“Or realize what we think fabulous,
I’ th’ bill of fare of Eliogabalus.”
After my marriage, my old malady rose to an insupportable height. The
pleasures of the table were all that seemed left to me in life. Most
of the young men of any _ton_, either were, or pretended to be,
_connoisseurs_ in the science of good eating. Their _talk_ was of sauces
and of cooks, what dishes each cook was famous for; whether his _forte_
lay in white sauces or brown, in soups, _lentilles, fricandeaus,
bechemele, matelotes, daubes_, &c. Then the history and genealogy of the
cooks came after the discussion of the merit of the works; whom my
Lord C----‘s cook lived with formerly--what my Lord D---- gave his
cook--where they met with these great geniuses, &c. I cannot boast that
our conversation at these select dinners, from which the ladies were
excluded, was very entertaining; but true good eaters detest wit at
dinner-time, and sentiment at all times. I think I observed that amongst
these cognoscenti there was scarcely one to whom the delicacy of taste
did not daily prove a source of more pain than pleasure. There was
always a cruel something that spoiled the rest; or if the dinner were
excellent, beyond the power of the most fastidious palate to condemn,
yet there was the hazard of being placed far from the favourite dish, or
the still greater danger of being deputed to carve at the head or foot
of the table. How I have seen a heavy nobleman of this set dexterously
manoeuvre to avoid the dangerous honour of carving a haunch of venison!
“But, good Heavens!” said I, when a confidential whisper first pointed
out this to my notice, “why does he not like to carve?--he would have
it in his power to help himself to his mind, which nobody else can do so
well.”--“No! if he carve, he must give the _nice bits_ to others; every
body here understands them as well as he--each knows what is upon his
neighbour’s plate, and what ought to be there, and what must be in the
dish.” I found that it was an affair of calculation--a game at which
nobody can cheat without being discovered and disgraced. I emulated, and
soon equalled my experienced friends. I became a perfect epicure,
and gloried in the character, for it could be supported without any
intellectual exertion, and it was fashionable. I cannot say that I could
ever eat as much as some of my companions. One of them I once heard
exclaim, after a monstrous dinner, “I wish my digestion were equal to my
appetite.” I would not be thought to exaggerate, therefore I shall not
recount the wonders I have seen performed by these capacious heroes
of the table. After what I have beheld, to say nothing of what I have
achieved, I can believe any thing that is related of the capacity of the
human stomach. I can credit even the account of the dinner which Madame
de Bavière affirms she saw eaten by Lewis the Fourteenth; _viz_. “quatre
assiettes de différentes soupes; un faisan tout entier; un perdrix; une
grande assiette pleine de salade; du mouton coupé dans son jus avec de
l’ail; deux bons morceaux de jambon; une assiette pleine de patisserie!
du fruit et des confitures!” Nor can I doubt the accuracy of the
historian, who assures us that a Roman emperor,[73] one of the most
moderate of those imperial gluttons, _took_ for his breakfast, 500 figs,
100 peaches, 10 melons, 100 beccaficoes, and 400 oysters.
Epicurism was scarcely more prevalent during the decline of the Roman
empire than it is at this day amongst some of the wealthy and noble
youths of Britain. Not one of my select dinner-party but would have been
worthy of a place at the _turbot consultation_ immortalized by the Roman
satirist. A friend of mine, a bishop, one day went into his kitchen, to
look at a large turbot, which the cook was dressing. The cook had found
it so large that he had cut off the fins: “What a shame!” cried the
bishop; and immediately calling for the cook’s apron, he spread it
before his cassock, and actually sewed the fins again to the turbot with
his own episcopal hands.
If I might judge from my own experience, I should attribute fashionable
epicurism in a great measure to ennui. Many affect it, because they have
nothing else to do; and sensual indulgences are all that exist for those
who have not sufficient energy to enjoy intellectual pleasures. I dare
say, that if Heliogabalus could be brought in evidence in his own case,
and could be made to understand the meaning of the word ennui, he would
agree with me in opinion, that it was the cause of half his vices. His
offered reward for the discovery of a new pleasure is stronger evidence
than any confession he could make. I thank God that I was not born
an emperor, or I might have become a monster. Though not in the least
inclined to cruelty, I might have acquired the taste for it, merely for
desire of the emotion which real tragedies excite. Fortunately, I was
only an earl and an epicure.
My indulgence in the excesses of the table injured my health; violent
bodily exercise was necessary to counteract the effects of intemperance.
It was my maxim, that a man could never eat or drink too much, if
he would but take exercise enough. I killed fourteen horses,[74] and
survived; but I grew tired of killing horses, and I continued to eat
immoderately. I was seized with a nervous complaint, attended with
extreme melancholy. Frequently the thoughts of putting an end to my
existence occurred; and I had many times determined upon the means; but
very small and apparently inadequate and ridiculous motives, prevented
the execution of my design. Once I was kept alive by a _piggery_, which
I wanted to see finished. Another time, I delayed destroying myself,
till a statue, which I had just purchased at a vast expense, should be
put up in my Egyptian _salon_. By the awkwardness of the unpacker, the
statue’s thumb was broken. This broken thumb saved my life; it converted
ennui into anger. Like Montaigne and his sausage, I had now something to
complain of, and I was happy. But at last my anger subsided, the thumb
would serve me no longer as a subject of conversation, and I relapsed
into silence and black melancholy. I was “a’weary of the sun;” my old
thoughts recurred. At this time I was just entering my twenty-fifth
year. Rejoicings were preparing for my birthday. My Lady Glenthorn had
prevailed upon me to spend the summer at Sherwood Park, because it was
new to her. She filled the house with company and noise; but this only
increased my discontent. My birthday arrived--I wished myself dead--and
I resolved to shoot myself at the close of the day. I put a pistol into
my pocket, and stole out towards the evening, unobserved by my jovial
companions. Lady Glenthorn and her set were dancing, and I was tired of
these sounds of gaiety. I took the private way to the forest, which was
near the house; but one of my grooms met me with a fine horse, which
an old tenant had just sent as a present on my birthday. The horse
was saddled and bridled; the groom held the stirrup, and up I got. The
fellow told me the private gate was locked, and I turned as he pointed
to go through the grand entrance. At the outside of the gate sat upon
the ground, huddled in a great red cloak, an old woman, who started up
and sprang forwards the moment she saw me, stretching out her arms and
her cloak with one and the same motion.
“Ogh! is it you I see?” cried she, in a strong Irish tone.
At this sound and this sight, my horse, that was shy, backed a little. I
called to the woman to stand out of my way.
“Heaven bless your sweet face! I’m the nurse that suckled _yees_ when
ye was a baby in Ireland. Many’s the day I’ve been longing to see you,”
continued she, clasping her hands, and standing her ground in the middle
of the gateway, regardless of my horse, which I was pressing forward.
“Stand out of the way, for God’s sake, my good woman, or I shall
certainly ride over you. So! so! so!” said I, patting my restless horse.
“Oh! he’s only shy, God bless him! he’s as _quite_ now as a lamb; and
kiss one or other of _yees_, I must,” cried she, throwing her arms about
the horse’s neck.
The horse, unaccustomed to this mode of salutation, suddenly plunged,
and threw me. My head fell against the pier of the gate. The last sound
I heard was the report of a pistol; but I can give no account of what
happened afterwards. I was stunned by my fall, and senseless. When I
opened my eyes, I found myself stretched on one of the cushions of
my landau, and surrounded by a crowd of people, who seemed to be all
talking at once: in the buzz of voices I could not distinguish any thing
that was said, till I heard Captain Crawley’s voice above the rest,
saying,
“Send for a surgeon instantly: but it’s all over! it’s all over! Take
the body the back way to the banqueting-house; I must run to Lady
Glenthorn.”
I perceived that they thought me dead. I did not at this moment feel
that I was hurt. I was curious to know what they would all do; so I
closed my eyes again before any one perceived that I had opened them.
I lay motionless, and they proceeded with me, according to Captain
Crawley’s orders, to the banqueting-house. When we arrived there, my
servants laid me on one of the Turkish sofas; and the crowd, after
having satisfied their’ curiosity, dropped off one by one, till I was
left with a single footman and my steward.
“I don’t believe he’s quite dead,” said the footman, “for his heart
beats.”
“Oh, he’s the same as dead, for he does not stir hand or foot, and his
skull, they say, is fractured for certain; but it will all be seen when
the surgeon comes. I am sure he will never do. Crawley will have every
thing his own way now, and I may as well decamp.”
“Ay; and among them,” said the footman, “I only hope I may get my
wages.”
“What a fool that Crawley made of my lord!” said the steward.
“What a fool my lord made of himself,” said the footman, “to be ruled,
and let all his people be ruled, by such an upstart! With your leave,
Mr. Turner, I’ll just run to the house to say one word to James, and be
back immediately.”
“No, no, you must stay, Robert, whilst I step home to lock my places,
before Crawley begins to rummage.”
The footman was now left alone with me. Scarcely had the steward been
gone two minutes, when I heard a low voice near me saying, in a tone of
great anxiety, “Is he dead?”
I half opened my eyes to see who it was that spoke. The voice came from
the door which was opposite to me; and whilst the footman turned his
back, I raised my head, and beheld the figure of the old woman, who
had been the cause of my accident. She was upon her knees on the
threshold--her arms crossed over her breast. I never shall forget her
face, it was so expressive of despair.
“Is he dead?” she repeated.
“I tell you yes,” replied the footman.
“For the love of God, let me come in, if he is here,” cried she.
“Come in, then, and stay here whilst I run to the house.” [75]
The footman ran off; and my old nurse, on seeing me, burst into an agony
of grief. I did not understand one word she uttered, as she spoke in her
native language; but her lamentations went to my heart, for they came
from hers. She hung over me, and I felt her tears dropping upon my
forehead. I could not refrain from whispering, “Don’t cry--I am alive.”
“Blessings on him!” exclaimed she, starting back: she then dropped down
on her knees to thank God. Then calling me by every fondling name that
nurses use to their children, she begged my forgiveness, and alternately
cursed herself and prayed for me.
The strong affections of this poor woman touched me more than any thing
I had ever yet felt in my life; she seemed to be the only person upon
earth who really cared for me; and in spite of her vulgarity, and my
prejudice against the tone in which she spoke, she excited in my mind
emotions of tenderness and gratitude. “My good woman, if I live, I will
do something for you: tell me what I can do,” said I. “Live! live! God
bless you, live; that’s all in the wide world I want of you, my jewel;
and, till you are well, let me watch over you at nights, as I used to do
when you were a child, and I had you in my arms all to myself, dear.”
Three or four people now ran into the room, to get before Captain
Crawley, whose voice was heard at this instant at a distance. I had only
time to make the poor woman understand that I wished to appear to be
dead; she took the hint with surprising quickness. Captain Crawley came
up the steps, talking in the tone of a master to the steward and people
who followed.
“What is this old hag doing here? Where is Robert? Where is Thomas?
I ordered them to stay till I came. Mr. Turner, why did not you stay?
What! has not the coroner been here yet? The coroner must see the body,
I tell you. Good God! What a parcel of blockheads you all are! How
many times must I tell you the same thing? Nothing can be done till the
coroner has seen him; then we’ll talk about the funeral, Mr. Turner--one
thing at a time. Every thing shall be done properly, Mr. Turner. Lady
Glenthorn trusts every thing to me--Lady Glenthorn wishes that I should
order every thing.”
“To be sure--no doubt--very proper--I don’t say against that.”
“But,” continued Crawley, turning towards the sofa upon which I lay, and
seeing Ellinor kneeling beside me, “what keeps this old Irish witch here
still? What business have you here, pray; and who are you, or what are
you?”
“Plase your honour, I was his nurse formerly, and so had a nat’ral
longing to see him once again before I would die.”
“And did you come all the way from Ireland on this wise errand?”
“Troth I did--every inch of the way from his own sweet place.”
“Why, you are little better than a fool, I think,” said Crawley.
“Little better, plase your honour; but I was always so about them
_childer_ that I nursed.”
“_Childer_! Well, get along about your business now; you see your
nursing is not wanted here.”
“I’ll not stir out of this, while he is here,” said my nurse, catching
hold of the leg of the sofa, and clinging to it.
“You’ll not stir, you say,” cried Captain Crawley: “Turn her out!”
“Oh, sure you would not have the cru’lty to turn his old nurse out
before he’s even _cowld_. And won’t you let me see him buried?”
“Out with her! out with her! the old Irish hag! We’ll have no howling
here. Out with her, John!” said Crawley to my groom.
The groom hesitated, I fancy; for Crawley repeated the order more
imperiously: “Out with her! or go yourself.”
“May be it’s you that will go first yourself,” said she.
“Go first myself!” cried Captain Crawley, furiously: “Are you insolent
to _me_?”
“And are not you cru’l to me, and to my child I nursed, that lies all
as one as dead before you, and was a good friend to you in his day, no
doubt?”
Crawley seized hold of her: but she resisted with so much energy, that
she dragged along with her the sofa to which she clung, and on which I
lay.
“Stop!” cried I, starting up. There was sudden silence. I looked round,
but could not utter another syllable. Now, for the first time, I was
sensible that I had been really hurt by the fall. My head grew giddy,
and my stomach sick. I just saw Crawley’s fallen countenance, and him
and the steward looking at one another; they were like hideous faces in
a dream. I sunk back.
“Ay, lie down, my darling; don’t be disturbing yourself for such as
them,” said my nurse. “Let them do what they will with me; it’s little
I’d care for them, if you were but once in safe hands.”
I beckoned to the groom, who had hesitated to turn out Ellinor, and
bid him go to the housekeeper, and have me put to bed. “She,” added I,
pointing to my old nurse, “is to sit up with me at night.” It was all I
could say. What they did with me afterwards, I do not know; but I was
in my bed, and a bandage was round my temples, and my poor nurse was
kneeling on one side of the bed, with a string of beads in her hand; and
a surgeon and physician, and Crawley and my Lady Glenthorn were on the
other side, whispering together. The curtain was drawn between me
and them; but the motion I made on wakening was instantly observed by
Crawley, who immediately left the room. Lady Glenthorn drew back my
curtain, and began to ask me how I did: but when I fixed my eyes upon
her, she sunk upon the bed, trembling violently, and could not finish
her sentence. I begged her to go to rest, and she retired. The physician
ordered that I should be kept quiet, and seemed to think I was in
danger. I asked what was the matter with me? and the surgeon, with a
very grave face, informed me that I had an ugly contusion on my head.
I had heard of a concussion of the brain; but I did not know distinctly
what it was, and my fears were increased by my ignorance. The life
which, but a few hours before, I had been on the point of voluntarily
destroying, because it was insupportably burdensome, I was now, the
moment it was in danger, most anxious to preserve; and the interest
which I perceived others had in getting rid of me, increased my desire
to recover. My recovery was, however, for some time doubtful. I was
seized with a fever, which left me in a state of alarming debility.
My old nurse, whom I shall henceforward call by her name of Ellinor,
attended me with the most affectionate solicitude during my illness;[76]
she scarcely stirred from my bedside, night or day; and, indeed, when
I came to the use of my senses, she was the only person whom I really
liked to have near me. I knew that she was sincere; and, however
unpolished her manners, and however awkward her assistance, the
good-will with which it was given, made me prefer it to the most
delicate and dexterous attentions which I believed to be interested. The
very want of a sense of propriety, and the freedom with which she talked
to me, regardless of what was suited to her station, or due to my rank,
instead of offending or disgusting me, became agreeable; besides, the
novelty of her dialect, and of her turn of thought, entertained me as
much as a sick man could be entertained. I remember once her telling me,
that, “if it _plased_ God, she would like to die on a Christmas-day, of
all days; _because_ the gates of Heaven, they say, will be open all that
day; and who knows but a body might slip in _unknownst?_” When she sat
up with me at nights she talked on eternally; for she assured me there
was nothing like talking, as she had found, to put one _asy asleep_. I
listened or not, just as I liked; _any way_ she was _contint_. She
was inexhaustible in her anecdotes of my ancestors, all tending to the
honour and glory of the family; she had also an excellent memory for all
the insults, or traditions of insults, which the Glenthorns had received
for many ages back, even to the times of the old kings of Ireland; long
and long before they stooped to be _lorded_; when their “names, which it
was a pity and a murder, and moreover a burning shame, to change, was,
O’Shaughnessy.” She was well-stored with histories of Irish and Scotish
chiefs. The story of O’Neill, the Irish blackbeard, I am sure I ought to
remember, for Ellinor told it to me at least six times. Then she had a
large assortment of fairies and _shadowless_ witches, and _banshees_;
and besides, she had legions of spirits and ghosts, and haunted castles
without end, my own castle of Glenthorn not excepted, in the description
of which she was extremely eloquent; she absolutely excited in my mind
some desire to see it. For many a long year, she said, it had been her
nightly prayer, that she might live to see me in my own castle; and
often and often she was coming over to England to tell me so, only
her husband, as long as he lived, would not let her set out on what he
called a fool’s errand: but it pleased God to take him to himself last
fair day, and then she resolved that nothing should hinder her to be
with her own child against his birthday: and now, could she see me in
my own Castle Glenthorn, she would die _contint_--and what a pity but I
should be in it! I was only a lord, as she said, in England; but I could
be all as one as a king in Ireland.
Ellinor impressed me with the idea of the sort of feudal power I should
possess in my vast territory, over tenants who were almost vassals, and
amongst a numerous train of dependents. We resist the efforts made by
those who, we think, exert authority or employ artifice to change our
determinations; whilst the perverse mind insensibly yields to those who
appear not to have power, or reason, or address, sufficient to obtain
a victory. I should not have heard any human being with patience try
to persuade me to go to Ireland, except this ignorant poor nurse, who
spoke, as I thought, merely from the instinct of affection to me and to
her native country. I promised her that I would, _some time or other_,
visit Glenthorn Castle: but this was only a vague promise, and it was
but little likely that it should be accomplished. As I regained my
strength, my mind turned, or rather was turned, to other thoughts.