very faithful servant,
“Westmoreland.”
I also added the following, by way of postscript,
to my explanatory letter to Mr. Burne:—
“I think, my dear Burne, that after these testimonials,
he must be a daring enemy who will
reassert the calumnies against me. I apprehend
that few public men can show more decided proofs
of honour and consistency than I, in the fair
and disinterested conduct I displayed when I
found it necessary to oppose the government. I
must also observe, on a principle of gratitude, that
throughout the whole course of my public life I
have uniformly experienced from the government
and ministers of England, (let me here particularise
Lord Stowell,) at all times and on all occasions,
whether supporting or opposing them, the
greatest kindness, justice, and considerate attention;
together with a much greater interest, in
any concerns of mine submitted to them, than I
could possibly have conceived, much less have
expected.
“But his Majesty’s public functionaries in
Ireland were men of a different bearing: after the
surveillance of a local parliament was extinguished,
the country was, as it were, given over to them,
bound hand and foot, and they at once assumed
new powers, which before they durst not even have
aimed at. Every grade of public functionaries
bounded above their station; and brevet rank was
no longer confined to military officers. I possess
much knowledge respecting some of them, of the
communication of which they are not aware; and
I am not inclined to permit certain individuals to
go down to their graves without hearing my observations.
When the proper time arrives I shall
not be silent.
“Again, dear Burne, yours,
“J. Barrington.”
On reading over the foregoing postscript of the
letter to my poor friend Burne (who has lately
paid his debt on demand to Nature), some observations
occur to me respecting Ireland herself, her
parties, and species of government, not uncongenial
to the subject of that letter. The justice of
these observations each day’s experience tends to
prove; and I firmly believe many members of the
British government at this moment view the matter
precisely as I do. They find it difficult, however,
to disentangle themselves from the opinions which
have been so frequently expressed by themselves
heretofore, and which, had they been equally informed
then as now, would never, I apprehend,
have been entertained. The people of England,
and also of some continental kingdoms, are fully
aware of the distracted state of Ireland, but are at
a loss to account for it. It is, however, now in
proof, that twenty-seven years of Union have been
twenty-seven years of beggary and of disturbance;
and this result, I may fairly say, I always foresaw.
The only question now asked is, “What is to be
done?” and the only comment on this question
that it is in my power to make is, “a council of
peace is better than a council of war.” Much of
the unfortunate state of that country may be attributed
to the kindred agency of two causes—namely,
fanaticism in Ireland, and ignorance (I
mean, want of true information) in Great Britain.
The Irish are deluded by contesting factions, and
by the predominance of a couple of watchwords;[39]
while the great body of the English people know as
little of Ireland (except of its disturbances) as they
do of Kamschatka; and the king’s ministers,
being unluckily of different opinions, go on debating
and considering what is best to be done,
and meanwhile doing nothing. If they do not
take care, in some time there may be nothing left
them to do. This is now my decided sentiment. A
spectator can see the play much better than the
gamester.
39. An ancient law still appears among the statutes of Ireland
to prohibit the natives of that country from using the words
Crum-a-boo, and Butler-a-hoo, as being the watchwords of
two most troublesome hostile factions, which kept, at the period
of the prohibition, the whole nation in a state of uproar. In
my mind, a revival of that salutary enactment would not be
amiss just now. A similar case (as regards the existing state
of things) may be easily made out; and, as we lawyers say,
“like case like rule.” As the statute is still upon our books,
there is a precedent at hand, and it will only be necessary to
amend it by changing the two terms Crum-a-boo and Butler-a-hoo,
into Ascendancy-a-boo and Emancipation-a-hoo! The
penalty for raising these cries might be the treadmill; and
there can be little doubt that so wholesome a measure would
speedily tranquillise the country, and save a good deal of rope,
some anatomising, and the turning religion into a subject for
debating societies.
I firmly believe England now means well and
honourably to the Irish nation on all points, but I
think she is totally mistaken as to measures. Neither
honourable intentions, nor Sunday-schools,
nor the four rules of arithmetic, nor Bible societies,
can preserve people from starving: education is a
very good thing in its proper place, but a sorry
substitute for food; and I know the Irish well
enough to say they never will be taught peace
upon an empty stomach. Work creates industry,
and industry produces the means of averting hunger; and
when they have work enough and food
enough, are permitted to dance on Sundays, and
fight once a year, they may be turned to any
thing. I speak, of course, of the lowest orders:
the class immediately above those is now very
unmanageable, because it is supported by its
starving inferiors, who depend upon it alone for
subsistence—the higher being absent. The nature
and materials of the present species of Irish
constitution appear to me totally unadapted to
the necessities of that country. The Union never
should have existed, or it should have been more
perfect:—no half-mounted government can ever rule
Ireland.
It is but too obvious that the natural attachment
which ought to subsist between Great
Britain and Ireland is not increasing, though on the
due cultivation of that attachment so entirely depends
the strength, the peace, and the prosperity
of the United Empire; yet I fearlessly repeat that,
in my mind, the English members of the imperial
parliament mean well by Ireland, and only require
to ascertain her true circumstances to act
for her tranquillisation. Politically they may be
sure that the imperium in imperio, as at present
operating in that country, is not calculated to reform
it. The protecting body of the country gentlemen
have evacuated Ireland, and in their stead
we now find official clerks, griping agents, haughty
functionaries, proud clergy, and agitating demagogues.
The resident aristocracy of Ireland, if not
quite extinguished, is hourly diminishing; and it
is a political truism, that the co-existence of an
oligarchy without a cabinet; a resident executive
and an absent legislature; tenants without
landlord, and magistracy without legal knowledge;[40]
must be, from its nature, a form of constitution
at once incongruous, inefficient, and
dangerous. Nobody can appreciate the native
loyalty of the Irish people better than his present
Majesty, whose reception in Ireland was enthusiastic:
they adored him when he left it; and
amidst millions of reputed rebels he wanted no
protection: every man would have been his life-guard!
I speak not however of corporations or
guilds—of gourmands, or city feasters: these
have spoken for themselves, and loudly too. His
Majesty’s wise and paternal orders were ridiculed
and disobeyed by them the very moment his back
was turned! With such folks the defunct King
William seems more popular than the living King
George.[41]
40. I allude here more particularly to the clerical justices of
Ireland. I believe I only coincide with some of the first English
lawyers of this day, in maintaining that clergymen should
confine themselves to spiritual and charitable duties, in doing
justice to which ample occupation would be afforded them.
41. I lately met rather a noted corporator of Dublin in Paris.
Of course I did not spare my interrogations as to the existing
state of things; and in the course of conversation I asked why,
after the king’s visit to Dublin, and his conciliatory admonitions,
the corporation still appeared to prefer the Boyne Water
and King William? “Lord bless you, Sir Jonah! (replied the
corporator) as for the wather, we don’t care a rap dam about
that; but if we once gave up ould King William, we’d
give up all our plisures! Only for the ‘glorious mimory’ we
would not have a toast now to get drunk with—eh! Sir Jonah?
ha! ha! ha!” To humour the corporator, I did not hesitate to
join in the hearty laugh which he set up in satisfaction at his
own waggery.
Sound government, and the sufferance of active
local factions are, in my view of things, utterly
incompatible. Faction and fanaticism (no matter
on which side ranged) ought to be put down to the
ground—gently, if possible; but if a strong hand be
necessary, it should not be withheld. In Ireland it
has now proceeded too far to be longer blinked at.
The British cabinet may be somewhat divided;
but they will soon see the imperative necessity of
firmness and unanimity. It is shameful that the
whole empire should thus be kept in a state of
agitation by the pretended theological animosities
of two contending sects—a great proportion of
whose respective partisans are in no way influenced
by religion, the true object of their controversy
being “who shall get the uppermost.” It is a struggle
that cannot continue. There is a “tide” in
the affairs of empires as well as of individuals:
every fever has a crisis. Ireland is in one now. I
am no factionist, I am no fanatic: I am the partisan
only of tranquillity in the country where I
drew my first breath.
I learn from Ireland with great pleasure—indeed,
I read of general satisfaction being experienced
at one of the ablest lawyers and most decisive,
moderate, and unbiassed public functionaries
of England having been presented as a head to
my profession:—’tis a good beginning:—ça ira!
SCENES AT HAVRE DE GRACE.
Peace of 1814—The Bourbons and émigrés generally—Motives of the author in visiting the continent—His departure from England with his family—Arrival at Havre de Grace—The Côteau d’Ingouville—Doctor Sorerie and his graduated scale—The Pavilion Poulet—Price of commodities at Havre—Rate of exchange—English assumption abroad—The author’s rural retirement disturbed by Napoleon’s return from Elba—Circumstances attending the announcement of this fact at Havre—Previous demonstrations of the inhabitants of the town, and more particularly of the military quartered there—Uniform of the old guard—Two Russians mutilated by the mob—Retirement of Louis le Désiré from Paris—Curious variety of feeling manifested among the people at Havre—Policy of the priests—Good humour of all parties—Recruiting for the Emperor and the King—Consternation of the English at Havre—Meeting at the house of the consul, Mr. Stuart—A vinous harangue—Prompt embarkation of the British—Accommodations of a storehouse—The huissiers and the spring showers—Signs of the times.
On the abdication of the Emperor Napoleon in
the year 1814, my curiosity was greatly excited
to view the alteration which different revolutions,
a military government, and a long-protracted warfare,
must necessarily have made in the manners,
habits, and appearance of the French people. My
ardent desire to see the emperor himself had
been defeated by his abdication, and no hope remained
to me of ever enjoying the sight of so celebrated
a personage.
The royal family of France I had the honour of
meeting often in society during the long visit with
which they favoured the British nation;—the last
time was at Earl Moira’s, one of their most zealous
friends: my curiosity on that score was therefore
quite satisfied. I had also known many, and had
formed a very decisive opinion as to most, of their
countrymen who had emigrated to England; nor
has the experience acquired during my residence
in France at all tended to alter the nature of that
opinion. Some of these men have, I fear, the
worst memories of any people existing!—indeed, it
should seem that since their return home, they
must have drunk most plentifully of Lethe.
I was extremely desirous also to see the persons
who had rendered themselves so conspicuous
during the long and mighty struggle wherein the
destinies of Europe were all at stake—the great
heroes both of the field and cabinet; and, therefore,
upon the restoration of King Louis, I determined
to visit Paris, the rather as my family were
infected with the same curiosity as myself.
Accordingly we set out on our journey, taking
Havre de Grace in our route to the metropolis. I
was then in a very declining state of health, and
consequently unnerved and incapable of much
energy either mental or corporeal. On arriving at
Havre, I was so captivated by the fine air and
beautiful situation of the Côteau d’Ingouville,
(rising immediately over the town,) that we determined
to tarry there a few months, and visit Paris
in the spring, when my health and strength should
be renovated; and never did any person recover
both so rapidly as I did during the short period of
my sojourn on that spot.
Doctor Sorerie, (the first physician at Havre,)
told me that he divided the hill of Ingouville into
three medical compartments: “the summit,” said
he, “never requires the aid of a physician—the
middle portion only twice a year—the base always.”
His fanciful estimate, he assured me, was a perfectly
true one; and, on the strength of that
assurance, I rented the beautiful cottage on the
summit of the hill, called the Pavillon Poulet, now
occupied, I believe, by the American consul. All
around was new to me: of course I was the more
observing; and the result of my observations was,
that I considered Havre, in 1815, as being a hundred
years behind England in almost every thing.
Tea was only sold there as a species of medicine,
at the apothecaries’ shops; and articles of cotton
manufacture were in general more than double
the price of silk fabrics. The market was very
good and very moderate; the hotels most execrable.
But the most provoking of all things
which I found at Havre was the rate of exchange:
the utmost I could get for a one-pound Bank of
England note was sixteen francs; or for an accepted
banker’s bill, sixteen francs and a half to
the pound (about fourteen shillings for my twenty).
This kind of thing, in profound peace, surprised
me, and the more particularly, as the English
guinea was at a premium, and the smooth English
shilling at a high premium, though of little intrinsic
value.
A visit paid to the continent after so very long
an exclusion, really made one feel as if about to explore
a kind of terra incognita, and gave everything a
novel and perhaps over-important character to the
traveller. In a country altogether strange, ordinary
occurrences often assume the dignity of adventures;
and incidents which at home would
scarcely have been noticed, become invested on
the sudden with an air of interest. Our fellow-countrymen
are too apt to undervalue every thing
which differs from their own established ways
either of acting, thinking, or eating. For this
overbearing spirit they have been and are plentifully
and justly quizzed by the natives of other
countries. Yet they exhibit few signs of amendment.
An Englishman seems to think it matter
of course that he must be lord of the ascendant
wherever he travels, and is sometimes reminded
of his mistake in a manner any thing but gentle.[42]
The impatience he constantly manifests of any
foreign trait, whether of habit or character, is really
quite amusing. If Sterne’s Maria had figured
away at Manchester, or his Monk at Liverpool,
both the one and the other would have been
deemed fit objects either for a mad-house or house
of correction: probably the girl would have been
committed by his worship the mayor to Bedlam,
and the old man to the treadmill. In fact, Yorick’s
sentiment in France would be nonsense at
Birmingham; and La Fleur’s letter to the corporal’s
wife be considered as decided evidence of
crim. con. by an alderman of Cripplegate.
42. In the years 1815 and 16, the very frequent quarrels between
the French and English gave rise to a curious embarrassment.
The French would only fight with the sword, the English
with the pistol; it was impossible to please both parties:
however the French soon put the matter into a course of equality.
Schools to teach pistol-firing were established in divers
parts of Paris: the best “point-blankers” were provided.
Each student paid a small fee for ten shots and proper instructions:
they began by firing at a large baby; first, at his body,
then his head, and at length at his eye. The young Frenchmen
soon became the very best shots I ever saw: even “Sligo”
now need not be ashamed of them. Hence quarrels have
grown far less frequent; indeed rare, but generally fatal: that
accounts for it.
As for myself, I have of late felt a sort of
medium sensation. As men become stricken in
years, a species of venerable insipidity insinuates
itself among their feelings. A great proportion
of mine had turned sour by long keeping, and I set
out on my travels without one quarter of the good-nature
which I had possessed thirty years before.
My palate was admirably disposed at the time to
feast upon novelties, of which I had made up my
mind to take a full meal, and thought I should be
all the better prepared by a few months of salubrious
air and rural tranquillity.
The interval, however, which I had thus devoted
to quiet, and thorough reinstatement of health
upon the breezy and delightful Côteau d’Ingouville,
and which I expected would flow on smoothly
for some months, (without the shadow of an adventure,
or, indeed, any thing calculated to interfere
with my perfect composure,) turned out to be
one filled with the most extraordinary occurrences
which have ever marked the history of Europe.
The sudden return of Napoleon from Elba, and
the speedy flight of the French king and royal
family from the Tuileries, without a single effort
being made to defend them, appeared to me, at
the time, of all possible incidents the most extraordinary
and least expected. The important
events which followed in rapid and perplexing
succession afforded me scope for extensive observation,
whereof I did not fail to take advantage.
My opportunities were indeed great and peculiar:—but
few, comparatively, of my fellow-countrymen
had as yet ventured into France: those who
did avail themselves of the conclusion of peace
in 1814, fled the country in dismay, on the return
of Napoleon; whilst I, by staying there throughout
his brief second reign, was enabled to ascertain
facts known to very few in England, and
hitherto not published by any.
At Havre it appeared clearly to me that Napoleon,
during his absence, was any thing but forgotten
or disesteemed. The empress, when there,
had become surprisingly popular amongst all
classes of people; and the misfortunes of her husband
had only served to render his memory more
dear to his brother-soldiers, by whom he was
evidently still regarded as their general and their
prince. In truth, not only by the soldiers, but
generally by the civic ranks, Louis, rather than
Napoleon, was looked on there as the usurper.
There were two regiments of the line at Havre,
the officers of which made no secret of their sentiments,
whilst the men appeared to me inclined
for any thing but obedience to the Bourbon
dynasty. The spirit which I could not help seeing
in full activity here, it was rational to conclude,
operated in other parts of the kingdom, and
the justice of this inference was suddenly manifested
by the course of events.
We were well acquainted with the colonel and
superior officers of one of the regiments then in
garrison. The colonel, a very fine soldier-like
man, about forty-five, with the reputation of being
a brave officer and an individual at once candid,
liberal, and decided, was singularly frank in giving
his opinions on all public subjects. He made
no attempt to conceal his indestructible attachment
to Napoleon; and I should think (for his
tendencies must necessarily have been reported to
the government) that he was continued in command
only from a consciousness on their part
that, if they removed him, they must at the same
moment have disarmed and disbanded the regiment,—a
measure which the Bourbon family was
then by no means strong enough to hazard.
On one occasion, the colonel, in speaking to me
whilst company was sitting around us, observed,
with a sardonic smile, that his master, Louis, was
not quite so firmly seated as his émigrés seemed
to think. “The puissant allies,” continued he,
sneering as he spoke, “may change a king, but”
(and his voice rose the while,) “they cannot
change a people.”
Circumstances, in fact, daily conspired to prove
to me that the army was still Napoleon’s. The
surgeon of that same regiment was an Italian, accounted
very clever in his profession, good-natured,
intelligent, and obliging; but so careless of his
dress, that he was generally called by us the
“dirty doctor.” This person was less anxious
even than his comrades to conceal his sentiments
of men and things, both politically and generally;
never failing, whether in public or private, to declare
his opinion, and his attachment to “the
exile.”
A ball and supper was given by the prefect and
other authorities of Havre in honour of Louis le
Désiré’s restoration. The affair was very splendid:
we were invited, and went accordingly. I there
perceived our dirty doctor, dressed most gorgeously
in military uniform, but not that of his regiment. I
asked him to what corps it appertained: he put
his hand to his mouth, and whispered me, “C’est
l’uniforme de mon cœur!” (“Tis the uniform of
my heart!”) It was the dress uniform of Napoleon’s
old guard, in which the doctor had served.
The incident spoke a volume, and (as to the sentiments
of its wearer) was decisive.
About six weeks after that incident two small
parties of soldiers of the garrison passed repeatedly
through the market-place, on a market-day, with
drawn swords, flourishing them in the air, and
crying incessantly, “Vive Napoleon! vive l’Empereur!”
but they did not manifest the slightest
disposition towards riot or disturbance, and no
body appeared either to be surprised at or to
mind them much. I was speaking to a French
officer at the time, and he, like the rest of the
spectators, showed no wish to interfere with these
men, or to prohibit the continuance of their exclamations,
nor did he remark in any way upon
the circumstance. I hence naturally enough inferred
the state of public feeling, and the very
slight hold which Louis le Désiré then had upon
the crown of his ancestors.
A much more curious occurrence took place,
when a small detachment of Russian cavalry,
which had remained in France from the termination
of the campaign, were sent down to Havre,
there to sell their horses and embark for their
native country. The visit appeared to me to be
a most unwelcome one to the inhabitants of the
place, and still more so, as might be expected, to
the military stationed there. The Russians were
very fine-looking fellows, of large size, but with a
want of flexibility in their limbs and motions; and
were thence contrasted rather unfavourably with
the alert French soldiery, who, in manœuvring and
rapid firing, must have a great advantage over the
northern stiffness.
I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted at
Havre with Mr. Wright, a very respectable gentleman,
and I believe, by affinity, a nephew of
Mr. Windham. We had been in a café together,
and were returning to our hotel about ten o’clock
at night, when we saw a small assemblage of people
collected at the church-door in the main street.
There were some women amongst them, and they
seemed earnestly employed on some business
which the total darkness of the night prevented us
from seeing. There was in fact no light around
save one glimmering lamp in the porch of the
church-door, where the people appeared fairly
knotted together. There was scarcely any noise
made above a sort of buzz, or as it were, rather a
suppression of voices. Mr. Wright remained stationary
whilst I went across the street to reconnoitre;
and after a good deal of peeping over
shoulders and under arms, I could perceive that
the mob was in the act of deliberately cutting off
the ears of two powerful-looking Russian soldiers,
who were held so fast by many men, that they
had not the least capability of resistance. They
seemed to bear the application of the blunt knives
of their assailants with considerable fortitude, and
the women were preparing to complete the trimming
with scissors!—but one glance was quite
enough for me. I got away as quick as thought;
and as the circumstance of Mr. Wright wearing
mustaches might possibly cost him his ears, I
advised him to get into a house as soon as possible:
he took to his heels on the suggestion, and
I was not slow in following. The next day I saw
one of the Russians in the street with a guard to
protect him—his head tied up with bloody cloths,
and cutting altogether a most frightful figure. All
the French seemed highly diverted, and shouted
out their congratulations to the Russian, who however
took no manner of notice of the compliment.
I believe the authorities did all they could in
this affair to apprehend the trimmers, but unsuccessfully.
Some individuals were, it is true, taken
up on suspicion; but as soon as the Russians were
embarked they were liberated. In fact the local
dignitaries knew that they were not as yet sufficiently
strong to enforce punishment for carving
a Russian.
I often received great entertainment from sounding
many of the most respectable Frenchmen
whose acquaintance I made at Havre with regard
to their political tendencies; and the result
as well of my queries as of my observations led me
to perceive that there were not wanting numerous
persons by whom the return of Bonaparte, sooner
or later, was looked forward to as an occurrence
by no means either violently improbable, or undesirable.
Nevertheless, no very deep impression was
made on my mind as to these matters, until one
morning Lady Barrington, returning from Havre,
brought me a small printed paper, announcing the
emperor’s actual return from Elba, and that he
was on his route for Paris. I believed the evidence
of my eye-sight on reading the paper; but
I certainly did not believe its contents. I went
off immediately to my landlord, Mr. Poulet, a
great royalist, and his countenance explained circumstances
sufficiently before I asked a single
question. The sub-prefect soon left the town:
but the intelligence was scarcely credited, and not
at all to its full extent. I went into every café
and public place, and through every street. In
all directions I saw groups of people, anxious and
busily engaged in converse. I was much amused
by observing the various effects of the intelligence
on persons of different opinions, and by contrasting
the countenances of those who thronged the
thoroughfares.
I did not myself give credence to the latter part
of this intelligence—namely, that Bonaparte was
on his way to Paris. I could not suppose that the
king had found it impracticable to command the
services of a single regiment; and it must be confessed
that his majesty, a man of excellent sense,
had, under all the circumstances, made a very bad
use of his time in acquiring popularity, either civil
or military. Notwithstanding the addition of Désiré
to his Christian name, (wherewith it had been
graced by Messieurs les émigrés,) it is self-evident
that outward demonstrations alone had been conceded
to him of respect and attachment. I never
heard that surname appropriated to him at Havre,
by-the-bye, except by the prefects and revenue
officers.
The dismal faces of the Bourbonites, the grinning
ones of the Bonapartists, and the puzzled
countenances of the neutrals were mingled together
in the oddest combinations: throughout the
town every body seemed to be talking at once,
and the scene was undoubtedly of the strangest
character, in all its varieties. Joy, grief, fear,
courage, self-interest, love of peace, and love of
battle—each had its votaries. Merchants, priests,
douaniers, military officers, were strolling about,
each apparently influenced by some distinctive
feeling: one sensation alone seemed common to
all—that of astonishment.
The singularity of the scene every moment increased.
On the day immediately ensuing fugitives
from Paris, full of news of all descriptions,
came in as quick as horses and cabriolets could
bring them. Bulletin after bulletin arrived—messenger
after messenger! But all the dispatches
in any shape official combined in making
light of the matter. The intelligence communicated
by private individuals, however, was very
contradictory. One, for instance, stated positively
that the army had declared against Napoleon;
another that it had declared for him; a third that
it had not declared at all! One said that Napoleon
was surrounded:—“Yes,” returned a bystander,
“but it is by his friends!” Towards evening every
group seemed to be quite busy making up their
minds as to the news of the day, and the part
they might think it advisable to take: as for the
English, they were frightened out of their wits,
and the women had no doubt that they should
all be committed to gaol before next morning.
I observed, however, that amidst all this bustle,
and mass of conflicting opinions, scarce a single
priest was visible: these cunning gentry had (to
use a significant expression) determined, if possible,
“not to play their cards till they were sure
what was trumps.” On the preceding Sunday
they had throughout the entire day been chanting
benedictions on Louis le Désiré and on St. Louis
his great-grandfather; but on the sabbath which
followed, if they chanted at all, (as they were
bound to do,) they would necessarily run a great
risk of chanting for the last time in their lives, if
they left out Napoleon; and, inasmuch as they
were unable to string together Louis le Désiré,
Napoleon, and St. Louis, in one benedicite, a most
distressing dilemma became inevitable amongst
the clergy! Common sense, however, soon pointed
out their safest course: a plea of compulsion operating
on the meek resignation of their holy trade,
might serve as an excellent apology, on the part
of an ecclesiastical family, in the presumption of
Louis’s becoming victor; but in the emperor,
they had to deal with a different sort of person,
as they well knew—with a man who would not
be put off with unmeaning excuses, and in due
homage to whom it would be dangerous to fail.
Under all circumstances, therefore, they took up
a line of conduct which I cannot but think was
very wise and discreet, proceeding as it did upon
the principle “of two evils choose the least.”
Their loyalty was decided by their fears, which
sufficed to stimulate the whole body of priests and
curés at Havre, old and young, to uplift their
voices with becoming enthusiasm in benediction
of “Napoleon le Grand!” Indeed they seemed to
be of opinion that, having taken their ground, it
would be as well to appear in earnest; and never
did they work harder than in chanting a Te Deum
laudamus in honour of their old master’s return:
to be serious, I believe they durst not have done
otherwise; for I heard some of the military say
very decidedly, that if the priests played any tricks
upon the occasion, they would hash them!
The observation which surprised me most of all
was, that though the two parties had declared
themselves, and the fleur-de-lis and eagle were displayed
in direct opposition to each other throughout
the town;—though the sub-prefect had run
away, whilst the tricoloured flag was floating in
one place, and the white one in another,—no practical
animosity or ill blood whatsoever broke out
amongst the respective partisans. The bustle
somewhat resembled that of an English election,
but had none of the violence or dissipation, and
only half the noise, which circulate on those august
occasions. On the contrary, civility was
maintained by every one: the soldiers were very
properly kept in their barracks; and an Englishman
could scarcely conceive so polite, peaceable,
temperate, and cheerful a revolution—more particularly
as neither party could tell on which side
the treason would ultimately rest.
At length orders came from Napoleon, at Lyons,
that the imperial army should be recruited; while,
at the very moment this order arrived, some of the
merchants and officers of the national guards were
actually beating up for the royal armament. The
drums of the respective partisans rattled away
through every street, and the recruiters often
passed each other with the utmost courtesy: not
one man was seen in a state of intoxication on
either side. Meanwhile there was no lack of
recruits to range themselves under either standard;
and it was most curious to observe that these men
very frequently changed their opinions and their
party before sunset! I think most recruits joined
the king’s party: his serjeants had plenty of money,
while Napoleon’s had none; and this was a most
tempting distinction—far better than any abstract
consideration of political benefit. Many of the
recruits managed matters even better than the
priests, for they took the king’s money in the morning,
and the emperor’s cockade in the afternoon;
so that they could not be accused on either side of
unqualified partiality. The votaries of le Désiré
and le Grand were indeed so jumbled and shuffled
together, (like a pack of cards when on the point
of being dealt,) that nobody could possibly decipher
which had the best chance of succeeding.
The English alone cast a dark and gloomy shade
over the gay scene that surrounded them; their
lengthened visages, sunken eyes, and hanging
features proclaiming their terror and despondency.
Every one fancied he should be incarcerated for
life, if he could not escape before Napoleon arrived
at Paris, which seemed extremely problematical;
and I really think I never saw a set of men in
better humour for suicide than my fellow-countrymen,
who stalked like ghosts along the pier and
sea-side.
The British consul, Mr. Stuart, (a littérateur
and a gentleman, but whose wine generally regulated
his nerves, while his nerves governed his
understanding,) as good-natured a person as could
possibly be about a couple of bottles after dinner,
(for so he counted time,—a mode of computation
in which he certainly was as regular as clockwork,)
called a general meeting of all the British
subjects in Havre, at his apartments; and after
each had taken a bumper of Madeira to “George
the Third,” he opened the business in as long and
flowery an harangue, in English and Latin, as the
grape of Midi and its derivative distillations could
possibly dictate.
“My friends and countrymen,” said Mr. Stuart,
“I have good consular reasons for telling you all,
that if Bonaparte gets into Paris, he will order
every mother’s babe of you, men, women, and
children, et cetera, into gaol for ten or twelve
years at the least computation! and I therefore
advise you all, magnus, major, maximus, and parvus,
minor, minimus, to take yourselves off without any
delay great or small, and thereby save your bacon
while you have the power of doing so. Don’t
wait to take care of your property; nulla bona is
better than nulla libertas. As for me, I am bound
ex-officio to devote myself for my country! I will
risk my life (and here he looked heroical) to protect
your property; I will remain behind!”
The conclusion of the consul’s speech was a
signal for the simultaneous uplifting of many
voices.—“I’ll be off certainly!” exclaimed one
terrified gentleman.—“Every man for himself,
God for us all: the devil take the hindmost!” shouted
another.—“Do you mean to affront me, Sir?”
demanded the worthy self-devoted consul, starting
from his seat. A regular uproar now ensued;
but the thing was soon explained, and tranquillity
restored.
Two ships were next day hired, at an enormous
price, to carry the English out of the reach of Bonaparte.
The wind blew a gale, but no hurricane
could be so terrific as Napoleon. Their property
was a serious consideration to my fellow-countrymen;
however, there was no choice: they therefore
packed up all their small valuables, and relinquished
the residue to the protection of Providence
and the consul.
In a short time all was ready; and, as Mr.
Stuart had advised, men, women, children, and
lap-dogs, all rushed to the quay; while, in emulation
of the orator at the consul’s, “the devil take
the hindmost,” if not universally expressed, was
universally the principle of action. Two children,
in this most undignified sort of confusion,
fell into the sea, but were picked up. The struggling,
screeching, scrambling, &c. were at length
completed; and in a shorter time than might be
supposed, the English population were duly
shipped, and away they went under a hard gale.
Dr. Johnson calls a ship a prison with the chance
of being drowned in it; and as if to prove the correctness
of the doctor’s definition, before night
was over one vessel was ashore, and the whole of
its company just on the point of increasing the population
of the British Channel.
Havre de Grace being thus emptied of the king
of England’s subjects, who were “saving their
bacon” at sea, in a violent hurricane, the consul
began to take care of their property: but there
being a thing called loyer, or rent, in France as
well as in England, the huissiers (bailiffs) of the
town saved the consul a great deal of trouble
respecting his guardianship in divers instances.
Nevertheless, so far as he could, he most faithfully
performed his promise to the fugitives, for
the reception of whose effects he rented a large
storehouse, and so far all was wisely, courteously,
and carefully managed: but not exactly recollecting
that the parties did not possess the property
as tenants in common, the worthy consul omitted to
have distinct inventories taken of each person’s
respective chattels, though, to avoid any risk of
favouritism, he had all jumbled together; and
such an heterogeneous medley was perhaps never
seen elsewhere. Clothes, household furniture,
kitchen utensils, books, linen, empty bottles,
musical instruments, &c. strewed the floor of the
storehouse in “most admired disorder.” All
being safely stowed, locks, bolts, and bars were
elaborately constructed, to exclude such as might
feel a disposition to picking and stealing; but,
alas! the best intentions and the most cautious
provisions are sometimes frustrated by accident or
oversight. In the present instance, in his extraordinary
anxiety to secure the door, Mr. Stuart
was perfectly heedless of the roof; and in consequence,
the intrusion of the rain, which often
descended in torrents, effectually saved most of
the proprietors the trouble of identifying their
goods after the result of the glorious battle of
Waterloo. Disputes also were endless as to the
right and title of various claimants to various
articles; and in the result, the huissiers and the
landlord of the storehouse were once more intruders
upon the protected property.
To return—Havre being completely evacuated
by my countrymen, it now became necessary to
strike out some line of proceeding for myself and
family. Sir William Johnson, who was in the
town, had participated in the general alarm, and
had set off with his household for the Netherlands,
advising me to do the same. I was afterward informed,
though falsely, that they all foundered in
a dyke near Antwerp. In the mean time, the
transformation of things at Havre became complete,
and perfect order quickly succeeded the
temporary agitation. The tri-coloured flag was
again hoisted at the port; and all the painters of
the town were busily employed in changing the
royal signs into imperial ones. One auberge,
Louis le Désiré, was changed into a blue boar: the
Duchesse d’Angoulême became the Virgin Mary:
royal was new-gilt into imperial once more at the
lottery offices: fleurs-de-lis were metamorphosed,
in a single day, into beautiful spread-eagles: and
the Duc de Berry, who had hung creaking so
peaceably on his post before the door of an hotel,
became, in a few hours, St. Peter himself, with
the keys of Heaven dangling from his little
finger!
COMMENCEMENT OF THE HUNDRED DAYS.
A family council—Journey from Havre to Paris—Attention of the French officers to the author and his party—Peaceable condition of the intervening country—Thoughts on revolutions in general—Ireland in 1798—Arrival in the French capital—Admirable state of the police—Henry Thevenot—Misgivings of the author—His interview with Count Bertrand—Polite conduct of the Count—The Emperor’s chapel—Napoleon at mass—His deportment—Treasonable garments—Col. Gowen—Military inspection after mass—Alteration in the manner of the Emperor—Enthusiasm of the soldiers.
To see Napoleon, or not to see Napoleon,—that
was the question! and well weighed it was in my
domestic republic. After a day’s reasoning, pro
and con, (curiosity being pitted against fear, and
women in the question,) the matter was still undecided,
when our friends the colonel and the dirty
doctor came to visit us, and set the point at rest,
by stating that the regiments at Havre had declared
unanimously for the emperor, and that the colonel
had determined to march next day direct upon
Paris; that therefore if we were disposed to go
thither, and would set off at the same time, the doctor
should take care of our safety, and see that we
had good cheer on our journey to the metropolis.
This proposal was unanimously adopted; we
were at peace with France, and might possibly remain
so; and the curiosity of three ladies, with
my own to back it, proved to be totally irresistible.
A new sub-prefect also having arrived in the town,
came to see us; expressed his regret that the English
should have deemed it necessary to quit the
place; and gave us a letter of introduction to his
wife, who lived in the Rue St. Honoré, at Paris.
We all believed there would be no war.
We immediately packed up. I procured three
stout horses to my carriage, and away we went
after the advanced guard of the (as well as I recollect)
41st regiment. The soldiers seemed to me
as if they thought they never could get to Napoleon
soon enough: they marched with surprising
rapidity; and after a most agreeable journey, we
arrived at the good city of Paris without any let or
hindrance; having experienced from the dirty
doctor every possible attention. We were sure of
the best cheer at any place we halted at; and the
more so as the advanced guard only preceded us
one stage, and the main body of the troops was a
stage behind us. We were immediately escorted
by four mounted soldiers, who were in attendance
upon our medical friend. I have learnt since that
this kind and firm-hearted man escaped the campaign
and returned to Italy: the colonel was
shot dangerously at Quatre Bras, but I understand
his wounds did not prove mortal.
Our route from Havre to Paris exhibited one
general scene of peace and tranquillity, not dashed
by the slightest symptom of revolution. The
national guards every where appeared to have got
new clothing, and were most assiduously learning
in the villages to hold up their heads, and take long
strides and lock steps, but (for any thing that appeared
to the contrary) solely for their own amusement.
The same evidences of undisturbed serenity
and good-humour were displayed in all directions,
and the practice of military exercises by the national
guards was the only warlike indication of any
kind throughout the whole extent of country we
traversed.
On our arrival at the capital we found no exception
therein to the tranquillity of the provinces.
People at a distance are apt to conceive that a revolution
must necessarily be a most terrific affair—a
period of anarchy and confusion, when every thing
is in a state of animosity, bustle, and insecurity.
This is in some instances a great mistake; (although,
generally speaking, true enough;) for, on
the other hand, many modern revolutions have
been effected, governments upset, dynasties annihilated,
and kings trucked, with as little confusion
as the exchanging a gig-horse. I have indeed
seen more work made about the change of a hat
than of a diadem; more anxiety expressed touching
a cane than a sceptre; and never did any
revolution more completely prove the truth of
these remarks than that in France during March,
1815, when Napoleon quietly drove up post, in a
chaise and four, to the palace of the Bourbons, and
Louis XVIII. as quietly drove off post, in a chaise
and four, to avoid his visitor. Both parties, too,
were driven back again, within three months,
pretty nearly in the same kind of vehicle! Let
my reader compare, for his edification, this bloodless
revolution with the attempt at revolution in the
obscure corner of the globe from whence I sprang,
Anno Domini 1798 during the brief summer of
which year there was, in secluded Ireland, (the
kingdom of Ireland, as it was then called,) more
robbery, shooting, hanging, burning, piking, flogging,
and picketing, than takes place in half a
dozen of the best got-up continental revolutions—always
excepting that great convulsion which
agitated our French neighbours toward the close
of the eighteenth century.
During the interval of the Hundred Days, and
some time subsequently, I kept a regular diary,
wherein I accurately took down every important
circumstance, except some which I then considered
much safer in my mind than under my
hand; and a few of these are now, for the first
time, submitted to the public. After some days’
stay in Paris, I began to feel rather awkward. I
found very few of my fellow-countrymen had remained
there, and that there seemed to exist but
little partiality toward the English. But the police
was perfect, and no outrage, robbery, or breach of
the peace was heard of; nor could I find that
there were any political prisoners in the gaols, or
in fact many prisoners of any kind. No dissolutes
were suffered to parade the streets or contaminate
the theatres; and all appeared polite, tranquil, and
correct. I kept totally clear, meanwhile, both in
word and deed, of political subjects.
I hired as footman a person then very well
known in Paris, Henry Thevenot. I have since
heard (but cannot vouch for the fact) that he is
the Thevenot who attended Mr. Wakefield and
Miss Turner. I have likewise recently been apprised
that, at the time I engaged him, he was
actually on the police establishment. Be that as
it may, I certainly always considered Thevenot to
be a mysterious kind of person, and, on one particular
occasion, which will be hereafter mentioned,
discharged him suddenly, without enlarging on
my reasons: he was however an excellent servant.
I had brought a passport from the new Sous-Préfet
at Havre, which having lodged at the
police-office, I felt quite at my ease; but, reflecting
afterward upon the probable consequence in
case of war or change of circumstances, I determined
at once to take a bold step and go to the
Palais de Bourbon Elysée, (where Napoleon resided,)
and endeavour to see Count Bertrand,
whom I proposed to inform truly of my situation,
and ask for a carte de sureté, or a passport to
return.
On the second day whereon I made an attempt
to see him, with difficulty I succeeded in obtaining
an audience. I told the count who I was, and all
the facts, together with my doubts as to the propriety
of remaining. He very politely said I
should have what I required, but that a gentleman
in my station was perfectly safe, and there
could be no difficulty as to my remaining as
long as I chose; and concluded by bowing me
out, after a very short interview. As I was going
down the steps an officer recalled me, and asked
if I had any family in Paris. I replied in the affirmative—three
ladies: mutual bows ensued, and
I returned very well satisfied with the result of
my visit to the Palais de Bourbon Elysée. At that
time the emperor was employed day and night on
business in the palace: at daybreak he occasionally
rode out with some of his staff, to inspect the
works at Montmartre; and on hearing this, my
ancient curiosity to see so distinguished a person
came afresh upon me.
The ensuing day, a man with a large letter-box
buckled before him entered our apartment without
the least ceremony, and delivered a letter with
“Bertrand” signed at the corner. I was rather
startled at the moment, as the occurrence certainly
looked singular: nevertheless, the man’s
appearance and manner were not such as to confirm
unpleasant surmises, and I proceeded to unseal
the envelope, which enclosed a billet to the
Commissaire de Police at the prefecture, desiring
him to grant me a carte de sureté and a sauf conduit
through any part of France, if I chose to travel in
that country—(the signature was not that of Bertrand):—the
packet also contained a polite note
from an aide-de-camp of the count, mentioning
that he was directed to enclose me an admission
to the emperor’s chapel, &c. and to say that, on
production of my carte de sureté, our party would
find a free admission to the theatres and other spectacles
of Paris.—So much politeness (so very different
from what would have been the case in
England) both gratified and surprised me. I
wrote a letter of thanks; but at our privy council,
we agreed that, under existing circumstances, it
would be better to say nothing of the latter favour.
I afterward discovered the friendly quarter through
which it originated.
We hired a calèche by the month, and set out
with a determination to lose no time in seeing
whatever was interesting; and in fact every thing
was at that moment interesting to strangers. We
spoke French sufficiently well for ordinary purposes;
and determined, in short, to make ourselves
as comfortable as possible.
I have already observed that I kept a diary
during the Hundred Days, but afterward thought
it most prudent not to commit any thing very important
to writing. From that diary, so far as I
pursued it, (and from scraps which nobody could
understand but myself,) I have since selected some
details and observations which have not hitherto
been published, and for the collection of which my
peculiar situation at Paris, and consequent opportunities,
abundantly qualified me. Consistently
with the foregoing part of these fragments, I shall
not even attempt any thing like strict order or
chronological arrangement, but leave, generally
speaking, the various subjects brought before the
reader’s attention to illustrate and explain each
other. On this principle, I shall now, without
further prelude, describe the first scene which impressed
itself on my imagination.
The first Sunday after the receipt of our permission
we repaired to the emperor’s chapel, to
see that wonderful man, and to hear mass chanted
in the first style of church music. Napoleon had
already entered: the chapel was full; but we got
seats very low down, near the gallery in which the
emperor sat; and as he frequently leaned over
the front, I had opportunities of partially seeing
him. In the presence of so celebrated a man as
Bonaparte, all other things sank into comparative
insignificance, and the attention of the spectator
was wholly absorbed by the one great object.
Thus, in the present case, there was nothing either
in the chapel or congregation that had power to
divide my regards with the great Napoleon. As I
have said, he often leaned over the front of the
gallery wherein he sat; and I had thence an opportunity
of observing that he seemed quite restless,
took snuff repeatedly, stroked down his head with
an abstracted air—and, in fact, was obviously possessed
by feelings of deep anxiety. I should not
suppose he had at the moment the least consciousness
as to where he was, and that, of all things,
the priests and the mass were the last likely to
occupy his thoughts.
Whilst thus employed in reconnoitring the emperor
as intensely as stolen glances afforded me
means of doing, a buzz in the chapel caused me to
turn round to ascertain its cause. Though low, it
increased every moment, and was palpably directed
toward us—so much so, that no doubt remained
of our being somehow or other the sole
objects of it. I then whispered my companions
that our presence was evidently offensive in that
place, and that we had better retire, when a
French lady who sat near Lady Barrington, said
to her, “Madame, you perceive that you are the
object of this uncourteous notice.”—“Yes,” replied
she, “it is become quite obvious.” The
French lady smiled, and continued, “You had
better lay aside your shawls!”—Lady Barrington
and my daughter accordingly, taking the hint,
threw off the shawls, which they suffered to drop
at their feet, and at once the buzzing subsided,
and no further explanation took place until the
conclusion of the service.
At that moment several French ladies came up
with great courtesy, to apologise for the apparent
rudeness of the congregation, which they begged
Lady Barrington to excuse on account of its cause,
and to examine her shawl, on doing which, she
would perceive that it was very unlucky (bien mal
à propos) to wear such a one in presence of the
emperor. She did so, and found that both hers
and my daughter’s (though very fine ones) were
unfortunately speckled all over with fleurs-de-lis!
They had been sold her the preceding day by a
knavish shopkeeper at the Passage Feydeau, who,
seeing she was a foreigner, had put off these
articles, thinking it a good opportunity to decrease
his stock in that kind of gear, the sale whereof
would probably be pronounced high treason before
the month was over.
The confusion of the ladies at this éclaircissement
may be well conceived; but it was speedily
alleviated by the elegant consolations and extreme
politeness of the Frenchwomen. Among
those who addressed us was a gentleman in the
uniform of a colonel of the national guards; he
spoke to me in perfect English, and begged to introduce
his family to mine. I told him who I
was, and he asked us to a dinner and ball next
day at his house in the Rue de Clichy. We accepted
his invitation, and were magnificently entertained.
This was Colonel Gowen, the proprietor
of the first stamp-paper manufactory
in France—a most excellent, hospitable, and
friendly person, but ill-requited, I fear, afterward
by some of our countrymen. I subsequently experienced
many proofs of his hospitality and attention.
An English lady (the wife of Dr. Marshall, an
English physician) was also remarkably attentive
and polite on this occasion, and gave her card to
Lady Barrington, No. 10, Rue Pigale:—so that
the affair of the shawl, so far from being mal à
propos, seemed to turn out quite a lucky adventure.
In viewing Napoleon that day, it was not the
splendid superiority of his rank; it was neither his
diadem, sceptre, nor power, which communicated
that involuntary sensation of awe it was impossible
not to feel:—it was the gigantic degree of
talent whereby a man of obscure origin had been
raised so far above his fellows. The spectator
could not but deeply reflect on the mystic nature
of those decrees of Providence which had placed
Napoleon Bonaparte on one of the highest of
earthly thrones and at the very pinnacle of glory;
had hurled him from that eminence and driven
him into exile; and now seemed again to have
warranted his second elevation, replacing him upon
that throne even more wondrously than when he
first ascended it.
Such were my impressions on my first sight of
the Emperor Napoleon. So much has he been
seen and scrutinised throughout the world,—so
familiar must his countenance have been to millions,—so
many descriptions have been given of
his person and of his features by those who knew
him well,—that any portrait by me must appear
to be at least superfluous. Every person, however,
has a right to form his own independent
judgment on subjects of physiognomy, and it is
singular enough that I have never yet met any
one with whom I entirely coincided as to the
peculiar expression of Napoleon’s features;—and
I have some right to speak, for I saw him at
periods and under circumstances that wrought on
and agitated every muscle of his fine countenance,
and have fancied (perhaps ridiculously) that I
could trace indications of character therein unnoticed
by his biographers. Several who have confidently
spoken of his physiognomy never saw
him; by such, therefore, any estimation of its
cast cannot be very accurate.
On this day my observations must necessarily
have been superficial: yet I thought I could perceive,
in the movement of a single feature, some
strong-excited feeling, some sensation detached
and wandering away from the ordinary modes of
thinking, though I could not even guess from
what passion or through what impulse that sensation
originated. After I had seen him often, I
collated the emotions palpable in his countenance
with the vicissitudes of his past life, fancying that
I might thence acquire some data to go upon in
estimating the tone of his thoughts: but at this
first sight, so diversified were the appearances as
he leaned over the gallery, that even Lavater
could not have deciphered his sensations. He
was uneasy, making almost convulsive motions,
and I perceived occasionally a quiver on his lip:
on the whole, my anxiety was raised a hundredfold
to be placed in some situation where I might
translate at leisure the workings of his expressive
countenance. That opportunity was after a short
interval fully given me.
On the same day I had indeed a second occasion
of observing the emperor, and in a much
more interesting occupation—more to his taste,
and which obviously changed the entire cast of his
looks, quite divesting them of that deep, penetrating,
gloomy character, which had saddened
his countenance during the time he was at chapel.
After mass he first came out upon the balcony in
front of the Tuileries: his personal staff, marshals,
generals, and a few ladies surrounded him;
while the civil officers of the court, in the richest
dresses, stood in small groups aside, as if wishing
to have nothing to do with the military spectacle.
Napoleon was now about to inspect eight or ten
thousand of the army in the Place Carousel. The
transition from an array of priests to a parade of
warriors—from the hymns of the saints to the
shouting of the soldiery—from the heavy, although
solemn, music of the organ to the inspiriting notes
of the drum—added greatly to the effect of the
scene, which strongly impressed my mind, alive
and open to all these novel incidents. Age had
not then, nor has it yet, effaced the susceptibility
of my nature. I own the latter scene was on
that day to my mind vastly preferable to the first:
the countenance of Napoleon was metamorphosed;
it became illuminated; he descended from the
balcony, and mounted a gray barb. He was now
obviously in his element: the troops, as I have
said, amounted to about ten thousand: I did not
conceive the court of the Tuileries could hold so
many.
Napoleon was now fully exposed to our view.
His face acknowledged the effect of climate: his
forehead, though high and thinly strewn with hair,
did not convey to me any particular trait; his eyebrows,
when at rest, were not expressive, neither
did his eyes on that occasion speak as much as I
should have expected; but the lower part of his face
fixed my attention at once. It was about his mouth
and chin that character seemed to be concentrated.
I thought, on the whole, that I could perceive a
mixture of steadiness and caprice, of passion and
generosity, of control and impetuousness; but I
could decide on nothing.
My attention, however, was soon turned to the
inspection itself. There was not a soldier who
did not appear nearly frantic with exultation, and
whose very heart, I believe, did not beat in unison
with the hurrahs wherewith they received their
favourite leader.
It was the first time I had ever heard a crowd
express its boisterous pleasure in a tone of sensibility
unknown in our country. The troops were
in earnest, and so was the general. The old guard
(including such as had returned from Elba and
such as had rejoined their colours) formed a body
of men superior to any I ever before witnessed.
Descriptions of Napoleon amidst his soldiers are
however so common, that I will not occupy either
the reader’s time or my own by enlarging further
on the subject.
THE ENGLISH IN PARIS.
Doctor and Mrs. Marshall—Col. Macirone, aide-de-camp to Joachim Murat, while king of Naples—General Arthur O’Connor—Lord and Lady Kinnaird—His lordship under the surveillance of the police—Suspected of espionage, and arrested, but set at liberty immediately after—Messrs. Hobhouse and Bruce—Dr. Marshall’s correct information as to passing events—Real character of the coterie at his house—Madame la parente du ministre Fouché—Misconception of the minister’s Swiss porter—Henry Thevenot.
Shortly after this period I became particularly
intimate with Dr. Marshall, a circumstance
which, in the paucity of English who had remained
in Paris, was productive to me of great
satisfaction. He was a man of prepossessing appearance
and address; had travelled much; had
acted (he informed me) as physician to the army
in Egypt, &c.; and had gone on some confidential
missions to Murat while king of Naples. His wife
was a pretty woman, rather en bon point, about
thirty, and with the complete appearance and
address of a gentlewoman. The doctor kept a
very handsome establishment, and entertained
small companies splendidly.
The society I met there consisted, generally,
of Col. Macirone, who had been aide-de-camp to
Murat, and has published an account of the romantic
circumstances attendant on the death of that
ill-fated man. Another member of the society was
Count Julien, formerly, I believe, some secretary
or civil officer of Murat, a boisterous, overbearing
fat man, consequential without being dignified,
dressy without being neat, and with a showy politeness
that wanted the elements of civility. Count
Julien was the only person I met at Doctor Marshall’s
whose character or occupation I had much
curiosity about.
Fouché was then the emperor’s minister of
police, and they all appeared to be more or less
acquainted with him: but I had not then the
slightest idea that most of them were in some way
employés of the police minister, and hollow friends,
if not absolute enemies to Napoleon.
I met several other gentlemen less remarkable
at Doctor Marshall’s; many of them I never saw
again: some were Italians, but mostly French.
Only one lady appeared besides the mistress of
the house. This was a plain, rational, sedate woman
under forty. She was introduced to us by
Mrs. Marshall as the wife of a relative of Fouché,
and at that time (with her husband) on a visit to
his excellency at his hotel, Rue Cerutti.
One day before dinner, at Dr. Marshall’s house,
I observed this lady, just on our arrival, hurrying
into Mrs. Marshall’s boudoir, and when dinner was
announced she re-entered decked out with a set
of remarkable coral ornaments, which I had seen
Mrs. Marshall wear several times. This circumstance
struck me at the moment, but was neither
recollected nor accounted for till we paid an unlucky
visit to that “relative of Fouché,” when the
whole enigma became developed, and my suspicions
fairly aroused.
Dr. Marshall meanwhile continued to gain much
on my esteem. He saw that I was greedy of information
as to the affairs of Italy; and he, as well
as Col. Macirone, saturated me in consequence
with anecdotes of the court of Naples, and of
Murat himself, highly entertaining, and I believe
authentic; for I do really think that Macirone was
sincerely attached to that king, and attended his
person with friendship and sincerity. On the contrary,
Count Julien seemed to me incapable of
much feeling, and perfectly indifferent as to any
body’s fate but his own. This, however, I only
give as my individual opinion: I soon lost sight
of the man altogether. Once (I think the day of
the abdication) I saw him at Fouché’s office,
whither I strolled to make observations. He was
lavishing the most boundless invectives against the
ex-emperor.
In the midst of this society I passed my time
during the greater part of the Hundred Days: and
Doctor Marshall informing me, I believe truly,
that he was on terms of confidence (though not
immediately) with Fouché, and well knowing that
he might with perfect security communicate any
thing to me (I should be silent for my own sake),
scarce a day passed but we had much conversation
in his garden; and he certainly did give me
very correct information as to the state of affairs
and the condition of the emperor, together with
much that was not equally correct, regarding himself.
This I occasionally and partially perceived;
but his address was imposing and particularly
agreeable: he was good-natured and hospitable.
We had also cultivated our acquaintance (originated
through the adventure of the shawls) with
Colonel Gowen, of the national guards, whose hotel
in Rue Clichy bore a most extraordinary castellated
appearance, and was surrounded by very
large gardens, where we were often nobly entertained:
the leads of the hotel overlooked Tivoli, and
indeed every place about Paris. The colonel lived
extremely well; spoke English perfectly; and
might, in fact, be mistaken for an hospitable colonel
of British yeomanry.
Another gentleman, a Mr. Lewins, I also happened
accidentally to meet, who was an Irishman,
and whom I had known many years previously.
We became intimate, and I derived utility and information
from that acquaintance. This gentleman
knew, and had long known, much more of
past French affairs and individuals than any of my
other acquaintances; and seeming at the same
time replete with good-nature (with his politics,
which I really believe were very undecided, I had
nothing to do), I could not fail to be a gainer by
our intercourse, which continued.
Another more remarkable and very clever person,
Mr. Arthur O’Connor, was then a French general
unemployed. I had known him thirty years
before: he had married the daughter and sole
heiress of the unfortunate and learned Marquis
de Condorcet; and was prohibited from returning
to his native country by act of parliament. General
Arthur O’Connor was a remarkably strong-minded,
clever man, with a fine face and manly
air: he had besides a great deal of Irish national
character, to some of the failings whereof he
united several of its best qualities. I met him, and
relished his company highly. For old acquaintance
sake I professed and truly felt a friendship
for him; and, differing as we did upon public subjects,
we talked over all without arguing upon any,
which is the only agreeable method of conversation
among persons whose opinions do not coincide.
Lord and Lady Kinnaird were also in Paris at
that period. I did not pay my respects to them
for a very singular, though at such a time a very
sufficient reason. Her ladyship was the daughter
of one of my most respected friends, the late
Duke of Leinster, to every member of whose
family I owe all possible attention: but Lord
Kinnaird, by over-acting his part, had drawn on
himself an absurd degree of suspicion; and I had
been informed by a friend, in confidence, that
every person who was seen visiting him was immediately
suspected likewise, and put secretly
under surveillance, which would not have been
particularly agreeable to me. In a little time this
information was curiously illustrated. I was informed
that Lord Kinnaird had been arrested by
order of Fouché: but Fouché soon found he had
fallen into a very ridiculous error; and I believe
his lordship was immediately liberated with an
ample apology. I heard also incidentally among
the employés, (for I took care at all times to display
no inordinate curiosity even though I might
be literally bursting with that feeling,) that his
lordship was accustomed to express himself so
hyperbolically in favour of Napoleon, that the
police (to whom every thing was made known by
unsuspected domestics) could not give his lordship
credit for sincerity, and therefore took for
granted that he was playing some double game:
in fact, they fancied he was a spy!—using ultra
eulogiums on the emperor to cloke a secret design.
Messrs. Hobhouse and Bruce were both in Paris
at the same period, and I have often regretted
that I did not know them. I afterward knew the
latter well, when in La Force with Sir R. Wilson
and my friend Mr. J. Hutchinson, for assisting
the escape of Lavalette. I found in Mr. Bruce an
able man with some excellent qualities, and a
thirst after information, which I admire in any
body.
These, together with the family of Mr. Talbot,
were the only English whom I met in Paris immediately
after my arrival and during the most
momentous crisis Europe ever witnessed.[43] That
point of time formed it was then supposed the
pivot whereon the future destiny of every nation
in the fairest quarter of the globe was vibrating:—but
I am here trenching on a subject in which
the nature of this work does not permit me to indulge.
43. There were others, but I knew them not. One mysterious
person I was then well acquainted with. I have for several years
past lost sight of him; and never could find out who he was.
He was clever, intelligent, and actively friendly: obviously
not rich, and as obviously not poor.—I should be glad to see
him again.
The successive occurrences at Paris, after Napoleon’s
return, were daily published, and are
known to every body. The press seemed free
from restraint, and every public act was recorded:
it was therefore to the private acts and characters
of men I applied my observation, as forming the
best ground for speculative opinions, (which that
portentous interval necessarily tended to stimulate,)
and likewise as calculated to yield the best
materials for future entertainment.
Dr. Marshall was, as I have already stated,
on certain occasions confidentially employed by
Fouché; and placing some confidence in me—perhaps
not duly estimating the extent of my
curiosity,—he was very communicative. (I think
he hated the principles of Fouché.) In fact, not
a day passed, particularly after Napoleon’s return
from Waterloo, that I did not make some discovery
through the doctor, as much from his air
of mystery as from direct admissions. From him
I collected Fouché’s flagitious character, and the
ductility and total absence of principle exhibited
by some of his attachés.
The intelligence I daily acquired did not surprise,
but greatly disgusted me. Napoleon had
many false friends. I hate treachery in all its ramifications:
it is not, generally speaking, a French
characteristic; but Fouché certainly displayed a
complete personification of it. Men of that description
generally do each other strict justice, by
the operation and exercise of mutual hatred, contempt,
and invective. I never heard one such
person say a kind word of another behind his back;
and when a man is necessitated by policy to puff
a brother villain, it is not difficult for a stander-by
to decipher the sneer of jealousy and mental reservation
distorting the muscles of the speaker’s
countenance, and involuntarily disclosing the very
feeling which he was perhaps desirous to conceal.
Thus was it with various tools of that treacherous
minister; and in his own countenance were
engraven distinctly the characteristics of plausibility,
cunning and insincerity. From the first
moment I saw Fouché, and more particularly
when I heard him coldly swear fidelity to his imperial
master, I involuntarily imbibed a strong
sensation of dislike. His features held out no inducement
to place confidence in their owner: on
the contrary, they could not but tend to beget
distrust and disesteem. The suspicions which
they generated in me I never could overcome,
and the sequel proved how just were my anticipations.
After awhile, I began slightly to suspect the composition
of the society I was associating with, and
it occurred to me to request that Lady Barrington
would pay a visit to the lady we had met at Doctor
Marshall’s, and whom we had understood from
Doctor and Mrs. Marshall to be on a visit to
Fouché, her relative. I proposed to go also, and
leave my card for her husband, whom we had not
yet seen. We accordingly waited on them at
Fouché’s hotel, and asked the Swiss if madame
was at home.
“Madame!” said the porter; “madame! quelle
madame?” as if he had heard us imperfectly. We
had forgotten her name, and could therefore only
reply, “madame la parente de monsieur le ministre.”
“Parente de monsieur le ministre?” repeated the
Swiss. “There is no such person here, monsieur,”
with a half-saucy shrug.
“Oh yes,” exclaimed I: “she is on a visit to
the Duc D’Otrante.”
“No, no, monsieur et madame,” repeated the pertinacious
Swiss: “point du tout!” and he seemed
impatient to send us away; but after a moment’s
pause, the fellow burst out into a fit of laughter.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur et madame,” said
he, “I begin to understand whom you mean.
Your friend undoubtedly resides in the hotel, but
she is just now from home.”
I handed him our cards for her and her husband.
On reading “Le Chevalier et Milady,” the
man looked more respectful, but apparently could
not control his laughter. When, however, he at
length recovered himself, he bowed very low,
begged pardon again, and said he thought we had
been inquiring for some vraie madame. The word
stimulated my curiosity, and I hastily demanded
its meaning; when it turned out that monsieur
was the maitre d’hotel, and madame, his wife,
looked to the linen, china, &c. as femme de confiance:—in
English, housekeeper!
We waited to hear no more. I took up our
cards and away we went; and my suspicions as
to that lady’s rank were thus set at rest. I did
not say one word of the matter at Dr. Marshall’s,
but I suppose the porter told the lady, as we never
saw her afterward, nor her husband at all.
I now began to see my way more clearly, and
redoubled my assiduity to decipher the events
passing around me. In this I was aided by an
increased intimacy with Colonel Macirone, whom
closer acquaintance confirmed as an agreeable and
gentlemanly man.
I perceived that there was some plot going forward,
the nature of which it was beyond my power
to develope. The manner of the persons I lived
among was perpetually undergoing some shade of
variation; the mystery thickened; and my curiosity
increased with it.
In the end this curiosity was completely gratified;
but all I could determine on at the moment
was, that there existed an extensive organised
system of deception and treachery, at the bottom
of which was Fouché himself: whether, however,
my acquaintances would ultimately adhere to the
emperor or his minister, seemed quite problematical.
I meanwhile dreaded every body, yet
affected to fear none, and listened with an air of
unconcern to the stories of my valet, Henry Thevenot,
though at that time I gave them no credit:
subsequent occurrences, however, rendered it
manifest that this man procured, somehow or
other, sure information.
Among other matters, Thevenot said he knew
well there was an intention, if opportunity occurred,
of assassinating Napoleon on his road to
join the army in Belgium.[44] I did not much relish
being made the depositary of such dangerous reports,
and ordered my servant never to mention
before me again “any such ridiculous stories,”
otherwise I should discharge him as an unsafe person.
Yet I could not keep his tongue from wagging,
and I really dreaded dismissing him. He
said “that Fouché was a traitor to his master;
that several of the cannon at Montmartre were
rendered unserviceable; and that mines had been
charged with gunpowder under various parts of
the city, preparatory to some attempt at counter-revolution.”
44. I have often thought that the Mameluke who had always
been retained by Napoleon about his person had some very
deep reason for his ultimate desertion; and to this moment that
circumstance appears to me to leave just grounds for a suspicion
that his fidelity had long been shaken.
INAUGURATION OF THE EMPEROR.
The peers and deputies summoned for the 8th of June—Abduction of the regalia by the royalists—Author obtains a ticket of admission to the gallery of the Chamber of Deputies, to witness the ceremony—Grenadiers of the Old Guard—Enthusiasm of the military, and comparative quiescence of the other ranks—Entrance of Napoleon into the Chamber—Sketch of his appearance and that of Madame Mère—Administration of the oath of allegiance—The Duke of Otranto and Count Thibaudeau—The imperial speech and its ineffective delivery.
The days rolled on, and in their train brought
summer and the month of June, on the 8th of
which the peers and deputies of the legislative
body were summoned to attend collectively at
two o’clock in the Chamber of Deputies, to receive
the emperor, and take the oath of fidelity to him
and to the constitution, in the midst of all the
splendor which the brilliant metropolis of France
could supply. The abduction of the regalia by
some friends of King Louis, when they ran away
to Ghent, had left Napoleon without any crown
wherewith to gratify the vanity of a people at all
times devoted to every species of spectacle; he
had only a button and loop of brilliants which
fastened up his Spanish hat, over the sides whereof
an immense plumage hung nodding. But this
was such a scene, and such an occasion, that a
wreath of laurel would have become the brow of
Napoleon far better than all the diamonds in the
universe!—The whole of the imperial family were
to be present.
The number of persons who could be admitted
as spectators into the gallery was necessarily very
limited: and in a great metropolis where every
body is devoted to show, the difficulty of procuring
admission would, I conceived, be of course proportionably
great. It may be well imagined that I
was indefatigable in seeking to obtain tickets, as
this spectacle was calculated to throw every thing
besides that I had witnessed in Paris completely
into the back-ground;—and what tended still
more to whet the edge of my curiosity, was the
reflection that it would, in all probability, be the
last opportunity I should have of deliberately viewing
the emperor, whose departure from Paris to
join the army was immediately contemplated.
I therefore made interest with every body I
knew; I even wrote to the authorities; and, in
short, left no means whatever untried which suggested
themselves to me. At length, when I began
to think my chance but a very poor one, on the
day actually preceding the ceremony, to my unspeakable
gratification, I received a note from the
chamberlain, enclosing an admission for one person
debout, which the difficulty I had every where
encountered led me to esteem a great favour. I
did not think that, at my age, I could possibly be
so anxious about any thing; but I believe there
are few persons who will not admit that the excitement
was great, occasioned by the prospect of
contemplating, for a length of time and in a convenient
situation, the bodily presence of a man to
whom posterity is likely to award greater honours
than can be conceded to him by the prejudices of
the present race.
The programme announced that all Napoleon’s
marshals and generals, together with the veterans
of his staff and the male branches of his family,
were to be grouped around him; as were likewise
several of those statesmen whose talents had
helped originally to raise him to the throne, and
whose treachery afterwards succeeded in hurling
him a second time from it. The peers and deputies,
in their several ranks and costumes, were
each, individually and distinctly, on that day to
swear new allegiance to their emperor, and a lasting
obedience to the constitution.
The solemnity of Napoleon’s inauguration, and
that of his promulgating the new constitution at
the Champ de Mars, made by far the greatest impression
on my mind of all the remarkable public
or private occurrences I had ever witnessed. The
intense interest—the incalculable importance, not
only to France but to the world, of those two
great events, generated reflections within me more
weighty and profound than any I had hitherto entertained:
whilst the variety of glittering dresses,
the novelty and the ever-changing nature of the
objects around me, combined to cheat me almost
into a belief that I had migrated to fairy-land, and
in fact to prevent me from fixing my regards on any
thing.
The first of those days was the more interesting
to France—the second to Europe at large. Though
totally unparalleled in all their bearings, and dissimilar
from every other historical incident ancient
or modern, yet these solemnities seem to have
been considered by most who have written upon
the subject as little more than ordinary historic
transactions. Were I to give my feelings full
play in reciting their effect on myself, I should at
this calmer moment be perhaps set down as a
visionary or enthusiast. I shall, therefore, confine
myself to simple narrative.
The procession of the emperor from the Tuileries
to the Chambers, though short, was to have
been of the most imposing character. But, much
as I wished to see it, I found that by such an attempt
I might lose my place in the gallery of the
Chamber, and, consequently, the view of the inauguration
scene.—At 11 o’clock, therefore, I
brought my family to a house on the Quay, for
which I had previously paid dearly; and where
having placed them at a window, I repaired myself
to the Chamber of Deputies, in company
of a French colonel, who had been introduced to
us by Colonel Gowen, and who kindly undertook
to be my usher, and to point out to me the most
celebrated warriors and generals of the guard and
army, who in groups promenaded the courts and
gardens of the senate-house, awaiting the appointed
hour for parading to receive the emperor.
This gentleman introduced me to several officers
and persons of rank; and though at that moment
war, attended by all its horrors, was deemed inevitable,
I was addressed with a courtesy and gentlemanly
frankness which, under similar circumstances,
would in any other country, I fear, have
been wanting. They spoke without reserve of the
tremendous struggle about to be commenced; but
not a man of them appeared to me to have a single
doubt of triumphing; and had my own country
been neutral or uninterested, I certainly should
have preferred the brilliance of Napoleon’s despotism
to the contracted, glimmering tyranny of his
continental enemies. But I knew that Great Britain
was implicated. Napoleon and England might
coalesce for a moment; but I felt that the ascendency
of the former was considered as incompatible
with the power of the latter, and I was chilled
by the reflection, which in some degree abated
my relish for the striking scene before me.
Among other individuals of note to whom I was
presented by the colonel, was Labedoyere, who
was destined so soon to atone with the forfeiture
of his life for his fidelity to his first patron. I had
heard then nothing particular of this man, and
consequently took but little notice of him. There
was not one whom I remarked more than Ney,
then prince of Moskwa. “That,” said the colonel,
as he pointed him out to me, “is the greatest
sabreur in Europe:” and Ney’s rough, manly,
sun-burnt countenance, well set off by his muscular,
warlike figure, confirmed the character.
“There,” continued my informant, pointing to a
civilian in full dress, “is one of the truest partisans
the emperor has in France—Count Thibaudeau,
though at one time doubted.” I had previously
remarked the person to whom my attention
was thus directed, as one not formed of common
materials, and had occasion soon after to observe
him still more particularly.
So many of the objects of that day have been
sketched in various publications, that I shall not
endeavour to give any thing in the shape of a list of
them, but content myself with the mention of those
which struck me most forcibly at the moment.
Whoever was in Paris during the Hundred
Days must have seen the old guard of Napoleon.
Such a body of soldiers (all appearing as if cast in
the same mould) I believe never was collected!
Their Herculean vigour, more than the height of
their persons, was remarkable; and their dark,
deep-furrowed visages, (enveloped in mustaches
and surmounted by the bear’s skin of their lofty
caps, glittering with ornaments,) combined, together
with their arms, their clothes, and more particularly
their steadiness, to exhibit to me the most
perfect model of real soldiers. Their looks, though
the very emblem of gravity and determination,
were totally devoid of ferocity; and I could fancy
the grenadiers of the old guard to be heroes, uniting
the qualities of fidelity, of valour, and of generosity:
their whole appearance indeed was most
attractive.
The cavalry had dismounted, and were sitting
around on the steps and parapets of the edifice,
mostly employed in sharpening their sabres with
small hones; and the whole seemed to me as if
actuated only by an ardent wish to proceed to
action. One officer asked me in English, rather
more freely than the rest, if I knew the British
commander (Lord Wellington)? I said I did.—“Well,”
replied he, “we shall have a brush with
him before quinze jours are over!” and turned away
with an expression strongly indicative of contempt.
I believe Lord Wellington did not quite anticipate
the short time that would be given him by his
opponents. My observations and introductions
were however at length interrupted by the first
cannon, which announced that the emperor had
commenced his passage from the Tuileries. All
was in immediate bustle; the drums beat, the
trumpets sounded, the deputies and officials flocked
into their halls, the cuirassiers were mounted, the
old guard and grenadiers in line, the officers at
their stations;—and in less than five minutes the
mingled and motley crowd was arranged in order
so regular and so silently assumed, that it was
almost impossible to suppose they had ever been
in confusion. The different bands struck up: they
had received orders respecting the airs that should
be played as the emperor approached, which they
began to practise; and the whole scene, almost in
a moment, wore an aspect entirely new.
The firing of cannon continued: the emperor
had advanced along the quays, and passed over
that very spot where the last French monarch had,
twenty years before, been immolated by his subjects.
The word enthusiasm, strong as its meaning
is generally held to be in France, failed, on
this occasion, to express as much as the military
seemed to feel. The citizens who thronged around
did not, it is true, appear to partake in this sentiment
to any thing like a corresponding extent.
Whether it was that they felt it not, or that they
were conscious of acting only a subordinate part
in the pageant, (which unquestionably bore too
much of a military character,) I do not know.
I proceeded without delay to the stairs which
led to my loge, as noted on my admission ticket.
This loge, however, it turned out to be no easy
matter to find. My heart began to sink; I inquired
of every body; some did not understand,
others looked contemptuously; nobody would pay
the least attention to my solicitations. Thus I
seemed likely, after all, to lose the benefit of my
exertions. Meanwhile, every new discharge of
cannon seemed as if announcing, not only the
emperor’s approach, but my seclusion from the
chamber; and I was getting fast into a state of
angry hopelessness when an officer of the guard,
who saw that I was a foreigner, addressed me in
English. I explained to him my embarrassments
and fears, and showed him my ticket. He told
me I was on the wrong side, and was so good as
to send a soldier with me to the door of the box.
I rapped, and was instantly admitted. There
were two rows of chairs, and accommodation for
three persons to stand behind. I was one of the
latter; and it was impossible to be better situated
for hearing and seeing every thing. My loge exactly
faced the throne; and in the next sat the
emperor’s mother, and all the females, with their
attendants. I knew nobody: I saw no English
there: there was one person in full-dress, who
was said to be un chevalier Ecosse, and who having
distinguished himself and announced his nation
by making an abominable noise about something
or other, was very properly sent out. We sat
in silent expectation of the emperor’s arrival,
which was to be announced by the cessation of
the repeated salutes of artillery. The moments
were counted: the peers and deputies were seated
in their places, all in full-dress—the former occupying
the front benches, and the deputies ranged
behind them. Servants of the chamber, in the
most splendid liveries that can be conceived, were
seen busy at all the side doors: the front door was
underneath our loge; it was therefore impossible
for me to see the effect of the first appearance of
the emperor, who at length, followed by a numerous
retinue, crossed the chamber—not majestically,
but with rather hurried steps: having
slightly raised his hat, he seated himself abruptly
on the throne, and wrapping himself in his purple
cloak, sat silent.
The scene was altogether most interesting; but
there was no time for contemplation. The whole
assembly immediately rose; and if a judgment
might be formed from the outward expression of
their feelings, it would be inferred that Napoleon
was enthroned in the heart of almost every peer
and deputy who that day received him. A loud,
continued, and unanimous burst of enthusiastic
congratulation proceeded from every quarter: it
echoed throughout the whole chamber, and had
all the attributes of sincerity. One circumstance
I particularly remarked: the old cry of “Vive
l’Empereur,” was discontinued, and, as if the
spectators’ hearts were too full to utter more, they
limited themselves to a single word,—“l’Empereur!
l’Empereur!” alone bursting from the whole
assembly. I found afterwards that there was a
meaning in this: inasmuch as the ceremony was
not a mere greeting—it was an inauguration of the
emperor. It was this solemnity which in fact recreated
his title after his formal abdication, and
the assembly thus noted the distinction.
Meanwhile Napoleon sat apparently unmoved:
he occasionally touched his hat, but spake not. I
stood immediately in front of, and looking down
on, the throne; and being in the back row, could
use my opera-glass without observation. Napoleon
was at that moment, all circumstances considered,
the most interesting personage in existence.
His dress, although very rich, was scarcely royal:
he was not, as a king should be by prescription,
covered with jewels: he had no crown, and wore
the same dress exactly as he afterward did on his
visit to the Champ de Mars; namely, a black
Spanish hat, fastened up in front with a diamond
loop and button; heavy plumes of ostrich feathers,
which hung nodding over his forehead; and rather
a short but very full cloak of purple velvet, embroidered
with golden bees. The dimensions of
his person were thus concealed; but his stature,
which had attained about the middle height,
seemed lower on account of his square-built form
and his high, ungraceful shoulders: he was, in
fact, by no means a majestic figure. I watched
his eye; it was that of a hawk, and struck me as
being peculiarly brilliant. Without moving his
head, or a single muscle of his countenance, his
eye was every where, and seemed omniscient: an
almost imperceptible transition moved it from
place to place, as if by magic; and it was fixed
steadily upon one object before a spectator could
observe its withdrawal from another.
Yet even at this moment, powerful as was the
spell in which Napoleon’s presence bound the
spectator, my attention was drawn aside by another
object which seemed to me to afford much
scope for contemplation: this was the emperor’s
mother. I stood, as I have already said, in the
next loge of the gallery to that occupied by the
imperial family. The dutiful and affectionate regard
of Napoleon to his mother is universally authenticated:
and as his nature was not framed
either to form or perpetuate mere attachments of
course, it was natural to conclude that this lady’s
character had something about it worthy of affection.
I was therefore curious to trace, as far as
possible, the impressions made upon her by the
passing scene.
Madame Mère (as she was then called) was a
very fine old lady, apparently about sixty, but
looking strong and in good health. She was not,
and I believe never had been, a beauty; but was,
nevertheless, well-looking, and possessed a cheerful,
comfortable countenance. I liked her appearance:
it was plain and unassuming, and I set my
mind to the task of scrutinising her probable sensations
on that important day.
Let us for a moment consider the situation of
that mother, who, whilst in an humble sphere of
life, and struggling with many difficulties, had
born, nursed, and reared a son, who, at an early
age, and solely by his own superior talents, became
ruler of one of the fairest portions of the
civilised creation; to whom kings and princes
crouched and submitted, and transferred their territories
and their subjects, at his will and pleasure;
to whom the whole world, except England,
had cringed; whom one great emperor had flattered
and fawned on, handing over to him a favourite
daughter even whilst the conqueror’s true
wife was still living; and whom the same bewildered
emperor had afterwards assisted in rousing
all Europe to overthrow; thus dethroning his
daughter, disinheriting his grandson, and exposing
himself to the contempt and derision of the universe,—only
that he might have the gratification
of enslaving six millions of the Italian people!
The mother of Napoleon had seen all this; and
had, no doubt, felt bitterly that reverse of fortune
whereby her son had been expelled and driven
into exile, after his long dream of grandeur and
almost resistless influence. What then must be
the sensations of that mother at the scene we are
describing! when she beheld the same son again
hailed emperor of the French, restored to power
and to his friends by the universal assent of a
great nation, and the firm attachment of victorious
armies! He remounted his throne before her eyes
once more, and, without the shedding of one drop
of blood, was again called to exercise those functions
of royalty from which he had been a few
months before excluded.
It was under these impressions that I eagerly
watched the countenance of that delighted lady:
but her features did not appear to me sufficiently
marked to give full scope to the indication of her
feeling. I could judge, in fact, nothing from any
other feature except her eye, to which, when I
could catch it, I looked for information. At first
I could see only her profile; but as she frequently
turned round, her emotions were from time to time
obvious: a tear occasionally moistened her cheek,
but it evidently proceeded from a happy rather
than a painful feeling—it was the tear of parental
ecstasy. I could perceive no lofty sensations of
gratified ambition; no towering pride; no vain
and empty arrogance, as she viewed underneath
her the peers and representatives of her son’s dominions.
In fact, I could perceive nothing in the
deportment of Madame Mère that was not calculated
to excite respect for her as a woman, and
admiration of her as the person who had brought
into the world a man for many years the most
successful of his species.
From observation of this interesting lady I was
called off by the scene which followed. After the
emperor had been awhile seated, (his brothers
and the public functionaries around him, as expressed
in a printed programme,) the oath was administered
to the peers and deputies individually,
so that each was distinctly marked by name; and
what I considered most fortunate was, that a French
gentleman, who sat immediately before me (I believe
some public officer), was assiduous in giving
the two ladies who accompanied him, not only the
name of each peer or deputy, as he took the oath,
but also some description of him. I took advantage
of this incident, and in a little tablet copied
down the names of such as I had heard spoken of
as remarkable persons, and particularly the generals
and marshals.
Their manner of administering and taking the
oath was very different from ours.[45] The French
had, from the period of the revolution, very justly
conceived that an oath of any description would
not be one atom more binding on the party if
taken upon a book than if trust were reposed in
their mere word of honour. On the present occasion,
each person, as his name was called over,
arose, and holding out his right arm to its extent,
(the palm of the hand uppermost,) deliberately pronounced,
“Je jure fidélité à l’Empereur, et obédience
à la Constitution.” The reader will easily believe
that it was a source of the utmost interest to watch
the countenances of these dignitaries of France
while they were engaged in performing this important
ceremonial. My physiognomical observation
was kept fully on the stretch, and was never,
before or since, so sated with materials to work on.
The emperor, meanwhile, sat almost immovable.
He did not appear exhilarated: indeed, on the
other hand, I think he was indisposed. His breast
heaved at times very perceptibly; an involuntary
convulsed motion agitated his lip; but never did
I see an eye more indefatigable and penetrating!
As each man’s name was called, and the oath administered,
its regard was fixed upon the individual;
and nothing could be more curious to the
spectator than to transfer his gaze alternately from
the party taking the oath to the emperor himself.
Some of the peers and deputies Napoleon’s eye
passed over with scarcely a look; while others he
regarded as though disposed to penetrate their very
souls, and search there for proofs of a sincerity he
considered doubtful. Some seemed to excite a
pleasurable, others a painful sensation within him;
though this was difficult to recognise, inasmuch as
his features seldom, and never more than slightly,
changed their expression. The countenances of
the members themselves were more easily read,
and afforded in many instances good clews whereby,
if not the real feelings, at least the tendency of
the parties might be deciphered. Some stood
boldly up, and loudly, and without hesitation
took the oath; while others, in slow, tremulous
voices, pledged themselves to what they either
never meant, or were not quite certain of their
ability to perform; and a few displayed manifest
symptoms of repugnance in their manner:—but
the scene was of a nature so splendid, so generally
interesting, that few persons, except those
whose habits had long led them to the study of
mankind, or such as might have some especial
interest in the result, would have attended to these
physiognomical indications, which were of course
not suffered in any instance to become prominent.
45. One of the devices to prevent the accumulation of petty
larceny, in the court of Common Pleas of Ireland, was very
amusing. Lord Norbury’s register, Mr. Peter Jackson, complained
grievously to his lordship that he really could not
afford to supply the court with Gospels or Prayer-books, as
witnesses, after they had taken their oaths, were in the constant
habit of stealing the book! “Peter,” said Lord Norbury, “if
the rascals read the book, it will do them more good than the
petty larceny may do them mischief.”—“Read or not read,”
urged Peter, “they are rogues, that’s plain. I have tied the
book fast, but nevertheless they have contrived to loosen and
abstract it.”—“Well, well!” replied my lord, “if they are
not afraid of the cord, hang your Gospel in chains, and that
perhaps, by reminding the fellows of the fate of some of their
fathers and grandfathers, may make them behave themselves.”
Peter Jackson took the hint: provided a good-looking, well-bound
New Testament, which he secured with a strong jack-chain
that had evidently done duty, and well, before the kitchen-fire,
and was made fast to the rail of the jury gallery. Thus,
the holy volume being gibbeted, had free scope to swing about
and clink as much as it chose, to the great terror of witnesses,
and good order of the jurors themselves.
One of the first persons who took the oath was
Fouché, Duke of Otranto. I had been in this
nobleman’s office on my first arrival in Paris,
had marked his countenance, and have already
given my judgment of him. He had originally
been a monk, (I believe a Jesuit,) and was on all
hands admitted to be a man of the utmost talent,
but at the same time without moral principle;—a
man who, in order to attain his ends, would disregard
justice, and set opinion at insolent defiance.
But, above all, Fouché’s reigning character was
duplicity: in that qualification of a statesman he
had no rival. Napoleon knew him thoroughly;
but, circumstanced as he was, he had (fatally for
himself) occasion for such men.
Yet even Fouché I really think was, on this
day, off his guard. He was at the time, there can
be little doubt, in actual communication with some
of Napoleon’s enemies; and he certainly appeared,
whether or no from “compunctious visitings of
conscience,” to be ill at his ease. I kept my eye
much on him; and it was quite obvious to me that
some powerful train of feeling was working within
his breast. On his name being called, there was
nothing either bold, frank, or steady in his appearance
or demeanour. He held out his hand not
much higher than his hip, and, in a tone of voice
languid, if not faltering, swore to a fidelity which
he was determined, should he find it convenient,
to renounce. I really think (and my eye and glass
were full upon him) that Fouché, at the moment,
felt his own treachery: a slight hectic passed over
his temples, and his tongue seemed to cleave to
his mouth. I cannot account for my impression
further than this, but from that instant I set down
the man as a traitor! Napoleon for the first time
turned his head as Fouché tendered his allegiance.
I could perceive no marked expression in the emperor’s
countenance, which remained placid and
steady; but I could not help thinking that even
that complacent regard (which certainly indicated
no confidence, if it was free from agitation) seemed
to say, “I know you!” The ceremony proceeded;
and after awhile the name was called of a person
whom I had before seen—Count Thibaudeau.
The contrast between this gentleman and Fouché
was very remarkable. He stood up quickly, and
with great firmness stepped a little forward, and
held his arm higher than his shoulder:—“Je jure,”
exclaimed Count Thibaudeau, “Je jure,” repeating
the words with emphasis, “fidélité à MON Empereur
et obédience à la Constitution!” I watched
Napoleon’s look: it was still serene, but a ray of
gratification was not absent, and shot rapidly across
his features.—The business at length terminated.
I treasured up in my mind the impressions made
upon it that day, and in very few of my forebodings
was I eventually mistaken.
The inauguration of the emperor was now
complete, and the reflection was extremely solemn,
that all the powers of Europe were armed to overthrow
the business of that morning. Neither
peace nor truce was to be made with Napoleon,
who was, on his part, about to try the strength of
France alone against a union of inveterate and inexorable
foes. He was now about to inform his
assembled legislators of this decision, and to make
a declaration that should at once rouse the French
people generally, and instil into the legislature a
portion of his own energy.
I was all expectation;—the critical moment arrived:
the occasion—the place—the subject, and
more especially the effect expected to be produced—all
combined in leading me to anticipate some
speech more impressive than any I had ever
heard.
The emperor rose from his throne rather quickly,
raised his hat for a moment, and looked round
him with a glance which, though probably meant
to imply confidence, had to me the expression of
scrutiny. Having done this, he re-seated himself,
and commenced his speech. In language it was
well adapted to the French soldiery; as a proclamation
it might be considered admirable; but
to a legislative assembly, it seemed to me (perhaps
erroneously) ill adapted. I did expect, at all events,
that it would be pronounced with that energy
which was indicative of the speaker’s character;
but miserably was I disappointed! Napoleon
read it distinctly, but, to my mind, utterly without
effect: there was no adequate ardour—no
emphasis—no modulation of voice—no action, to
enforce the sentiment. The delivery was monotonous
and unimpressive; nor can I yet conceive
how it was possible such a man could pronounce
such a speech without evincing that warmth of
feeling which the words, as well as the great subject
itself, (to say nothing of his own situation,)
were calculated to inspire. The French in general
read extremely ill; and Napoleon’s style of
elocution was a very humble specimen even of
theirs. He ran the sentences into each other: in
short, seemed to view the whole thing as a mere
matter of course, and to be anxious to get through
it. It put me more in mind of a solicitor reading
a marriage-settlement than any thing else. Here
and there, indeed, he appeared somewhat touched
by the text, and most probably he himself felt it all;
but he certainly expressed nothing in a manner that
could make others feel it. The concluding words
of the speech—“This is the moment to conquer or
to perish,” though pronounced by Napoleon with
little more energy than the preceding parts, (much
as if he had been saying, “And your petitioner
will ever pray,”) yet made a strong and visible
impression upon the entire auditory. Two or
three of the deputies, I observed, by (to all appearance)
an involuntary movement, put their
hands on their sword-hilts, and whispered those
who sat next them; and among the military officers
who were in the assembly there was evidently
a very gallant feeling. I cast my eye at
this moment on Fouché: he was looking upon the
ground, seemingly in contemplation, and moved
not a muscle.
At the conclusion of his speech Napoleon,
whose languid manner had considerably damped
my previous excitement, immediately descended
from the throne, and, in the same state and amidst
redoubled applauses, returned to the palace to
make preparations for meeting his parliaments, and
carrying into sudden execution what I have since
heard denominated by English generals the finest
military manœuvre of his whole life. Two things
seem to be universally admitted: that the first object
of that train of movements, namely the surprise
and division of the allied troops, was completely
successful; and that its second object—the
defeat of those troops in a general engagement,
was so near its accomplishment, that
its failure may almost be regarded as miraculous.
I returned home full of reflection. I soon recounted
all my impressions (particularly with respect
to Fouché and Napoleon) to my family and
two or three friends who dined with us. I did not
hesitate to speak frankly my opinion of the game
playing by the Duke of Otranto; nor did any
long period elapse before my predictions were
verified.
PROMULGATION OF THE CONSTITUTION.
Apathy of the people—Temporary building in front of the Ecole Militaire—Pont de Jena—Policy of Napoleon regarding Fouché—Procession to the Champ de Mars—Peculiar accoutrements of a regiment of cavalry—Reflections on some points in the history of Napoleon—His mistake in changing the republican into a monarchical government—Coaches of ceremony of the French noblesse and officers of state—The Emperor’s liberality to various members of his court—His personal dejection on this day—Rejoicings succeeding the promulgation—Superiority of the French in matters of embellishment—Gratuitous distribution of provisions and wine—Politeness of the lower orders of French—Display of fire-works—Mr. Hobhouse’s Second Reign of Napoleon.
The next great act of Napoleon’s second reign
was the promulgation of the new articles of the
constitution, at the Champ de Mars, which promised
to elicit much of the public sentiment.
For my own part, I conceived it would be the
true touchstone of Parisian political feeling; but
in this idea I was greatly disappointed.
It was natural to suppose that the establishing
a constitution, by a nearly despotic monarch,
whereby his own power would be greatly contracted,
would, even under Napoleon’s circumstances,
be considered one of the measures best
calculated to propitiate a long-tramelled population.
But, in fact, the thing assumed no such
character; the spectacle seemed, indeed, to be
held in the utmost value by the Parisians; but
the constitution itself in little, if any. They had
never possessed any regular constitution, and, I
really think, had no settled or digested ideas
upon the subject: even as yet they are but wandering.
The extraordinary splendour of the preparations
for this ceremony, and the admixture of civil and
military pomp, were to me very interesting. The
temporary buildings thrown up for the occasion
might, it is true, be denominated tawdry; yet,
strangely enough, there is no other people in the
world who can deck out gewgaws with any thing
like corresponding taste and effect.
The scene was on an immense scale. In an inconceivably
short time, and almost as if by magic,
a sort of amphitheatre was constructed in front of
the Ecole Militaire, of magnitude sufficient to contain
about 15,000 persons. Though only of planks
and paper, it seemed of marble and bronze, and
glowed with the richest velvets and most sumptuous
gilding. In the centre arose an altar similar
to those provided, in ancient sacrifices, for the
sacred fire to descend on; and at this altar Cardinal
Cambaceres presided. A great proportion of
the front of the military school was covered with
crimson velvet, and the imperial throne was placed
on the platform of the first story, facing the altar:
around it were seats for the princes. I was not
present at the actual ceremony within the great
temporary edifice.
I had, on the inauguration, (as already stated,)
fully satisfied myself as to the demeanour both of
the emperor and the senators; but I had not seen
the grand procession which had preceded; and on
this occasion, as it was to be much more of a military
character, and the emperor’s last public
appearance before he joined the army to decide
the fate of Europe, I was desirous of witnessing
the spectacle, and accordingly engaged a window
on the quay for my family, in a house close to the
Pont de Jena, over which the whole must pass.
We had thence a full view of the Champ de Mars,
of the amphitheatre, and of the artificial mount
whence the constitution was to be proclaimed by
the emperor in person to the people.
Napoleon well knew the great importance of
leaving a strong impression on public feeling.
His posting from the coast to the Tuileries without
interruption was the most extraordinary event
in history, ancient or modern: but it was not immediately
followed up by any unusual circumstance,
or any very splendid spectacle to rouse or
gratify Parisian volatility. The retired official life
of the emperor after his return (necessarily absorbed
in business night and day) had altogether
excited little or no stir, and still less expression
of public feeling in the metropolis: in fact, the
Parisians did not seem to feel so much interest
about the state of affairs as they would have done
upon the most unimportant occurrences: they
made light of every thing except their pleasure,
which always was and always will be the god of
Paris: and never was any deity more universally
and devoutly worshipped! The king’s flight to
Ghent was then as little thought of or regarded as
if he had gone to St. Cloud; and Napoleon’s
arrival made as little stir as Louis’s departure.
But the emperor was now about to go to battle;
he was well aware of the treachery which surrounded
him, and that on his success or discomfiture
depended its explosion. He determined,
therefore, as he had not time to counteract, to dissemble;
and I have no doubt that to this circumstance
alone Fouché knew he owed his existence.
The month preceding Napoleon’s departure from
Paris he became thoroughly acquainted with the
intrigues of his minister; and I firmly believe
that each was determined on the destruction of
the other upon the first feasible opportunity, as the
only means of securing himself. I do believe that
Fouché would not have survived Bonaparte’s successful
return more than four-and-twenty hours,
and I equally believe that Fouché had actually
meditated, and made some progress in providing
for, Napoleon’s assassination. I made up my
mind on these points, not from any direct information,
but from a process yclept by our great-grandmothers
spelling and putting together; and if the
reader will be good enough to bear in mind what
I have already told him, he will not be at a loss to
understand how my suspicions were excited.
In truth, the army alone was sincerely and unanimously
attached to the reinstated monarch.
By his soldiers Bonaparte was, in every part of
his career, almost worshipped. They seemed to
regard him rather as a demigod; and nobody
could be deceived as to their entire devotion to the
divinity which they had set up. But it was not
so with the civil ranks of Paris.
I should tire myself and readers were I to describe
the almost boyish anxiety which I felt
when the firing of the ordnance announced the
first movement of the emperor from the Tuileries
to the Champ de Mars. I shall leave to the supposition
of the reader the impression I received
from the passing of the cortége. Let him picture
to himself an immense army pouring along the
spacious quays of Paris, in battalions and squadrons:—the
enthusiasm of the soldiers, the bright
cuirasses, the multitude of waving plumes, the
magnificence of the marshals and their staff:—these,
set off by the glowing sun, combined to implant
in the mind of a person unaccustomed to
such a sight the idea of almost certain victory.
What struck me most, was the appearance of a
splendid, but not numerous regiment, in the costume
of Turkish cavalry, mounted upon small
barbs and dashingly accoutred: their officers rode,
for the most part, piebald horses, many of which
were caparisoned with breast armour, and decked
with gaudy trappings. The uniform of the men
was scarlet, with green cossack trowsers, immense
turbans, and high plumes of feathers; the whole
ornamented and laced in as splendid and glittering
a style as ingenuity could dictate: their stirrups
were foot-boards, and they had very crooked
sabres and long lances. I believe these men were
accoutred en Mamelück, and I mention them the
more particularly, because I believe they did not
go to Waterloo—at least not in that uniform. In
calling to my recollection this superb scene, the
hundred bands of martial music seem even at this
moment to strike my ear. It seemed as if every
instrument in Paris was in requisition! The trumpets
and kettle-drums of the gaudy heralds; the
deep sackbuts; the crashing cymbals; and the
loud gongs of the splendid Mamelukes, bewildered
both the ear and the imagination: at first
they astonished, then gratified, and at length
fatigued me. About the centre of this procession
appeared its principal object, who, had he lived
in times of less fermentation, would, in my opinion,
have been a still greater statesman than he was a
warrior. It is indisputable that it was Bonaparte
who definitively freed the entire continent of Europe
from that democratic mania, of all other
tyrannies the most cruel, savage, and unrelenting;
and which was still in full, though less rapid progress,
when he, by placing the diadem of France
on his own brow, restored the principle of monarchy
to its vigour, and at one blow overwhelmed
the many-headed monster of democratic revolution.
It has been the fashion, in England, to term
Napoleon a “Corsican usurper.” We should have
recollected Paoli before we reproached him for
being a Corsican, and we should have recurred to
our own annals and our great King William, who
dethroned his father, before we called Napoleon a
usurper. He mounted a throne which had long
been vacant; the decapitation of Louis, in which
he could have had no concern, had completely
overwhelmed the dynasty of Bourbon, and Napoleon
in a day re-established that monarchical
form of government which we had, with so much
expense of blood and treasure, been for many
years unsuccessfully attempting to restore. I cannot
avoid repeating this pointed example of our
own inconsistency. We actually made peace and
concluded treaties with Napoleon Bonaparte when
he was acting as a republican (the very species of
government against which we had so long combated);
and we refused to listen to his most pacific
demonstrations when he became a monarch![46]
46. Another observation I cannot but make on this subject.—As
events have turned out, Napoleon only sat down on the
throne of France to keep it for the Bourbons. Had he remained
a republican, as when we acknowledged and made
peace with him, the names of the whole family of Louis would
still have appeared on the pension list of England.
This has I confess been a sad digression: but
when I call to mind that last scene of Bonaparte’s
splendour, I cannot altogether separate from it the
prior portion of his history and that of Europe.
I have mentioned that about the centre of the
cortége the emperor and his court appeared. It
was the custom in France for every person of a
certain rank to keep a sort of state-coach gaudily
gilded and painted, and, in addition to the footmen,
a chasseur to mount behind, dressed en grande
toilette, with huge mustaches, immense feathers in
his hat, and a large sabre depending from a broad-laced
belt, which crossed his shoulder:—he was
generally a muscular, fine-looking man, and always
indicated rank and affluence in his master.
Napoleon liked this state to be preserved by all
his ministers, &c. He obliged every man in office
to appear at court and in public according to the
station he held; and instances were not wanting
where the emperor, having discovered that an
officer of rank had not pecuniary means to purchase
a coach of ceremony, had made him a present
of a very fine one. He repeatedly paid the
debts of several of his marshals and generals,
when he thought their incomes somewhat inadequate;
and a case has been mentioned, where a
high officer of his household had not money to
purchase jewels for his wife, of Napoleon ordering
a set to be presented to her with an injunction to
wear them at court.
On this day he commanded the twelve mayors
of Paris to appear in their carriages of ceremony;
and, to do them justice, they were gilt and caparisoned
as finely as time and circumstances
could admit. Bonaparte himself sat alone, in a
state coach with glass all round it: his feathers
bowed deeply over his face, and consequently
little more than the lower parts of it were quite
uncovered. Whoever has marked the countenance
of Napoleon must admit it to have been one of the
most expressive ever created. I have already
spoken of it as affected on distinct occasions; but
I beg to be understood as distinguishing it from
what is generally called an expressive countenance;
namely, one involuntarily and candidly proclaiming
the feelings whereby its proprietor is
actuated: the smile or the look of scorn, the
blush, or the tear, serving not unfrequently to
communicate matters which the lips would have
kept secret. Though that species of expressive
countenance may be commonly admired, it is
often inconvenient, and would be perfectly unbefitting
a king, a courtier, a gambler, a diplomatist,
or, in short, a man in any station of life which
renders it incumbent on him to keep his countenance.
The lower portion of Bonaparte’s face (as I have
mentioned in speaking of my first glance at it)
was the finest I think I ever saw, and peculiarly
calculated to set the feelings of others on speculation,
without giving any decided intimation of
his own. On the day of the promulgation, it occurred
to me, and to my family likewise, as we
saw him pass slowly under our window, that the
unparalleled splendour of the scene failed in
arousing him from that deep dejection which had
apparently seized him ever since his return to
Paris, and which doubtless arose from a consciousness
of his critical situation, and the hollow ground
whereon he trod. There was ill-timed languor in
his general look: he smiled not, and took but
little notice of any surrounding object. He appeared
in fact loaded with some presentiment, confined
however to himself; for of all possible events,
his approaching and sudden fate was last, I believe,
in the contemplation of any person among
that prodigious assembly. I apprehend the intelligence
of Murat’s defeat in Italy had reached
him about that time, and made a great impression
on him.
Two marshals rode on each side Napoleon’s
coach, and his three brothers occupied the next.
I thought they all appeared cheerful; at least, no
evil presentiments were visible in their countenances.
After the emperor had passed my interest
diminished. I was absorbed by reflection,
and my mind was painfully diverted to the probable
result of the impending contest, which would
most likely plunge into a gory and crowded grave
thousands of the gay and sparkling warriors who,
full of the principle of life and activity, had that
moment passed before me.
The crowds in the Champ de Mars; the firing
of the artillery; the spirited bustle of the entire
scene; and the return of the same cortége after
the new articles of the constitution had been proclaimed,
left me in a state of absolute languor;
and when I returned to my hotel, it required more
than a single bottle of Château Margot to restore
the serenity of my over-excited nerves.
The rejoicings which followed the promulgation
of the constitution were in a style of which I had
no previous conception. I have already observed,
and every person who has been much on the continent
will bear me out in the remark, that no
people are so very adroit at embellishment as
the French. Our carpenters, paper-hangers, &c.
know no more about Parisian embellishments than
our plain cooks do of the hundred and twenty-six
modes of cooking an egg, whereof every French
cuisinier is perfectly master.
Many temporary stands had been erected in the
Champs d’Elysée, whence to toss out all species
of provisions to the populace. Hams, turkeys,
sausages, &c. &c. were to be had in abundance by
scrambling for them. Twenty fountains of wine
were set playing into the jars, cups, and pails of all
who chose to adventure getting near them. A
number of temporary theatres were constructed,
and games of every description were dispersed
throughout the green. Quadrilles and waltzes were
practised every where around: all species of music
was heard among the trees, together with regular
bands in numerous orchestras; singing—juggling—in
fine, every thing that could stamp the period
of the emperor’s departure on the minds of the
people were ordered to be put in requisition;
and a scene of enjoyment ensued which, notwithstanding
the bustle necessarily attendant, was conducted
with the politeness and decorum of a drawing-room;
with much more, indeed, than prevails
at most of our public assemblies. No pick-pockets
were heard of; no disputes of any description
arose; the very lowest orders of the French canaille
appear on such occasions cleanly dressed, and
their very nature renders them polite and courteous
to each other. They make way with respect
for any woman, even from a duchess to a beggar;
and it is a very paradise for old ladies, who are
just as politely treated as young ones.
At night, stretching across the whole of the Place
Louis Quinze, was a transparent painting of Napoleon’s
return from Elba, the mimic ship being of equal
dimensions with the real one. Napoleon appeared
on the deck, and the entire effect was most impressive.
The rejoicings concluded with a display of fireworks—a
species of entertainment wherein I
never delighted. It commenced with a flight of
five thousand rockets, of various colours, at one
coup, and was terminated by the ascent of a balloon
loaded with every species of fire-work, in every form
and device, and in an abundance I had no conception
of; which, bursting high in the air, illuminated
by their overpowering momentary blaze the whole
atmosphere. At midnight, all, like an “unsubstantial
pageant,” had faded away, leaving the ill-starred
emperor[47] to pursue his route to partial
victory, final defeat,—to ruin, incarceration and
death.
47. I have read with pleasure many parts of “Napoleon’s Second
Reign,” by Mr. Hobhouse. Though I do not coincide
with that gentleman in all his views of the subject, (differing
from him in toto as to some,) I admit the justice of a great portion
of his observations, and consider the work, on the whole,
as a very clever performance. In several matters of description
and anecdote he has anticipated me; and I really think
has treated them with as much accuracy, and in a much more
comprehensive manner, than I should, or perhaps could have
done. Mine in fact is but a sketch—his a history. In some
matters of fact he appears to have been imperfectly informed:
but they are not errors of a sufficiently important nature to involve
any charge of general inaccuracy. I myself kept an ample
diary of the events of the Hundred Days, (of so much of
them at least as I spent in Paris,) and until the re-entry of
Louis; and in fact subsequently, though less regularly. From
these documents I have extracted what I now publish; but the
whole may perhaps hereafter appear in its original shape.
I cannot but express my regret that Mr. Hobhouse did not
remain in Paris until after Napoleon’s return from Belgium,
when there was a far wider and fairer field presented for the
exercise of his pen. I really conceive it will be a loss to literature
if he does not recur to that period (materials cannot be
wanting): take up his own work where he finished, and continue
it until the evacuation of Paris by the allied forces. The
events of that interval are richly worth recording; and it would
fill up what is, as yet, nearly a blank in the history of Europe.
One remark in conclusion:—it was really extraordinary
to witness the political apathy of the
entire population, save the military. Scarce a
single expression or indication of party feeling
escaped in any direction. All seemed bent on
their own pleasures, and on pleasure alone; careless
whether the opportunity for its indulgence
were afforded them by Napoleon or Louis—by preparations
for peace or war—by the establishment
of despotism or liberty. They were, I sincerely
believe, absolutely weary of politics, and inclined
to view any suggestion of that nature with emotions
of total indifference. At all times, indeed,
the Parisians prefer pleasure to serious speculation.
The wisest king of France will ever be that
one who contrives to keep his “good citizens”
constantly amused; and the most impolitic will be
any monarch who curbs their enjoyments. No Parisian
will fight if he can dance. I very lately saw
a collection of men who were going about in the
evening in Rue de Sevres, crying “à bas Villele!”
&c. &c., and seeming to be bent on some immediate
mischief, stop short to hear an old clarionet player,
a long drum, and a barrel organ; and being joined
by some ladies of their own class, in ten minutes
they were quadrilling with as much politeness as
the Almackers.
LAST DAYS OF THE IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT.
Rejoicings on Napoleon’s victory over Blucher and surprise of Lord Wellington—Bulletin issued at St. Cloud—Budget of news communicated by a French cockney—Author’s alarm on account of his family—Proposes quitting Paris—Information of Henry Thevenot: confirmed at Lafitte’s—Napoleon’s return from Waterloo—The author’s sources of intelligence—His visits to the Chamber of Deputies—Garat, minister of justice at the period of Louis’s decapitation—The Rousseau Mss. and their peculiar utility to the author—Fouché’s treachery—Vacillating plan to inform Napoleon thereof, through Count Thibaudeau—Observations on the vicissitudes and political extinction of Bonaparte.
The emperor having left Paris to take command
of the army in Belgium, the garrison left in
that city was necessarily very inconsiderable. It
was the universal belief that the allies would be
surprised by a simultaneous attack, and the event
in some degree warranted this supposition. The
result was—a double defeat of Blucher; the separation
of the Prussian and British armies; the consequent
retreat of Lord Wellington upon Brussels;
the march of Grouchy upon that city; and
the advance of Napoleon; all this the work of
two days only. The impatience of the Parisians
for news may be easily conceived; nor were they
long kept in suspense. Meanwhile, there ran
through the whole mass of society a suspicion
that treachery was on foot, but nobody could
guess in what shape it would explode. The assassination
of Napoleon was certainly supposed to
have been then spoken of, and was a thing in
contemplation. The disaffection of sundry general
officers and others was likewise publicly discussed
at the Palais Royal; but no names were mentioned
except Fouché’s.
On Sunday, the 18th of June, at day-break, I
was roused by the noise of artillery. I arose and
instantly sallied out to inquire the cause: nobody
could at the moment inform me; but it was soon
announced that it was public rejoicings on account
of a great victory gained by Napoleon over the
Prussians, commanded by Blucher, and the English,
by the Duke of Wellington: that the allies
had been partly surprised, and were in rapid
retreat, followed by the emperor and flanked by
Grouchy: that a lancer had arrived as courier,
and given many details, one of which was, that
our light dragoons, under Lord Anglesey, had been
completely destroyed.
I immediately determined to quit Paris for the
day. It was Sunday: every body was a-foot;
the drums were beating in all directions, and it
was impossible to say how the canaille might, in
exultation at the victory, be disposed to act by
the English in Paris. We therefore set out early,
and breakfasted at St. Cloud. The report of the
victory had reached that village, but I perceived
no indication of any great feeling on the subject.
We adjourned to Bagatelle, in the very pretty
gardens of which we sauntered about till dinner-time.
This victory did not surprise me; for when I
saw the magnificent and to me almost innumerable
array of troops on the occasion of the Promulgation,
and before, I had adopted the unmilitary
idea that they must be invincible. As yet we had
heard no certain particulars: about eleven o’clock,
however, printed bulletins were liberally distributed,
announcing an unexpected attack on the
Prussian and English armies with the purpose of
dividing them, which purpose was stated to be
fully accomplished; the Duke of Brunswick killed;
the Prince of Orange wounded; two Scotch regiments
broken and sabred; Lord Wellington in
full retreat; Blucher’s army absolutely ruined;
and the emperor in full march for Brussels, where
the Belgian army would join the French, and
march unitedly for Berlin. The day was rather
drizzling: we took shelter in the grotto, and were
there joined by some Parisian shopkeeper and his
family, who had come out from the capital for
their recreation. This man told us a hundred
incidents which were circulated in Paris with
relation to the battle. Among other things, it was
said, that if the emperor’s generals did their duty,
the campaign might be already considered over,
since every man in France and Belgium would rise
in favour of the emperor. He told us news had
arrived, that the Austrians were to be neutral, and
that the Russians durst advance no further; that
the king of Prussia would be dethroned; and that
it was generally believed Lord Wellington would
either be dead or in the castle of Vincennes by
Wednesday morning! This budget of intelligence
our informant communicated himself in a very
neutral way, and without betraying the slightest
symptom either of gratification or the reverse; and
as it was impossible to doubt the main point (the
defeat), I really began, from the bulletin, to think
all was lost, and that it was high time to consider
how we should get out of France forthwith; more
particularly as the emperor’s absence from Paris
would, by leaving it at the mercy of the populace,
render that city no longer a secure residence for
the subjects of a hostile kingdom; and, in fact, the
marais had already shown great impatience at the
restraints of the police, and had got wind of
Fouché’s having smuggled a quantity of arms out
of Paris, which was a fact: he sent them to Vincennes.
How singular was it that, at the very
moment I was receiving this news,—at the instant
when I conceived Napoleon again the conqueror
of the world, and the rapidity of his success
as only supplementary to the rapidity of his previous
return, and a prelude to fresh achievements,
that bloody and decisive conflict was actually at
its height, which had been decreed by Providence
to terminate Napoleon’s political existence! What
an embarrassing problem to the mind of a casuist
must a speculation be, as to the probable results,
had this day ended differently!
Our minds were now made up to quit Paris on the
following Thursday; and, as the securest course,
to get down to St. Maloes, and thence to Jersey,
or some of the adjacent islands: and without mentioning
our intention, I determined to make every
preparation connected with the use of the sauf
conduit which I had procured on my first arrival in
Paris. But Fate decreed it otherwise. Napoleon’s
destiny had been meantime decided, and
my flight became unnecessary.
On returning to Paris, we found every thing
quiet. On that very Sunday night my servant,
Henry Thevenot, told me that he had heard the
French had got entangled in a forest, and met a
repulse. He said he had been told this at a public
house in Rue Mont Blanc.
I feared the man: I suspected him to be on the
espionnage establishment, and therefore told him
to say no more to me about the war, and that I
wished much to be in England.
About nine on Wednesday morning, as soon as
I rose, Thevenot again informed me, with a countenance
which gave no indication of his own sentiments,
that the French were totally defeated; that
the emperor had returned to Paris; and that the
English were in full march to the capital.
I always dreaded lest the language of my servant
might in some way implicate me, and I now chid
him for telling me so great a falsehood.
“It is true,” returned he.
Still I could not believe it; and I gave him notice,
on the spot, to quit my service. He received
this intimation with much seeming indifference,
and his whole deportment impressed me with suspicion.
I went immediately, therefore, to Messrs.
Lafitte, my bankers, and the first person I saw
was my friend, Mr. Phillips, very busily employed
at his desk in the outside room.
“Do you know, Phillips,” said I, “that I have
been obliged to turn off my servant for spreading
a report that the French are beaten and the emperor
returned?”
Phillips, without withdrawing his eyes from
what he was engaged on, calmly and concisely
replied, “It is true enough.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed I.
“Quite possible,” returned this man of few
words, still without looking off his account book.
“Where is Napoleon?” said I.
“In the Palais de Bourbon Elysée,” said he.
I saw it was vain to expect further communication
from Mr. Phillips, and I went into an inner
chamber to Mr. Clermont, who seemed however
more taciturn than the other.
Being most anxious to learn all the facts, I proceeded
to the Palais d’Elysée, my scepticism
having meanwhile undergone great diminution
from seeing an immense number of splendid equipages
darting through the streets, filled with full-dressed
men, plentifully adorned with stars and
orders. When I got to the palace I found the
court full of carriages, and a large body of the
national guard under arms: yet I could scarcely
believe my eyes; but I soon learned the principal
fact from a hundred mouths and with a thousand
different details:—my informants agreeing only
on one point—namely, that the army was defeated
by treachery, and that the emperor had returned
to Paris in quest of new matériel. Groups and
crowds were collecting every where, and confusion
reigned triumphant.
Being somewhat rudely driven out of the court-yard,
I now went round to the Champs d’Elysée,
at the rear of the palace. Sentinels, belonging to
Napoleon’s guard, were by this time posted outside
the terrace that skirts the garden. They
would permit no person to approach close; but I
was near enough to discern Napoleon walking deliberately
backward and forward, in easy conversation
with two persons whom I conceived to be his
uncle, Cardinal Fesch, and Count Bertrand; and
I afterward heard that I was right. The emperor
wore a short blue coat and a small three-cocked
hat, and held his hands behind his back, seemingly
in a most tranquil mood. Nobody could in fact
suppose he was in any agitation whatever, and the
cardinal appeared much more earnest in the conversation
than himself. I stood there about fifteen
minutes, when the sentries ordered us off; and as
I obeyed, I saw Napoleon walk up toward the
palace.
I never saw the emperor of the French after
that day, which was, in fact, the last of his actual
reign. It ought to have been the last day of his
existence, or the first of some new series of achievements:
but Fate had crushed the man, and he
could rouse himself no more. Though I think he
could count but scantily on the fidelity of the
national guards, yet he was in possession of Montmartre,
which the old guard had occupied. Paris
was quite within his power; and, as the event
proved, another and a very powerful army might
soon have been gathered about him. Perhaps,
too, had Bonaparte rallied in good earnest, he might
have succeeded in working even on the very pride
of his former subjects to free the soil of the grande
nation from foreign invasion. The people of the
marais appeared in crowds, quite wild, and I apprehend
nearly ungovernable.
Madame Le Jeune, the mistress of the hotel
wherein we resided, was sister to General Le
Jeune, the painter who executed those noble
pieces of the battles of Jena and Austerlitz,
which were formerly in the outside room at the
gallery of the Tuileries. I am no judge of painting,
but I think every thing he did (and his pieces
were numerous) possessed great effect. Through
him, until the siege terminated by the surrender
of Paris, we learned all that was going on among
the French; and through Doctor Marshall and
Col. Macirone I daily became acquainted with the
objects of the English.
After Napoleon had been making faint and fruitless
endeavours to induce the deputies to grant
him the matériel and aid him in a new armament,
their coldness to himself individually became too
obvious to be misconstrued: fortune had in fact
forsaken Napoleon, and friends too often follow
fortune; and it soon became notorious that Fouché
had every disposition to seal his master’s destruction.
The emperor had, however, still many true
and faithful friends—many ardent partisans on
whose fidelity he might rely. He had an army
which could not be estranged, which no misfortune
could divert from him. But his enemies (including
the timid and neutral among the deputies) appeared
to me decidedly to outnumber those who
would have gone far in ensuring his reinstatement.
Tranquillity seemed to be the general wish, and
the re-equipment of Napoleon would have rendered
that unattainable.
Nevertheless, the deputies proceeded calmly on
their business, and events every day assumed a
more extraordinary appearance. The interval between
the emperor’s return from Waterloo and
his final abdication—between his departure for
Malmaison and the siege of Paris—was of the
most interesting and important nature; and so
great was my curiosity to be aware of passing
events, that I am conscious I went much farther
lengths than prudence would have warranted.
During the debates of the deputies after Napoleon’s
return, I was almost daily present. I
met a gentleman who procured me a free admission,
and through whom I became acquainted, by
name with most, and personally with many, of the
most celebrated characters, not only of the current
time, but also those who had flourished during
the different stages of the revolution. I was
particularly made known to Garat, who had been
minister of justice at the time Louis XVI. was
beheaded, and had read to him his sentence and
conducted him to the scaffold. Although he had
not voted for the king’s death, he durst not refuse
to execute his official functions; his attendance
therefore could not be considered as voluntary.
He was at this time one of the deputies. His
person would well answer the idea of a small,
slight, sharp-looking, lame tailor; but his conversation
was acute, rational, and temperate. He
regarded Napoleon as lost beyond all redemption;
nor did he express any great regret hereat, seeming
to be a man of much mental reservation. I
suspect he had been too much of a genuine republican,
and of too democratic and liberal a
policy, ever to have been any great admirer even
of the most splendid of monarchs. I think he
was sent out of Paris on the king’s restoration.
My friend having introduced me to the librarian
of the Chamber of Deputies, I was suffered to sit
in the ante-room, or library, whenever I chose,
and had consequently a full opportunity of seeing
the ingress and egress of the deputies, who frequently
formed small groups in the ante-room,
and entered into earnest although brief conferences.
My ready access to the gallery of the
house itself enabled me likewise to know the successive
objects of their anxious solicitude.
The librarian was particularly obliging, and
suffered me to see and examine many of the most
curious old documents. But the original manuscript
of Rousseau’s “Confessions,” and of his
“Eloisa,” afforded me a real treat. His writing
is as legible as print: the “Eloisa,” a work of
mere fancy, without one obliteration; while the
“Confessions,” which the author put forth as
matter of fact, are, oddly enough, full of alterations
in every page.
When I wished for an hour of close observation,
I used to draw my chair to a window, get Rousseau
into my hand, and, while apparently rivetted
on his “Confessions,” watch from the corner of
my eye the earnest gesticulation and ever-varying
countenances of some agitated group of deputies:
many of them, as they passed by, cast a glance on
the object of my attention, of which I took care
that they should always have a complete view.
Observing one day a very unusual degree of excitement
amongst the members in the chamber,
and perceiving the sally of the groups into the
library to be more frequent and earnest than ordinary,
I conceived that something very mysterious
was in agitation. I mentioned my suspicions to
a well-informed friend: he nodded assent, but
was too wise or too timorous to give any opinion
on so ticklish a subject. I well knew that Napoleon
had been betrayed, because I had learned
from an authentic source that double dispatches
had been actually sent by Fouché to the allies,
and that the embassy to the emperor of Russia,
from M. Lafitte, &c. had been some hours anticipated
and counteracted by the chief commissioner
of government.
It was clear to every body that Napoleon had
lost his fortitude: in fact, to judge by his conduct,
he seemed so feeble and irresolute that he had
ceased to be formidable, and it occurred to me
that some sudden and strong step was in the contemplation
of his true friends to raise his energies
once more, and stimulate him to resistance. I
was led to think so, particularly, by hearing some
of his warmest partisans publicly declare that, if
he had not lost all feeling both for himself and
France, he should take the alternative of either
reigning again or dying in the centre of his still-devoted
army.
The next day confirmed my surmises. A letter
had been written without signature,[48] addressed to
Count Thibaudeau, disclosing to him in detail
the treachery of Fouché, &c. and advising the
emperor instantly to arrest the traitors, unfold the
treason to the chambers, then put himself at the
head of his guards, re-assemble the army at
Vilette, and, before the allies could unite at Paris,
make one effort more to save France from subjugation.
This was, I have reason to believe, the
purport of the letter; and I also learned the mode
and hour determined on to convey it to Count
Thibaudeau. It was to be slipped into the letter-box
in the ante-room of the chamber, which was
used, as I have already mentioned, as a library.
I was determined to ascertain the fact; and, seated
in one of the windows, turning over the leaves
and copying passages out of my favourite manuscript,
I could see plainly where the letter-box
was placed, and kept it constantly in my eye.
The crowd was always considerable; groups were
conversing; notes and letters were every moment
put into the box for delivery; but I did not see
the person who I believed was about to give Count
Thibaudeau the information. At length, however,
I saw him warily approach the box: he was obviously
agitated—so much so indeed, that far from
avoiding, his palpable timidity would have excited
observation. He had the note in his hand: he
looked around him, put his hand toward the box,
withdrew it, changed colour, made a second effort—and,
his resolution again faltering, walked away
without effecting his purpose. I afterward learned
that the letter had been destroyed, and that Count
Thibaudeau received no intimation till too late.
48. The writer of that letter, whose real politics I was extremely
doubtful of, but which I afterward perceived were unfixed
and speculative, lived to become an ultra loyalist. He
was a British subject, and a bigot in every thing: his prejudices
pro or con were invincible. He died long since the first
edition of this book was published.
This was an incident fraught with portentous
results: had that note been dropped, as intended,
into the box, the fate of Europe might have remained
long undecided; Fouché would surely have
met his due reward; Bonaparte would have put
himself at the head of the army assembling at
Vilette—numerous, enthusiastic, and desperate.
Neither the Austrian nor Russian armies were
within reach of Paris; while that of the French
would, I believe, in point of numbers, have exceeded
the English and Prussian united force:
and it is more than probable, that the most exterminating
battle which ever took place between
two great armies, would have been fought in the
suburbs, perhaps in the boulevards of Paris.
Very different indeed were the consequences of
that suppression. The evil genius of Napoleon
pressed down the balance; and instead of any
chance of remounting his throne, he forfeited both
his character and his life; while Fouché, dreading
the risk of detection, devised a plan to get the emperor
clear out of France, and either end him, or at
least put him into the power of the British government,
as is detailed in a subsequent chapter.
This last occurrence marked finally the destiny
of Napoleon. Fortune had not only forsaken, she
had mocked him! She tossed about, and played
with, before she destroyed her victim—one moment
giving him hopes which only rendered despair
more terrible the next. After what I saw of
his downfall, no public event, no revolution, can
ever excite in my mind one moment of surprise.
I have seen, and deeply feel, that we are daily deceived
in our views of every thing and every body,
public and private.
Bonaparte’s last days of power were certainly
full of tremendous vicissitudes:—on one elated by
a great victory—on the next overwhelmed by a
fatal overthrow. Hurled from a lofty throne into
the deepest profundity of misfortune; bereft of
his wife and only child; persecuted by his enemies;
abandoned by his friends; betrayed by his
ministers; humbled, depressed, paralysed;—his
proud heart died within him; his great spirit was
quenched; and, after a grievous struggle, Despair
became his conqueror, and Napoleon Bonaparte
degenerated into an ordinary mortal.
DETENTION AT VILETTE.
Negotiation between the provisional government of Paris and the allies—Col. Macirone’s mission—The author crosses the barrier of the French army, misses the colonel, and is detained on suspicion—Led before Marshal Davoust, Prince d’Eckmuhl and commander-in-chief of the forces at Vilette—The marshal’s haughty demeanour, and the imprecations of the soldiery—A friend in need; or, one good turn deserves another—Remarks of a French officer on the battle of Waterloo—Account of the physical and moral strength and disposition of the army at Vilette—Return of the parlementaires—Awkward mistake of one of the sentries—Liberation of the author—Marshal Davoust’s expressions to the negotiators.
In the month of July, 1815, there was a frequent
intercourse of parlementaires between the
commissioners of the French government and the
allies. Davoust, Prince d’Eckmuhl, commanded
the French army assembled at Vilette and about
the Canal d’Ourk, a neighbourhood where many
thousand Russians had fallen in the battle of the
preceding summer. I had the greatest anxiety to
see the French army; and Col. Macirone informing
me that he was to be sent out with one of
Fouché’s despatches to the Duke of Wellington,
I felt no apprehension, being duly armed with my
sauf-conduit, and thought I might take that opportunity
of passing the Barrier de Roule, and strolling
about until Macirone’s carriage should come
up. It however drove rapidly by me, and I was
consequently left in rather an awkward situation,
not knowing the localities, and the sentry refusing
to suffer me to re-enter.
I did not remain long in suspense, being stopped
by two officers, who questioned me in French
somewhat tartly as to my presumption in passing
the sentries, “who,” said they, “must have mistaken
you for one of the commissaries’ attendants.”
I produced my passport, which stood me
in no further advantage than to ensure a very civil
arrest. I was directly taken a long way to the
quarters of Marshal Davoust, who was at the time
breakfasting on grapes and bread in a very good
hotel near the canal. He showed at first a sort of
austere indifference that was extremely disagreeable
to me: but on my telling him who I was,
and every thing relating to the transaction, the
manifestation of my candour struck him so forcibly,
that he said I was at liberty to walk about, but
not to repass the lines till the return of the parlementaires,
and further inquiry made about me. I
was not altogether at my ease: the prince was
now very polite; but I knew nobody, and was undoubtedly
a suspicious person. However, I was
civilly treated by the officers who met me, and on
the contrary received many half-English curses
from several soldiers who, I suppose, had been
prisoners in England. I was extremely hungry
and much fatigued, and kept on the bank of the
canal, as completely out of the way of the military
as I could.
I was at length accosted in my own language
by an elderly officer, tall and distingué in his appearance.
“Sir,” said he, “I think I have seen you in
England?”
“I have not the honour to recollect having met
you, sir,” replied I.
“I shall not readily forget it,” rejoined the
French officer: “do you remember being, about
two years since, in the town of Odiham?”
“Very well,” said I.
“You recollect some French officers who were
prisoners there? There were two ladies with
you.”
These words at once brought the circumstance
to my mind, and I answered, “I do now recollect
seeing you perfectly.”
“Yes,” said my interlocutor, “I was one of
the three officers who were pelted with mud by
the garçons in the streets of Odiham; and do you
remember striking one of the garçons who followed
us, for their conduct?”
“I do not forget it, sir,” said I.
“Come with me then,” pursued he, “and we’ll
talk it over in another place.”
The fact had been as he represented. A few
French officers, prisoners at Odiham, were sometimes,
as they told me, roughly treated by the mob.
Passing by chance one day with Lady Barrington
and my daughter through the streets of that town,
I saw a great number of boys following, hooting
and hissing the French officers, and throwing dirt
at them. I struck two or three of these idle dogs
with my cane, and rapped at the constable’s
door, who immediately came out and put them to
flight,—interfering, however, rather reluctantly on
the part of what he called the “d—d French
* * * *.” I expressed and felt great indignation;
the officers thanked me warmly, and I believe
were all shortly after removed to Oswestry:
they were much disliked on that side of London.
My French friend told me that his two comrades
at Odiham were killed—the one at Waterloo,
and the other by a waggon passing over him
at Charleroi, on the 16th of June; and that
scarcely an officer who had been prisoner at his
dépôt at Oswestry had survived the last campaign.
He gave me in his room near Vilette wine, bread,
and grapes, with dried sausages well seasoned
with garlic, and a glass of eau-de-vie. I was
highly pleased at this rencontre. My companion
was a most intelligent person, and communicative
to the utmost extent of my curiosity. His narrative
of many of the events of the battles of the
16th and 18th ult. was most interesting, and carried
with it every mark of candour. The minutes
rolled away speedily in his company, and seemed
to me indeed far too fleeting.
He had not been wounded, though in the heat
of both engagements. He attributed the loss of
the battle to three causes:—the wanton expenditure
of the cavalry; the uncovering of the right
wing by Grouchy; and the impetuosity of Napoleon,
in ordering the last attack by the old
guard, which he should have postponed till next
day. He said he had no doubt that the Belgian
troops would all have left the field before morning.
He had been engaged on the left, and did not see
the Prussian attack; but said, that it had the
effect of consolidating all the different corps of
the French army into a confused mass, which lost
the battle.
He told me that Napoleon was forced off the
field by the irresistible crowds which the advance
of the English cavalry had driven into disorder,
while there was not a possibility of rallying a
single squadron of their own. His episodes respecting
the occurrences of that day were most
affecting, and I believe true.
In this agreeable society my spirits mounted
again, and I soon acquired courage sufficient to
express my great anxiety to see the army, adding,
that I durst not go alone. My friend immediately
took me under his arm, and walked with me
through the whole lines, introducing me to several
of his comrades, and acting throughout in the
kindest and most gentlemanly manner. This was
precisely the opportunity I had so long wished for
of viewing the French troops, which were then
full of impetuosity and confidence, and eager for
battle. Neither the Russians nor Austrians had
reached Paris, and it was supposed Davoust would
anticipate the attack of the other allies, who only
waited for the junction of these powers and their
heavy artillery to recommence operations. The
scene was so new to me, so impressive, and so important,
that it was only on my return home my
mind got steady enough to organise its ideas, and
permit me to take coherent notes of what I had
witnessed.
The battle of Waterloo was understood to have
dispersed so entirely the French army,—that powerful
and glorious display of heroes and of arms
which a very few days previously had passed before
my eyes,—that scarcely ten men (except Grouchy’s
division) returned in one body to Paris; and those
who did return were in such a state of wretchedness
and depression, that I took for granted the
spirit of the French army had been extinguished—their
battalions never to be rallied—their courage
thoroughly cooled! I considered that the assembly
in the vicinity of Vilette could not be numerous,
and was more calculated to make a show for
better terms than to resist the conquerors. How
great then must have been my astonishment when
the evening parades turned out, as the officers informed
me, above sixty-five thousand infantry, which,
with artillery and cavalry, reached together near
80,000 men. I thought several of the privates
had drunk rather too much: but whether sober or
not, they seemed to be all in a state of wild, enthusiastic
excitement—little removed from insubordination,
but directly tending to hostility and battle.
Whole companies cried aloud, as the superior officers
passed them, “Mon Général—à l’attaque!—l’ennemi!
l’ennemi!—allons! allons!” others shouted
“Nous sommes trahis! trahison! trahison! à la bataille!
à la bataille!” Crowds of them, as if by
instinct or for pastime, would rush voluntarily
together, and in a moment form a long column,
then disperse and execute some other manœuvre;
while others, dispersed in groups, sang in loud
chorus sundry war songs, wherein les Prusses and
les Anglais were the general theme.
I had no conception how it was possible that, in
a few days after such a total dispersion of the
French army, another could be so rapidly collected,
and which, though somewhat less numerous,
the officer told me evinced double the enthusiasm
of those who had formed the defeated corps.
They had now it is true the stimulus of that defeat
to urge them desperately on to retrieve that military
glory which had been so awfully obscured;
their artillery was most abundant; and we must
never forget that the French soldier is always
better informed, and possessed of more morale than
our own. In truth, I really do believe there was
scarcely a man in that army at Vilette who would
willingly have quitted the field of battle alive,
unless victorious.
Though their tumultuous excitement certainly
at this time bore the appearance of insubordination,
my conductor assured me I was mistaken in
forming such a judgment: he admitted that they
durst not check that exuberant zeal on the instant;
but added, that when the period arrived to form
them for battle, not a voice would be heard—not
a limb move, till the attack commenced, except by
order of their leaders; and that if the traitors in
Paris suffered them once more to try their fortune,
he did not think there was an individual in that
army who entertained a doubt of the result.
In the production of this confidence, party spirit
was doubtless mixed up: but no impartial observer
could deny, that had the troops at Vilette been
heartily joined by the national guards and country
volunteers then within the walls of Paris, the consequence
would have been at least extremely problematical;
and if the marais had been armed
with pikes, the whole would have been overwhelming.
The day passed on, and I still strolled about
with my polite conductor, whom I begged to remain
with me. He was not an officer of high
rank: I believe a captain of the eighty-first infantry—very
thin and worn, gentlemanly, and had
seen long service.
From this crowd of infuriated soldiers, he led me
farther to the left, whither a part of the old guard,
who had been I believe quartered at Montmartre,
had been that evening removed. I had, as the
reader will perhaps recollect, a previous opportunity
of admiring that unrivalled body of veteran
warriors; and their appearance this evening interested
me beyond measure. Every man looked
like an Ajax, exhibiting a firmness of step and
of gesture at once formidable and even graceful.
At the same time, I fancied that there was a cast
of melancholy over their bronzed countenances.
When I compare that corps to the ordinary-looking
troops now generally composing the guardians
of that once military nation, I can scarcely avoid
sighing while I exclaim tempora mutantur! I returned
to the barrier with my friend, after a long
walk.
I grew at length impatient; evening was closing,
and, if detained, I must I suppose have bivouacked.
To be sure the weather was so fine that
it would have been of no great consequence: still
my situation was disagreeable, and the more so,
as my family, being quite ignorant of it, must necessarily
feel uneasy. I was therefore becoming
silent and abstracted, (and my friend had no kind
of interest to get me released,) when two carriages
appeared driving toward the barrier where we
stood. A shot was fired by the advanced sentry
at one of them, which immediately stopped. A
party was sent out, and the carriage entered:
there were two gentlemen in it, one of whom had
received the ball, I believe, in his shoulder. A
surgeon instantly attended, and they proceeded
within the lines. They proved to be two of the
parlementaires who had gone out with dispatches.
The wound was not mortal; and its infliction
arose from a mistaken construction, on the part of
the sentinel, of his orders.
The other carriage (in which I conceived was
Col. Macirone) drove on without going to the
head-quarters of Davoust. My kind companion
said he would now go and try to get me dismissed:
he did so, and procured an order from the adjutant-general
for my departure, on signing my
name, address, and occupation, and the name of
some person who knew me in Paris. I mentioned
Mr. Phillips, of Lafitte’s, and was then
suffered to depart. It will be imagined that I
was not dilatory in walking home, where, of
course, I was received as a lost sheep,—no member
of my family having the slightest idea whither I
had gone.
The officer, as he accompanied me to the barrier,
described to me the interview between the French
parlementaires and Davoust. They had, in the
morning, it seems, made progress in the negotiation,
Very much against the marshal’s inclinations.
He was confident of victory, and expressed
himself, with great warmth, in the following emphatic
words:—“Begone! and tell your employer,
Fouché, when you return, that the prince
of Eckmuhl will defend Paris till its flames set this
handkerchief on fire!”—waving one as he spoke.
From what I saw, I do believe he would have
kept his word; and I cannot doubt that if the
dreadful conflict had taken place, the victory on
either side would have cost the conqueror half his
army:—situated as they were, and with the spirit
both armaments possessed, they never could have
parted without an almost exterminating carnage.
PROJECTED ESCAPE OF NAPOLEON.
Attack on the bridge of Charenton by the Russians—Fouché’s arrangements for the defence of Paris—Bonaparte’s retirement to Malmaison—His want of moral courage—Comparison between Napoleon and Frederick the Great—Extraordinary resolution of the ex-emperor to repair to London—Preparations for his undertaking the journey as secretary to Dr. Marshall—The scheme abandoned from dread of treachery on the road to the coast—Termination of the author’s intercourse with Dr. Marshall, and the cause thereof—Remuneration of Col. Macirone by the arch-traitor Fouché.
It was the received opinion that the allies would
form a blockade rather than venture an assault on
Paris: their mortars or heavy artillery had not
arrived, and the numerical strength and morale of
the French army at Vilette the reader has already
seen. The English army was within view of, and
occupied, St. Denis; the Prussians were on the
side of Sevres; and the Russians were expected
in the direction of Charenton, along the Marne;
while a Brunswick corps at Versailles had been
surprised and cut up. That Paris might have
been taken by storm is possible, but not more, if
they fought; but had the French army been augmented
by one half of the national guard, the
effort would surely have been most sanguinary,
and the result most doubtful. Had the streets
been intersected, mines sunk, the bridges broken
down, and the populace armed as well as circumstances
would permit (the heights being at the
same time duly defended), though I am not a military
man, and therefore very liable to error on
such a subject, I have little doubt the allied forces
would have presented but a scanty army before
they arrived in the centre of the French metropolis.
The defence of Saragossa by Palafox (though
but a chieftain of Guerilla) proved the possibility
of defending an open town against a valorous
enemy. However, this was not the course meditated
by Davoust: he wished to attack; and no
doubt, considering the humour of the French army
at the time, the offensive was the best system.
I was breakfasting in Dr. Marshall’s garden
when we heard a heavy firing commence: it proceeded
from Charenton, about three miles from
Paris, where the Russian advanced-guard had
attacked the bridge, which had not been broken
up, although it was one of the leading avenues to
the Castle of Vincennes. Fouché indeed had contrived
to weaken this post effectually, so that the
defence there could not be long protracted; and
he had also ordered ten thousand stand of arms to
be taken secretly out of Paris and lodged in the
Castle of Vincennes (to prevent the Parisians from
arming) the day before.
The discharges continuing in occasional volleys,
like a sort of running fire of platoons, I was most
anxious to go to some spot which would command
a view of that part of the country; but the doctor
dissuaded me, saying it could not be a severe or
lengthened struggle, as Fouché had taken care of
that matter. I led him gradually into conversation
on the business, and he made known to me, though
equivocally, much more than I had ever suspected.
Every dispatch, every negotiation, every step which
it was supposed by such among the French as
had their country’s honour and character at heart,
might operate to prevent the allies from approaching
Paris after the second abdication, had been
either accompanied by counter-applications, or defeated
by secret instructions from Fouché.
While mock negotiations were carrying on at a
distance, and before the English army had reached
St. Denis, Bonaparte was already at Malmaison.
It had become quite clear that he was a lost man;
and this most celebrated of all soldiers on record
proved by his conduct, at that crisis, the distinction
between animal and mental courage: the first is
an instinctive quality, enjoyed by us in common
with many of the brute creation; the latter is the
attribute of man alone. The first Napoleon eminently
possessed; in the latter he was certainly
defective. Frederick the Great, in mental courage,
was altogether superior to Napoleon. He could
fight and fly, and rally and fight again; his spirit
never gave in; his perseverance never flagged:
he seemed, in fact, insusceptible of despondency,
and was even greater in defeat than in victory:
he never quitted his army whilst a troop could be
rallied; and the seven years’ war proved that the
king of Prussia was equally illustrious, whether
fugitive or conqueror.
Napoleon reversed those qualities. No warrior
that history records was ever so great while successful:
his victories were followed up with the
rapidity of lightning: in overwhelming an army,
he in fact often subdued a kingdom, and profited
more by each triumph than any general that had
preceded him. But he could not stand up under
defeat!—except at Vienna.
Several plans for Napoleon’s escape I heard as
they were successively formed: such of them as
had an appearance of plausibility Fouché found
means to counteract. It would not be amusing
to relate the various devices which were suggested
for this purpose. Napoleon was meanwhile almost
passive and wrapped in apathy. He clung to existence
with even a mean tenacity; and it is difficult
to imagine but that his intellect must have
suffered before he was led to endure a life of
ignominious exile.
At Doctor Marshall’s hotel one morning, I remarked
his travelling carriage as if put in preparation
for a journey, having candles in the lamps,
&c. A smith had been examining it, and the servants
were all in motion. I suspected some movement
of consequence, but could not surmise what.
The doctor did not appear to think that I had observed
these preparations.
On a sudden, while walking in the garden, I
turned short on him.
“Doctor,” said I, at a venture, “you are going
on an important journey to-night.”
“How do you know?” said he, thrown off his
guard by the abruptness of my remark.
“Well!” continued I, smiling, “I wish you
well out of it!”
“Out of what?” exclaimed he, recovering his
self-possession, and sounding me in his turn.
“Oh, no matter, no matter,” said I, with a significant
nod, as if I was already acquainted with
his proceedings.
This bait took in some degree; and after a good
deal of fencing, (knowing that he could fully depend
on my secrecy,) the doctor led me into his
study, where he said he would communicate to me
a very interesting and important matter. He then
unlocked his desk, and produced an especial passport
for himself and his secretary to Havre de
Grace, thence to embark for England; and he
showed me a very large and also a smaller bag of
gold, which he said he was about to take with
him.
At length he informed me that it was determined
Napoleon should go to England; that he
had himself agreed to it; and that he was to travel
in Dr. Marshall’s carriage, as his secretary, under
the above-mentioned passport. It was arranged
that, at twelve o’clock that night, the emperor
with the queen of Holland were to be at Marshall’s
house (Rue Pigale), and that Napoleon and
the doctor were to set off thence immediately;
that on arriving in England he was forthwith to
repair to London, preceded by a letter to the
Prince Regent, stating that he threw himself on
the protection and generosity of the British nation,
and required permission to reside therein as a private
individual during his life.
The thing seemed to me too romantic to be serious;
and the doctor could not avoid perceiving
my incredulity. He however enjoined me to
secrecy, which by the bye was on my own account
quite unnecessary; I should have mentioned
it only to one member of my family, whom I knew
to be to the full as cautious as myself. But I
determined to ascertain the fact; and before twelve
o’clock at night repaired to the Rue Pigale, and
stood up underneath a door somewhat further on
the opposite side of the street to Dr. Marshall’s
house.
A strong light shone through the curtains of the
first floor windows, and lights were also moving
about in the upper story. The court meantime
was quite dark, and the indications altogether
bespoke that something unusual was going forward
in the house. Every moment I expected to see
Napoleon come to the gate. He came not:—but
about half after twelve an elderly officer buttoned
up in a blue surtout rode up to the porte cochère,
which, on his ringing, was instantly opened. He
went in, and after remaining about twenty minutes,
came out on horseback as before, and went down
the street. I thought he might have been a precursor,
and still kept my ground until some time
after, when the light in the first floor was extinguished;
and thence inferring what subsequently
proved to be the real state of the case, I
returned homeward disappointed.
Next day Dr. Marshall told me that Napoleon
had been dissuaded from venturing to Havre de
Grace—he believed by the queen of Holland:
some idea had occurred either to him or her that
he might not be fairly dealt with on the road.
Marshall seemed much hurt. I own the same
suspicion had struck me when I first heard of
the scheme, and reflected on what I had long
before heard from my valet, Henry Thevenot, as
already mentioned. I was far from implicating
the doctor in any proceeding of a decidedly
treacherous nature. I believed, and still believe
him to be utterly incapable of countenancing in any
way such an action. His disposition always appeared
to me gentle and humane. The incident
was, however, in all its bearings, an extraordinary
one.
My intimacy with Doctor Marshall at length
ceased, and in a manner very disagreeable. I
liked the man, and I do not wish to hurt his feelings;
but certain mysteries respecting his lady,
and that alone, terminated our connexion.
A person with whom I was extremely intimate
happened to be in my drawing-room one day when
Mrs. Marshall called. I observed nothing of a
particular character except that Mrs. Marshall
went suddenly away; and as I handed her into
her carriage, she said, “You promised to dine with
us to-morrow, and I requested you to bring any
friend you liked: but do not let it be that fellow
I have just seen; I have taken a great dislike to
his countenance!” No further observation was
made, and the lady departed.
On the next morning I received a note from
Mrs. Marshall, stating that she had reason to know
some malicious person had represented me as being
acquainted with certain affairs very material for
the government to understand, and as having
papers in my possession which might be required
from me by the minister Fouché; advising me
therefore to leave town for awhile, sooner than be
troubled respecting business so disagreeable; and
adding that, in the mean time, Colonel Macirone
would endeavour to find out the facts, and apprise
me of them. This note was curious, and I retain
it.
I never was more surprised in my life than at
the receipt of this letter. I had never meddled at
all in French politics, save to hear and see all I
could, and say nothing. I neither held nor had
held any political paper whatever, though I knew
Doctor Marshall possessed many very important
ones; and I therefore immediately went to Sir
Charles Stuart, our ambassador, made my complaints,
showed him the note, and requested his
excellency’s personal interference. To my surprise,
Sir Charles in reply asked me how I could
chance to know Macirone? I did not feel comfortable
at this, and answered, “Because both
the English and French governments, and his excellency
to boot, (as Col. Macirone had himself informed
me,) not only had intercourse with, but
had employed Macirone both in Italy and Paris;
and that I believed him to be at the very moment
in communication with persons of the highest respectability
in both countries.”
Sir Charles then wrote a note,—I think it was to
Fouché,—informing him who I was, &c. &c.; and
I finally discovered it was all a scheme of Mrs.
Marshall for a purpose of her own. I know not
whether Macirone’s name was mentioned with his
knowledge or not. This led me to other investigations;
and the result was, that further communication
with Dr. Marshall on my part became impossible.
I certainly regretted the circumstance,
for he was a gentlemanly and intelligent man.
Colonel Macirone himself was soon taught by
Fouché what it was to be the attaché of such a
traitor. He had the mortification to find, that the
only remuneration which the arch-apostate was
disposed to concede him, was public disgrace and
a dungeon!
Col. Macirone himself often spoke to me of his
connexion with Fouché as employé ministériel.
One day after dinner, at Doctor Marshall’s, I was
so far off my guard as to tell Col. Macirone, in
presence of many persons, my opinion of Fouché,
and of his (Macirone’s) late connexion with him.
I plainly foretold what actually happened soon
after, when Fouché signed death or banishment
warrants for a crowd of his own friends and instruments.
In about two months I met a person on the
boulevard (as I was walking with Lady Barrington,
my daughter, and my nephew,) who accosted
me as a free acquaintance. I knew him not: he
looked dejected; was almost threadbare in his
dress; unshaven, and obviously in bad health.
He stopped me, and asked me if I had forgotten
Macirone? I started: I was very sorry to see
him in such a plight, and tendered my services.
We had a long conversation that afternoon, and
another the succeeding day. I found I had been
but too true a prophet; Fouché had seized him in
his bed; taken all his papers; and plunged him
en secret into a deep dungeon, where he was kept
six weeks, and then ordered to quit France forthwith.
I have had search lately made as to circumstances
leading to and connected with that
and similar events: they will make an episode in
a subsequent recital concerning that period. As
to Macirone, he himself told me he deeply regretted
his connexion with Fouché’s policy. He
was considered in Paris as a person quite attached
to Murat, while he lived.
BATTLE OF SEVRES AND ISSY.
Afternoon ramble on the Boulevard Italien—Interrupted by the report of artillery—Sang-froid of the fair sex—Female soldiers—The author repairs to a point commanding the field of battle—Site of the projected palace of the king of Rome—Rapidity of the movements of the French as contrasted with those of the Prussians—Blowing up of the bridge of St. Cloud—Visit of the author to the encampment in the Champ de Mars—The wounded soldier.
My anxiety to witness a battle, without being
a party in it, did not long remain ungratified.
While walking one afternoon on the Boulevard
Italien, a very heavy firing of musketry and cannon
burst upon my ear. It proceeded from up
the course of the Seine, in the direction of Sevres.
I knew at once that an engagement was going
forward, and my heart bounded at the thought:
the sounds appeared to me of all others the most
sublime and tremendous. A light breeze bore
them to the city. One moment there was a rattling
of musketry, which appeared nearer or more
distant according to the strength of the air which
wafted its volleys; another, the heavy echo of
ordnance rolled through the groves and valley of
Sevres, and the village of Issy; again, these
seemed superseded by a separate firing, as of small
bodies of skirmishers; and the whole was mingled
with the distant yet audible shouts and hurras of
the assailants and assailed. Altogether, my nerves
experienced a sensation different from any that
had preceded it, and alike distinguished both from
bravery and trepidation.
As yet the battle had only reached me by one
sense; although imagination, it is true, supplied
the place of all. Though my eyes viewed not the
field of action, yet the sanguinary conflict moved
before my fancy in most vivid colouring.
I was in company with Mr. Lewins when the
first firing roused our attention. “A treble line”
of ladies were seated in front of Tortoni’s, under the
lofty arbours of the Boulevard Italien, enjoying
their ices, attended by a host of unmilitary chers-amis,
who, together with mendicant songsters and
musicians, were dispersed along that line of
female attraction, which “occupied” one side of
the entire boulevard, and with scarcely any interruption
“stretched away” to the Porte St.
Martin. Strange to say, scarcely a movement
was excited amongst the fair part of the society
by the report of the ordnance and musketry;
not one beauty rose from her chair, or checked
the passage of the refreshing ice to her pouting
lips. I could not but be astonished at this apathy,
as I supposed, which was only disturbed by the
thunder of a tremendous salvo of artillery, announcing
that the affair was becoming more general.
“Ah! mon Dieu! ma chère!” said one lovely
creature to another, as they sat at the entrance of
Tortoni’s: “sacre Dieu! qu’est-ce que ce superbe
coup-là?”—“C’est le canon, ma chère!” replied
her friend: “la bataille est à la pointe de commencer.”—“Ah!
oui, oui! c’est bien magnifique!
écoutez! écoutez!”—“Ah!” returned the other,
tasting with curious deliberation her lemon-ice,
“cette glace est très excellente!—mon Dieu! mon
Dieu!”
Meanwhile the firing continued. I could stand
it no longer; I was stung with curiosity, and determined
to see the battle. Being at a very little
distance from our hotel, I recommended Lady
Barrington and my family to retire thither, (which
advice they did not take,) and I immediately set
off to seek a good position somewhere in the
neighbourhood of the fight, which I imagined
could not be far distant, as the sounds seemed
every moment to increase in strength. It had
reached Issy, and seemed approaching. I now
perceived a great many gendarmes singly, and
in profound silence, strolling about the boulevard,
and remarking (though without seeming to notice)
every thing and every body.
I had no mode of accounting for the fortitude
and indifference of so many females, but by supposing
that a great proportion of them might have
been themselves campaigning with their husbands
or their chers-amis—a circumstance that, I was
told, had been by no means uncommon during
the wars of the revolution and of Napoleon. But
that could not have been the case with at least
five hundred who then were seated on the boulevard
under the trees.
One lady told me herself, some time after, that
she did not dress for ten years in the attire of a
female: her husband had acted, I believe, as commissary
general. They are both living and well,
to the best of my knowledge, at this moment: the
lady is particularly clever and intelligent. “Nothing,”
said she to me one day, “nothing, sir,
can longer appear strange to me. I really think
I have witnessed an example of every thing good
or evil!” and from the various character of the
scenes through which she had passed, I believe
her.
A Jew physician living in Rue Richelieu, (a
friend of Baron Rothschild,) who had a tolerable
telescope, had lent it to me. I first endeavoured
to gain admission into the pillar in the Place Vendome,
but was refused. I saw that the roof of
Nôtre Dame was already crowded, and knew not
where to go. I durst not pass a barrier, and I
never felt the tortures of curiosity so strongly upon
me! At length I got a cabriolet, and desired the
man to drive me to any point from whence I
might see the battle. He accordingly took me to
the farther end of Rue de Bataille, at Chailloit, in
the vicinity whereof was the site marked out for
the palace of the King of Rome. He seemed to
me scarcely to regard any thing about him. (He
afterward told me his curious history, which a
future volume may contain.) Here was a green
plat, with a few half-dead trees; and under one
of those I sat down upon the grass and overlooked
distinctly the entire left of the engagement and
the sanguinary combat which was fought on the
slopes, lawn, and about the house and courts of
Bellevue.
Whoever has seen the site of that intended
palace must recollect that the view it commands
is one of the finest imaginable. It had been the
hanging gardens of a monastery: the Seine flows
at the foot of the slope, and thence the eye wanders
to the hill of Bellevue and onward to St.
Cloud. The village of Issy, which commences
at the foot of Bellevue, stretches itself at some
distance thinly up the banks of the Seine toward
Paris, nearly to Vaugirard, one of the suburbs—which
leaves a border of meadow and garden
ground here and there to edge the waters. Extensive,
undulating hills rise up high behind the
Hotel de Bellevue, and there the first attack had
been made upon the Prussians. In front the
Pont de Jena opens the entrance to the Champ de
Mars, terminated by the magnificent gilt dome of
the Ecole Militaire and Hôtel des Invalides, with
the city of Paris stretching to the left.
It was then a tranquil evening: the sun, in all
his glory, piercing through the smoke which
seemed to mount reluctantly from the field of battle,
and illuminating its sombre flakes, likened it
to a rich gilded canopy moving over the combatants.
The natural ardour of my mind was peculiarly
stimulated on this occasion. Never having witnessed
before any scene of a corresponding nature,
I could not (and indeed sought not to) repress a
sensation of awe: I felt my breathing short or
protracted as the character of the scene varied.
An old soldier would no doubt have laughed at the
excess of my emotion—particularly as the affair, although
sharp, was not of a very extensive nature.
It was said that the Prussians, &c. amounted to
thirty thousand. If so, they were on the left, out of
my sight. The French certainly were not so numerous.
I guessed twenty thousand. There were
no English. But there were of Brunswickers, I
think, some regiments in scarlet. I at the time
took them for English. There was no charge of
cavalry, that I saw: but great bodies were in motion
on the plain of Grenelle and the road.
One observation was forcibly impressed on me;
namely, that both the firing and manœuvring of
the French were a great deal more rapid than
those of the Prussians. When a change of position
was made, the Prussians marched—the French
ran: their advance was quicker—their retreat less
regular: but their rallying seemed to me most extraordinary:
dispersed detachments of the French
reassociated with the rapidity of lightning, and advanced
again as if they had never separated.
The combats within the hotel of Bellevue and
the courts behind were of course concealed: but
if I might judge from the constant firing within—the
echoes—the loud crash of doors and casements—the
sudden rushes from the house—the
storming at the entrance, and the battles on the
lawn and in the hall,—there must have been great
carnage. In my simplicity, I only wondered how
any body could escape.
The battle now extended to, and quite filled the
village of Issy, which was taken and retaken many
times. Neither party could keep possession of it—scouting
in and out as fortune wavered; then
storming again; then retiring in disorder; and again,
in narrow columns, forcing back into the streets.
At length, probably from the actual exhaustion of
the men, the fire of musketry slackened, but the
cannon still rolled at intervals around Sevres. In
the wood of Sevres the firing was incessant; and
a Prussian shell fell into the celebrated manufactory
of that place, while several cannon-shot penetrated
the handsome hotel which stands on an
eminence above Sevres, and killed fourteen or
fifteen Prussian officers, who were in a group
taking refreshment.[49]
I now began to feel weary of gazing on the boisterous
monotony of the fight, which, so far as any
advantage appeared to be gained on either side,
might be interminable. A man actually engaged
in battle can see but little and think less; but a
secure and contemplative spectator has open to
him a field of inexhaustible reflection; and my
faculties were fast becoming abstracted from the
scene of strife, when a loud and uncommon noise
announced some singular event, and once more
excited me. We could not perceive whence it
came; but guessed, and truly, that it proceeded
from the demolition of the bridge of St. Cloud,
which the French had blown up. A considerable
number of French troops now appeared withdrawing
from the battle, and passing to our side of the
river, many on rafts, far above the bridge, which
was just under our feet. We could not tell the
cause of this movement, but it was reported by a
man who came into the field that the English
army at St. Denis was seen in motion, and that
some attack on our side of the city itself might be
expected. I knew not the fact, and I scarcely
believed this: yet the retreat of a part of the
French troops tended not to discourage the idea;
and as the national guards were heard beating to
arms in all directions of the city, I thought it most
advisable to return, which I immediately did before
the firing had ceased, and in the same cabriolet.
Immense bodies of the national guards were
collecting in companies; but I believe did not
form into any columns.
49. I visited the spot a few days subsequently, and found that
noble hall, which had been totally lined by the finest mirrors,
without one remaining. I never saw such useless and wanton
devastation as had been committed. I learned that it was the
Cossacks who broke all the mirrors, looking for money behind
them.
On my return, judge of my astonishment at
finding the very same assemblage in the very same
place on the boulevard as when I left it; nor did
a single being, except my own family, express the
slightest curiosity upon hearing whence I had
come.
The English army, as it turned out, did not
move. The firing, after awhile, totally ceased;
and the French cavalry (which I did not see engaged)
with some infantry marched into the
Champ de Mars, to take up their night’s position.
Having thus been gratified by the view of what
to my unaccustomed eyes seemed a great battle,
and would, I suppose, by military men be termed
nothing more than a long skirmish, I met Sir
Francis Gold, who proposed that we should walk
to the Champ de Mars, “just,” said he, “to see
what the fellows are doing after the battle.”
To this I peremptorily objected, for reasons
which must be obvious, and which seemed to prohibit
any Englishman in his sober senses from
going into such company at such a moment.
“Never mind,” continued Sir Francis, “I love
my skin every bit as well as you do yours; and
depend upon it we shall not meet the slightest molestation.
If we go with a lady in our company,
be assured we may walk about and remain in the
place as long as we please. I can speak from experience!”
“Ah, true, true, perhaps: but where is the
lady?” said I.
“I will introduce you to a very charming one
of my acquaintance,” answered Sir Francis, “and
I’ll request her to do us the favour of accompanying
us.” I now half-reluctantly agreed; curiosity
prevailed as usual, and away we went to the lodgings
of Sir Francis’s fair friend. I knew Sir
Francis could not be in love with danger, though
he might with his fair protectress.
The lady certainly did not dishonour the epithet
Sir Francis had bestowed on her: she was a young,
animated, French girl, rather pretty, interesting,
and very well dressed;—one of those lively creatures
who, you would say, always have their
“wits about them.” My friend explained the request
he had come to prefer, and begged her to
make her toilet with all convenient expedition.
The lady certainly did not dissent, but her acquiescence
was followed by a most hearty and seemingly
uncontrollable burst of laughter. “Excuse
me, gentlemen,” exclaimed she; “but really I
cannot help laughing. I will, with pleasure, walk
with you; but the idea of my playing the escort to
two gallant English chevaliers, both d’âge mûr, is
too ridiculous! However, n’importe! I will endeavour
to defend you, though against a whole army!”
The thing unquestionably did look absurd, and
I could not refrain myself from joining in the
laugh. Sir Francis too became infected, and we
made a regular chorus of it, after which the gay
Frenchwoman resumed:—
“But surely, Sir Francis, you pay the French
a great compliment; for you have often told me
how you alone used to put to flight whole troops
of rebels in your own country, and take entire
companies with your single hand!”
Champagne was now introduced, and Sir Francis
and I having each taken a glass or two, perhaps
more, at the lady’s suggestion, to keep up
our courage, we sallied out in search of adventures
to the Champ de Mars. The sentinel at the entrance
demurred a little on our presenting ourselves;
but our fair companion, with admirable
presence of mind, put it to his gallantry,—“Can a
gallant soldier,” said our fair guardian, “refuse
admittance to a lady and her uncles?” The polite
soldier, with very good grace, permitted us to
enter. As she passed, she held out her hand for
him to kiss, which he did most respectfully!
Once fairly inside, we strolled about for above
two hours, not only unmolested, but absolutely
unnoticed—though I cannot say I felt perfectly at
ease. It is certain that the presence of the female
protected us. The respect paid to women by the
French soldiery is apparent at all their meetings,
whether for conviviality or service; and I have
seen as much decorum, nay more, preserved in an
alehouse festivity at Paris, as at the far-famed
Almack’s in London.
The scene within the barrier must have appeared
curious to any Englishman. The troops had been
about an hour on the ground after fighting all the
evening in the village of Issy. I did not see the
cavalry actually engage, and their horses were
picketed. The soldiers had got, in all directions,
tubs of water, and were washing their hands and
faces, which had been covered with dirt, their
mouths being quite blackened by the cartridges.
In a little time every thing was arranged for a
merry-making: some took off their coats, to dance
the lighter; the bands played; an immense number
of women, of all descriptions, had come to
welcome them back; and in half an hour after
we arrived there, some hundred couples were at
the quadrilles and waltzes, as if nothing had occurred
to disturb their tranquillity! It appeared,
in fact, as if they had not only totally forgotten
what had passed that day, but cared not a sou as
to what might happen the next.
Numerous old women, with frying-pans strapped
before them, with a little charcoal underneath,
were incessantly frying sliced potatoes, livers, and
bacon together: we tasted some of these dainties,
and found them really quite savoury. Some
soldiers, who were tired or perhaps slightly hurt,
were sitting in the fosses cooking soup, and, together
with the venders of bottled beer, &c. stationed
on the elevated banks, gave the whole a
picturesque appearance. I saw a very few men
who had rags tied round their heads; some who
limped a little; and others who had their hands
in slings: but nobody seemed to regard these, or
indeed any thing except their own pleasure. The
wounded had been carried to hospitals, and I suppose
the dead were left on the ground for the
night. The guards mounted at the Champ de
Mars were all fresh troops.
In contrast with this scene, I digress to remark
that there were few circumstances attending that
memorable era which struck me more forcibly than
the miserable condition of those groups of fugitives
who continued every hour arriving in Paris during
the few days immediately succeeding their signal
discomfiture at Waterloo. These unfortunate
stragglers arrived in parties of two, three, or four,
and in a state of utter destitution—most of them
without arms, many without shoes, and some almost
naked. A great proportion of them were wounded
and bandaged: they had scarcely rested at all on
their return; in short, I never beheld such pitiable
figures.
One of these unfortunate men struck me forcibly
one evening as an object of interest and compassion.
He was limping along the Boulevard
Italien: his destination I knew not; he looked
elderly, but had evidently been one of the finest
men I ever saw, and attached, I rather think, to
the imperial guard. His shoes were worn out;
his clothes in rags; scanty hairs were the only
covering of his head; one arm was bandaged with
a bloody rag, and slung from his neck by a string;
his right thigh and leg were also bandaged, and
he seemed to move with pain and difficulty, yet
proudly.
Figures of a similar description were, it is true,
so common during that period, that nobody paid
them much attention: this man, however, somehow
or other, interested me peculiarly. It was
said that he was going to some hospital where he
would be taken good care of: but I felt greatly
for the old warrior; and crossing the street, put,
without saying a word, a dollar into his yellow and
trembling hand.
He stopped, looked at me attentively, then at
the dollar; and appearing doubtful whether he
ought to receive it, said, with an emphatic tone,
“Not for charity! pas—pour l’amour de Dieu!”
I saw his pride was kindled, and replied, “No,
my friend, in respect to your bravery!” and I was
walking away, when I heard his voice exclaiming,
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” I turned, and, as he hobbled
up to me, he surveyed me in silence from head
to foot; then, looking earnestly in my face, he
held out his hand with the dollar: “Excuse me,
Monsieur,” said he, in a firm and rather proud
tone,—“you are an Englishman, and I cannot
receive bounty from the enemy of my emperor!”
Good God! thought I, what a man must Napoleon
have been! This incident alone affords a
key to all his victories.
CAPITULATION OF PARIS.
Retirement of the army of Vilette behind the Loire—Occupation of the French capital by the allies—Thoughts on the disposition of the Bourbon government toward Great Britain—Conduct of the allies after their possession of Paris—Infringements of the treaty—Removal of the works of art from the Louvre—Reflections on the injurious result of that measure to the British student—Liberal motive operating on the English administration of that period—Little interludes got up between the French king and the allies—Louis the Eighteenth’s magnanimous letters—Threatened destruction of the Pont de Jena by Marshal Blucher—Heroic resolution of His Most Christian Majesty to perish in the explosion.
The rapid succession of these extraordinary
events bore to me the character of some optical
delusion, and my mind was settling into a train of
reflections on the past and conjectures as to the
future, when Fouché surrendered Paris, and gave
up France to the discretion of its enemies; at least,
on a capitulation, the terms of which were too indefinite
to protect the spirit of it. In a few hours
after I saw that enthusiastic, nay that half-frantic
army of Vilette (in the midst of which I had an
opportunity of witnessing a devotion to its chief
which no defeat could diminish) on the point of total
annihilation. I saw the troops, sad and crestfallen,
marching out of Paris to consummate, behind
the Loire, the fall of France as a warlike kingdom.
With arms still in their hands, with a great
park of artillery, and commanded by able generals,
yet were they constrained to turn their backs on
their metropolis, abandoning it to the “tender
mercies” of the Russian Cossacks, whom they had
so often conquered.
I saw likewise Fouché, Duke of Otranto (who
had with impunity betrayed his patron and his
master) betraying, in their turn, his own tools and
instruments—signing lists of proscription for the
death or exile of those whose ill fortune or worse
principle had rendered his dupes; and thus confirming,
in my mind, the scepticism as to all public
men and measures which had long been growing
on me. With all the faults of Napoleon, he never
could have merited the superlative ingratitude of
those whom he had raised from nothing, and fostered
in his bosom, to destroy himself.
The only political point I fancy at present that
I can see any certainty in is, that the French nation
is not mad enough to engage lightly in a fresh
war with England. The highest-flown ultras,
even the Jesuits themselves, cannot forget that to
the inexhaustible perseverance of the United
Kingdom is attributable the present political
condition of Europe.—The people of France may
not, it is true, owe us much gratitude as to their
magnificence or power; but, considering that we
transmitted both his present and his late majesty
safely from exile here to their exalted station
among the potentates of Europe, I do hope, for
the honour of our common nature, that the government
of that country would not willingly turn the
weapons which we put into their hands against
ourselves. If they should, however, it is not too
much to add, bearing in mind what we have successfully
coped with, that their hostility would be
as ineffectual as ungrateful. And here I cannot
abstain from briefly congratulating my fellow-countrymen
on the manly and encouraging exposition
of our national power recently put forth by
Mr. Canning in the House of Commons. It has
been felt by every cabinet in Europe—even to its
core. The Holy Alliance has dwindled into insignificance;
and Great Britain, under an energetic
and liberal-minded administration, re-assumes
that influence to which she is justly entitled, as
in the first order of European empires.[50]
50. Since the first edition of this work, most unexpected events
have taken place in the state of England and her relative situation
with the continent. The admirable policy of Canning
has opened the eyes of Europe, and supplanted the despotism of
the Holy Alliance by principles of a liberal and enlightened
nature. The first practical effect of this has been seen in
Greece. The battle of Navarino has done more toward exciting
cordiality between the French and English people than
any person can suppose, who has not witnessed its extraordinary
effects in France, both on the people and the government.
To return:—The conduct of the allies after their
occupation of Paris was undoubtedly strange, to
say the least of it; and nothing could be more inconsistent
than that of the populace on the return
of King Louis. That Paris was betrayed is certain;
and that the article of capitulation which
provided that “wherever doubts existed, the construction
should be in favour of the Parisians,” was
not adhered to, is equally so. It was never in
contemplation, for instance, that the capital was
to be rifled of the monuments of art and antiquity,
whereof she had become possessed by right of
conquest. If such a right exists, it should be respected:
if it does not exist, there have not been
a more illegal body of depredators in the universe
than ourselves. A reclamation of the great mortar
in St. James’s Park, or of the throne of the
king of Ceylon, would have just as much appearance
of fairness as that of Apollo by the Pope, and
Venus by the Grand Duke of Tuscany. What
preposterous affectation of justice was there in
employing British engineers to take down the
brazen horses of Alexander the Great, in order
that they may be re-erected in St. Mark’s Place
at Venice,—a city to which the Austrian emperor
has no more equitable a claim than we have to
Vienna! I always was, and still remain to be, decidedly
of opinion that, by giving our aid in emptying
the Louvre, we authorised not only an act of
unfairness to the French, but of impolicy as concerned
ourselves;—since by so doing, we have removed
beyond the reach of the great majority of
British artists and students the finest specimens
and models of sculpture and of painting this world
has produced. Besides, to send a heathen god to
the pope might certainly have been dispensed
with.
When this step was first determined on the
Prussians began with moderation; they rather
smuggled away than openly stole, fourteen paintings
only; but no sooner was this rifling purpose
generally made known, than the legate of his holiness
the pope was all anxiety to have his master’s
gods again locked up in the dusty store-rooms
of the Vatican! The Parisians now took fire.
They remonstrated, and protested against this infringement
of the treaty; and a portion of the national
guards stoutly declared that they would defend
the gallery! But the king loved the pope’s
toe better than all the works of art ever achieved;
and the German autocrat being also a devoted
friend of St. Peter’s (while at the same time he
lusted after the “brazen images”), the assenting
fiat was given, and the plundering proceeded with
the utmost voracity. Wishing, however, to throw
the stigma from the shoulders of Catholic monarchs
upon those of Protestant soldiers, these wily allies
determined that, although England was not to
share the spoil, she should bear the trouble and
discredit; and therefore the national guards in the
Louvre were threatened with a regiment of Scotchmen—which
threat produced the desired effect.
Now it may be said, that the “right of conquest”
is as strong on one side as on the other,
and justifies the reclamation as fully as it did the
original capture of these chef-d’œuvres:—to which
plausible argument I oppose two words—the
treaty!—the treaty! Besides, if the right of conquest
is to decide, then I fearlessly advance the
claim of Great Britain, who was the principal agent
in winning the prize at Waterloo, and had therefore
surely a right to wear at least some portion of it;
but who nevertheless stood by and sanctioned the
injustice, although she affected to have too high a
moral sense to participate in it. What will my
fellow-countrymen say, when they hear that the
liberal motive which served to counterbalance, in
the minds of the British ministry of that day, the
solid advantages resulting from the retention of the
works of art at Paris, was, a jealousy of suffering
the French capital to remain “the Athens of Europe?”[51]
51. These words were used to me by Mr. Secretary Cook, at the
moment, in Paris. But the truth was, our generals and diplomatists
then on the spot knew but little and cared less about
the fine arts or belles lettres.
The farce played off between the French king
and the allies was considered supremely ridiculous.
The Cossacks bivouacked in the square of the
Carousel before his majesty’s windows; and soldiers
dried their shirts and trowsers on the iron
railings of the palace. This was a nuisance; and
for the purpose of abating it, three pieces of ordnance
duly loaded, with a gunner and ready-lighted
match, were stationed day and night upon the
quay, and pointed directly at his majesty’s drawing-room;
so that one salvo would have despatched
the Most Christian King and all his august family
to the genuine Champs Elysées. This was carrying
the jest rather too far, and every rational man
in Paris was shaking his sides at so shallow a
manœuvre, when a new object of derision appeared
in shape of a letter purporting to be written by
King Louis the XVIIIth, expressing his wish that
he was young and active enough (who could doubt
his wish to grow young again?) to put himself at
the head of his own army, attack his puissant
allies, and cut them all to pieces for their duplicity
to his loving and beloved subjects.
A copy of this alleged letter was given me by
a colonel of the national guards, who said that it
was circulated by the highest authority. I still
retain it.
“Lettre du Roi au Prince Talleyrand.
“Du 22 Juillet, 1815.
“La conduite des armées alliées réduira
bientôt mon peuple à s’armer contre elles, comme
on a fait en Espagne.
“Plus jeune, je me mettrais à sa tête:—mais, si
l’âge et mes infirmités m’en empêchent, je ne veux
pas, au moins, paroître conniver à des mesures
dont je gémis! je suis résolu, si je ne puis les
adoucir, à demander asile au roi d’Espagne.
“Que ceux qui, même après la capture de
l’homme à qui ils ont déclaré la guerre, continuent
à traiter mon peuple en ennemi, et doivent par
conséquent me regarder comme tel, attentent s’ils
le veulent à ma liberté! ils en sont les maîtres!
j’aime mieux vivre dans ma prison que de rester
ici, témoin passif des pleurs de mes enfans.”
But,—to close the scene of his majesty’s gallantry,
and anxiety to preserve the capitulation
entire. After he had permitted the plunder of
the Louvre, a report was circulated that Blucher
had determined to send all considerations of the
treaty to the d—, and with his soldiers to blow
up the Pont de Jena, as the existence of a bridge
so named was an insult to the victorious Prussians!
This was, it must be admitted, sufficiently in
character with Blucher: but some people were
so fastidious as to assert that it was in fact only a
clap-trap on behalf of his Most Christian Majesty;
and true it was, that next day copies of a very
dignified and gallant letter from Louis XVIII.
were circulated extensively throughout Paris.
The purport of this royal epistle was not remonstrance:
that would have been merely considered
as matter of course: it demanded, that Marshal
Blucher should inform his majesty of the precise
moment the bridge was to be so blown up, as his
majesty (having no power of resistance) was determined
to go in person—stand upon the bridge
at the time of the explosion, and mount into the
air amidst the stones and mortar of this beautiful
piece of architecture! No doubt it would have
been a sublime termination of so sine cura a reign;
and would have done more to immortalise the
Bourbon dynasty than any thing they seem at
present likely to accomplish!
However, Blucher frustrated that gallant achievement,
as he did many others; and declared in
reply, that he would not singe a hair of his majesty’s
head for the pleasure of blowing up a
hundred bridges![52]
52. Nothing could be more hostile than the feelings of the
French were, at that period, to the allies;—the Prussians they
hated inveterately; the English next in proportion. Their detestation
of the Prussians remains still in full vigour, and, indeed,
daily increases: their animosity to the English is extinguished.
The French clearly see that both interest and pleasure
are the result of a friendly intercourse with us, and I think
it is cementing fast, and ought to be cultivated by the respective
governments. They are a fine people. England and France
never should be enemies: there is world enough for both: united,
they might command Europe as far as Smolensko; that is the
“Rubicon Russe.” The liberal policy of Mr. Canning’s
government made an incredible and most rapid impression on
the French nation: the old and savage principle that England
and France were natural enemies is totally at an end: they
may be occasionally political, but not natural adversaries.
I have never seen popular gratification more strong or more
general than that of the French on hearing of the battle of
Navarino; nor have I ever yet seen a feeling of generous liberality
and growing friendship more pure and unequivocal than
was evinced by the French military and people at the cordiality
with which their fleets and ours mingled in battle. Their
having been led to victory by an Englishman, so far from
creating jealousy, delighted them.
THE CATACOMBS AND PERE LA CHAISE.
The Catacombs of Paris—Ineffective nature of the written description of these as compared with the reality—Author’s descent into them—His speedy return—Contrast presented by the cemetery of Père la Chaise—Tomb of Abelard and Heloise—An English capitalist’s notions of sentiment.
The stupendous catacombs of Paris form perhaps
the greatest curiosity of that capital. I have
seen many well-written descriptions of this magazine
of human fragments, yet on actually visiting
it, my sensations of awe, and I may add, of disgust,
exceeded my anticipation.
I found myself (after descending to a considerable
depth from the light of day) among winding
vaults, where, ranged on every side, are the trophies
of Death’s universal conquest. Myriads
of grim, fleshless, grinning visages seem (even
through their eyeless sockets) to stare at the passing
mortals who have succeeded them, and ready
with long knotted fingers to grasp the living into
their own society. On turning away from these
hideous objects, my sight was arrested by innumerable
white scalpless skulls and mouldering
limbs of disjointed skeletons—mingled and misplaced
in terrific pyramids; or, as if in architectural
mockery of nature, framed into mosaics, or piled
into walls and barriers with taste fantastic!
There are men of nerve strong enough to endure
the contemplation of such things without shrinking.
I participate not in this apathetic mood. Almost
at the first step which I took between these ghastly
ranks in the deep catacomb d’Enfer, (whereinto
I had plunged by a descent of ninety steps,) my
spirit no longer remained buoyant: it felt subdued
and cowed; my feet reluctantly advanced through
the gloomy mazes; and at length a universal
thrill of horror crawled along the surface of my
skin. It would have been to little purpose to protract
this struggle, and force my will to obedience:
I therefore, instinctively as it were, made a retrograde
movement; I ascended into the world again,
more rapidly than I had gone downward, and left
my less sensitive and wiser friends to explore at
leisure those dreary regions. And never did the
sun appear to me more bright; never did I feel his
rays more cheering and genial, than as I emerged
from the melancholy catacombs, to resume the
sight of man and the sensations of existence.
The visitor of Paris will find it both curious and
interesting to contrast with these another receptacle
for the dead—the cemetery of Père la Chaise. It
is strange that there should exist among the same
people, in the same city, and almost in the same
vicinity, two Golgothas, in their nature so utterly
dissimilar and repugnant from each other.
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.
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.”
The above work will shortly be completed in ten numbers,
royal 4to, price 10s. 6d. 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.
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”