Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 3 (of 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A WEDDING IN OLDEN DAYS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By a sort of instinct I put my hand into my own pocket; but instinct is not money, and reality quickly informed me that I was exactly in the same situation. However, “no matter,” again said I; so I desired old Matthew Querns to pay the turnpike. “Is it me pay the pike?” said Matthew – “me? the devil a cross of wages I got from the master this many a day; and if I did, do you think, Master Jonah, the liquor would not be after having it out of me by this time?” and he then attempted to drive on without paying, as he used to do at Cullenaghmore. The man however grappled the blind horse, and gave us a full quantum of abuse, in which his wife, who issued forth at the sound, vociferously joined. Matthew began to whack him and the horses alternately with his thong whip; my brother French struggled to get out, and beat the pike-man; but the door would not open readily, and I told him that if he beat the turnpike man properly, he’d probably bleed a few himself; and that a single drop of blood on his fine clothes would effectually exclude him from society. This reasoning succeeded; but the blind horse not perceiving what was the matter, supposed something worse had happened, and began to plunge and break the harness. “You d – d gilt vagabonds,” said the turnpike man, “such fellows should be put into the stocks or ducked at the broad stone beyond Kilmainham. Oh! I know you well enough! (looking into the carriage window:) what are yees but stage-players that have run away from Smock Alley, and want to impose upon the country-folk! – But I’ll neither let yees back or forward, by – , till you pay me a hog for the pike, and two and eightpence-halfpenny for every wallop of the whip that the ould green mummer there gave me, when I only wanted my honest dues.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dead!” said Neil, “By – he is, and double dead too! Ah! then, who kilt the major?”

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