Family mansion described—Library—Garden—Anecdotes of my family—State of
landlord and tenant in 1760—The gout—Ignorance of the peasantry;
extraordinary anomaly in the loyalty and disloyalty of the Irish
country gentlemen as to James I., Charles I., Charles II., James II.,
and William—Ancient toasts—My great-grandfather, Colonel John
Barrington, hanged on his own gate; but saved by Edward Doran, trooper
of King James—Irish customs, anecdotes, &c.
I was born at Knapton, near Abbeyleix, in the Queen’s County,—at that
time the seat of my father, but now of Sir George Pigott. I am the third
son and fourth child of John Barrington, who had himself neither brother
nor sister; and at the period of my birth, my immediate connexions were
thus circumstanced.
My family, by ancient patents, by marriages, and by inheritance from
their ancestors, possessed very extensive landed estates in Queen’s
County, and had almost unlimited influence over its population,
returning two members to the Irish Parliament for Ballynakill, counties
of Kilkenny and Galway.
Cullenaghmore, the mansion where my ancestors had resided from the reign
of James the First, was then occupied by my grandfather, Colonel Jonah
Barrington. He had adopted me as soon as I was born, brought me to
Cullenaghmore, and with him I resided until his death.
That old mansion (the Great House as it was called) exhibited altogether
an uncouth mass, warring with every rule of symmetry in architecture.
The original castle had been demolished, and its materials converted to
a much worse purpose: the edifice which succeeded it was particularly
ungraceful; a Saracen’s head (our crest) in coloured brick-work being
its only ornament. Some of the rooms inside were wainscoted with brown
oak, others with red deal, and some not at all. The walls of the large
hall were decked (as was customary) with fishing-rods, fire-arms, stags’
horns, foxes’ brushes, powder-flasks, shot-pouches, nets, and
dog-collars; here and there relieved by the extended skin of a kite or a
king-fisher, nailed up in the vanity of their destroyers: that of a
monstrous eagle, (which impressed itself indelibly on my mind,)
surmounted the chimney-piece, accompanied by a card announcing the name
of its assassin—“Alexander Barrington;”—who, not being a _rich_
relation, was subsequently entertained in the Great House two years, as
a compliment for his present. A large parlour on each side of the hall,
the only embellishments of which were some old portraits, and a
multiplicity of hunting, shooting, and racing prints, with red tape
nailed round them by way of frames, completed the reception-rooms; and
as I was the only child in the house, and a most inquisitive brat, every
different print was explained to me.
I remained here till I was near nine years old; I had no play-fellows to
take off my attention from whatever I observed or was taught; and so
strongly do those early impressions remain engraven on my memory,
(naturally most retentive,) that even at this long distance of time I
fancy I can see the entire place as it stood then, with its old
inhabitants moving before me:—their faces I most clearly recollect.
The library was a gloomy closet, and rather scantily furnished with
every thing but dust and cobwebs: there were neither chairs nor tables;
but I cannot avoid recollecting many of the principal books, because I
read such of them as I could comprehend, or as were amusing; and looked
over all the prints in them a hundred times. While trying to copy these
prints, they made an indelible impression upon me; and hence I feel
confident of the utility of embellishments in any book intended for the
instruction of children. I possessed many of the books long after my
grandfather’s death, and have some of them still. I had an insatiable
passion for general reading from my earliest days, and it has occupied
the greater proportion of my later life. Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson
Crusoe, Fairy Tales, and The History of the Bible, all with numerous
plates, were my favourite authors and constant amusement: I believed
every word of them except the fairies, and was not entirely sceptical as
to those “good people” neither.
I fancy there was then but little variety in the libraries of most
country gentlemen; and I mention as a curiosity, the following volumes,
several of which, as already stated, I retained many years after my
grandfather and grandmother died:—The Journals of the House of Commons;
Clarendon’s History; The Spectator and Guardian; Killing no Murder; The
Patriot King; Bailey’s Dictionary; some of Swift’s Works; George
Falkner’s Newspapers; Quintus Curtius in English; Bishop Burnet; A
Treatise on Tar-water, by some other bishop; Robinson Crusoe; Hudibras;
History of the Bible, in folio; Nelson’s Fasts and Feasts; Fairy Tales;
The History of Peter Wilkins; Glums and Gouries; somebody’s Justice of
Peace; and a multiplicity of Farriery, Sporting, and Gardening Books,
&c. which I lost piecemeal, when making room for law-books—probably not
half so good, but at least much more experimental.
Very few mirrors in those days adorned the houses of the country
gentlemen:—a couple or three shaving-glasses for the gentlemen, and a
couple of pretty large dressing-glasses, in black frames, for the
ladies’ use, composed, I believe, nearly the entire stock of reflectors
at my grandfather’s, except tubs of spring water, which answered for the
maid-servants.
A very large and productive, but not dressed-up garden, adjoined the
house. The white-washed stone images; the broad flights of steps up and
down; the terraces, with the round fish-pond,—rivetted my attention, and
gave an impressive variety to this garden, which I shall ever remember,
as well as many curious incidents which I witnessed therein.
At the Great House, where the Courts Leet and Baron were duly held, all
disputes among the tenants were then settled,—quarrels reconciled,—old
debts arbitrated: a kind Irish landlord then reigned despotic in the
ardent affections of the tenantry, their pride and pleasure being to
obey and to support him.
But there existed a happy reciprocity of interests. The landlord of
_that_ period protected the tenant by his influence—any wanton injury to
a tenant being considered as an insult to the lord; and if the
landlord’s sons were grown up, no time was lost by them in demanding
satisfaction from any gentleman for maltreating even their father’s
blacksmith.
No gentleman of this degree ever distrained a tenant for rent: indeed
the parties appeared to be quite united and knit together. The greatest
abhorrence, however, prevailed as to tithe proctors, coupled with no
great predilection for the clergy who employed them. These certainly
were, in principle and practice, the real country tyrants of that day,
and first caused the assembling of the White Boys.
I have heard it often said that, at the time I speak of, every estated
gentleman in the Queen’s County was _honoured_ by the gout. I have since
considered that its extraordinary prevalence was not difficult to be
accounted for, by the disproportionate quantity of acid contained in
their seductive beverage, called rum-shrub—which was then universally
drunk in quantities nearly incredible, generally from supper-time till
morning, by all country gentlemen—as they said, to keep _down their
claret_.
My grandfather could not refrain, and therefore he suffered well:—he
piqued himself on procuring, through the interest of Batty Lodge, (a
follower of the family who had married a Dublin grocer’s widow,) the
very first importation of oranges and lemons to the Irish capital every
season. Horse-loads of these, packed in boxes, were immediately sent to
the Great House of Cullenaghmore; and no sooner did they arrive, than
the good news of _fresh fruit_ was communicated to the Colonel’s
neighbouring friends, accompanied by the usual invitation for a
fortnight.
Night after night the revel afforded uninterrupted pleasure to the
joyous gentry; the festivity being subsequently renewed at some other
mansion, till the gout thought proper to put the whole party _hors de
combat_; having the satisfaction of making cripples for a few months
such as he did not kill.
Whilst the convivials bellowed with only toe or finger agonies, it was a
mere bagatelle; but when _Mr. Gout_ marched up the country, and invaded
the head or the stomach, it was then called _no joke_; and Drogheda
usquebaugh, the hottest-distilled drinkable liquor ever invented, was
applied to for aid, and generally drove the tormentor in a few minutes
to his former quarters. It was, indeed, counted a specific; and I allude
to it the more particularly, as my poor grandfather was finished by
over-doses thereof.
It was his custom to sit under a very large branching bay-tree in his
arm-chair, placed in a fine sunny aspect at the entrance of the garden.
I particularly remember his cloak, for I kept it twelve years after his
death: it was called a _cartouche_ cloak, from a famous French robber
who, it was said, invented it for his gang for the purposes of evasion.
It was made of very fine broad-cloth; of a bright blue colour on one
side, and a bright scarlet on the other: so that on being turned, it
might deceive even a vigilant pursuer.
There my grandfather used to sit of a hot sunny day, receive any rents
he could collect, and settle any accounts which his indifference on that
head permitted him to think of.
At one time he suspected a young rogue of having slipped some money off
his table when paying rent; afterward, when the tenants began to count
out their money, he threw the focus of his large reading-glass upon
their hands:—the smart, without any visible cause, astonished the
ignorant creatures!—they shook their hands, and thought it must be the
_devil_ who was scorching them. The priest was let into the secret: he
seriously told them all it _was_ the devil sure enough, who had mistaken
them for the boy that stole the money from the Colonel; but that if he
(the priest) was _properly considered_, he would say as many masses as
would _bother fifty devils_, were it necessary. The priest got his fee;
and another farthing never was taken from my grandfather.
My grandfather was rather a short man, with a large red nose—strong
made; and wore an immense white wig, such as the portraits give to Dr.
Johnson. He died at eighty-six years of age, of shrub-gout and
usquebaugh, beloved and respected. I cried heartily for him; and then
became the favourite of my grandmother, the best woman in the world, who
went to reside in Dublin, and prepare me for college.
Colonel John Barrington, my great-grandfather, for some time before his
death, and after I was born, resided at Ballyroan. My grandfather having
married Margaret, the daughter of Sir John Byrne, Bart., had taken the
estates and mansion, and given an annuity to my great-grandfather, who
died, one hundred and four years old, of a fever, having never shown any
of the usual decrepitudes or defects of age: he was the most respectable
man by tradition of my family, and for more than seventy years a
parliament man.
Sir Daniel Byrne, Bart. my great grandfather, lived at his old castle of
Timogrie, almost adjoining my grandfather Barrington: his domains, close
to Stradbally, were nearly the most beautiful in the Queen’s County. On
his decease, his widow, Lady Dorothea Byrne, an Englishwoman, whose name
had been Warren, (I believe a grand-aunt to the late Lady Bulkley,)
resided there till her death; having previously seen her son give one of
the first and most deeply to be regretted instances of what is called
forming _English connexions_. Sir John Byrne, my grand-uncle, having
gone to England, married the heiress of the Leycester family:—the very
name of Ireland was then odious to the English gentry; and previous
terms were made with him, that his children should take the cognomen of
Leycester, and drop that of Byrne; that he should quit Ireland, sell all
his paternal estates there, and become an _Englishman_. He assented; and
the last Lord Shelburne purchased, for less than half their value, all
his fine estates, of which the Marquis of Lansdown is now proprietor.
After the father’s death, his son, Sir Peter Leycester, succeeded, and
the family of Byrne, descended from a long line of Irish princes and
chieftains, condescended to become little amongst the rank of English
Commoners; and so ended the connexion between the Byrnes and
Barringtons.
My mother was the only daughter of Patrick French, of Peterwell, county
Galway, wherein he had large estates: my grandmother (his wife) was one
of the last remaining to the first house of the ancient O’Briens. Her
brother, my great-uncle, Donatus, also emigrated to England, and died
fifteen or sixteen years since, at his mansion, Blatherwick, in
Cheshire, in a species of voluntary obscurity, inconsistent with his
birth and large fortune. He left great hereditary estates in both
countries to the enjoyment of his mistress and natural children,
excluding the legitimate branches of his family from all claims upon the
manors or demesnes of their ancestors. The law enabled him to do what a
due sense of justice and pride would have interdicted.
The anomaly of political principles among the country gentlemen of
Ireland at that period was very extraordinary. They professed what they
called “_unshaken loyalty_;” and yet they were unqualified partisans of
Cromwell and William, two decided usurpers—one of them having dethroned
his father-in-law, and the other decapitated his king.
The fifth of November was always celebrated in Dublin for the
preservation of James, a Scottish king, (after Queen Elizabeth had cut
his mother’s head off) from Guy Fawkes and a barrel of gunpowder in
London; then the thirtieth of January was highly approved of by a great
number of Irish, as the anniversary of making Charles the First, the son
and heir of the said James, shorter by his head. Then the very same
Irish celebrated the restoration of Charles the Second, the son of the
_shortened_ king, and who was twice as bad as his father; and whilst
they rejoiced in putting a crown upon the head of the son of the king
who could not keep his own head on, they never failed to drink bumpers
to the memory of _Old Noll_, who had cut that king’s head off; and in
order to commemorate the whole story, and make their children remember
it, they dressed up a fat _calf’s-head_, whole and white, on every
anniversary of King Charles’s _throat being cut_, and with a red-smoked
ham, which they called “Bradshaw,” placed by the side of it, all parties
partook thereof most happily; washing down the emblem and its
accompaniment with as much claret as they could hold, in honour of _Noll
the regicide_!
Having thus proved their loyalty to James the First, and their
attachment to his son’s murderer, and then their loyalty to the eldest
of his grandsons, they next proceeded to celebrate the birth-day of
William of Orange, a Dutchman, who had kicked their king, (his
father-in-law) the second grandson, out of the country, and who in all
probability would have given the Irish another _calf’s head_ for their
celebration, if the said king, his father-in-law, had not got out of the
way with the utmost expedition, and gone to live upon charity in France,
the _then_ mortal enemy of the British nation; and as they dressed a
calf’s head for the son’s murder, so they dressed _sheeps’ trotters_
every first of July, to commemorate the grandson’s running away at the
Boyne Water, in the year 1690.
One part of the Irish people then invented a toast, called, “_The
glorious, pious, and immortal memory of William, the Dutchman_;” whilst
another raised a counter-toast, called “_The memory of the chesnut
horse_,” _that broke the neck of the same King William_.[4] But in my
mind, (if I am to judge of past times by the corporation of Dublin) it
was only to coin an excuse for getting loyally drunk as often as
possible, that they were so enthusiastically fond of _making
sentiments_, as they called them.[5]
-----
Footnote 4:
King William’s _neck_ was not broken, only his _collar-bone_; his fall
from a chesnut horse, however, hastened his dissolution.
Footnote 5:
Could his majesty, King William, learn in the other world that he has
been the cause of more broken heads and drunken men, since his
departure, than all his predecessors, he must be the proudest ghost
and most conceited skeleton that ever entered the gardens of Elysium.
-----
As to the politics of my family, we had (no doubt) some very substantial
reasons for being both Cromwellians and Williamites; the one confirmed
our grants, and the other preserved them for us; my family, indeed, had
certainly not only those, but other very especial reasons to be pleased
with King William; and though he gave them nothing, they kept what they
had, which might have been lost but for his usurpation.
During the short reign of James the Second in Ireland, those who were
not _for_ him were considered to be _against_ him, and of course were
subjected to the severities and confiscations usual in all civil wars.
Amongst the rest, my great-grandfather, Colonel John Barrington, being a
Protestant, and having no predilection for King James, was ousted from
his mansion and estates at Cullenaghmore by one O’Fagan, a Jacobite
wig-maker and violent partizan, from Ballynakill. He was,
notwithstanding, rather respectfully treated, and was allowed forty
pounds a year by his said wig-maker, so long as he behaved himself.
However, he only behaved well for a couple of months; at the end of
which time, with a party of his faithful tenants, he surprised the
wig-maker, drove him out of possession in his turn, and repossessed
himself of his mansion and estates.
The wig-maker, having escaped to Dublin, laid his complaint before the
authorities; and a party of soldiers were ordered to make short work of
it, if the colonel did not submit on the first summons.
The party demanded entrance, but were refused; and a little firing from
the windows of the mansion took place. Not being, however, tenable, it
was successfully stormed—the old gamekeeper, John Neville, killed, and
my great-grandfather taken prisoner, conveyed to the drum-head at
Raheenduff, tried as a rebel by a certain Cornet M‘Mahon, and in due
form ordered to be hanged in an hour.
At the appointed time, execution was punctually proceeded on; and so far
as tying up the colonel to the cross-bar of his own gate, the sentence
was actually put in force. But at the moment the first haul was given to
elevate him, Ned Doran, a tenant of the estate, who was a trooper in
King James’s army, rode up to the gate—himself and horse in a state of
complete exhaustion. He saw with horror his landlord strung up, and
exclaimed,—
“Holloa! holloa! blood and ouns, boys! cut down the colonel! cut down
the colonel! or ye’ll be all hanged yeerselves, ye villains of the
world, ye! I am straight from the Boyne Water, through thick and thin:
Ough, by the hokys! we’re all cut up and kilt to the devil and back
agin—Jemmy’s scampered, bad luck to him, without a ‘good bye to
yees!’—or, ‘kiss my r—p!’—or the least civility in life!”
My grandfather’s hangmen lost no time in getting off, leaving the
colonel slung fast by the neck to the gate-posts. But Doran soon cut him
down, and fell on his knees to beg pardon of his landlord, the holy
Virgin, and King William from the Boyne Water.
The colonel obtained the trooper’s pardon, and he was ever after a
faithful adherent. He was the grandfather of Lieutenant-colonel Doran,
of the Irish brigade, afterward, (if I recollect right,) of the 47th
regiment—the officer who cut a German colonel’s _head clean off_ in the
mess-room at Lisbon, after dinner, with one stroke of his sabre.[6] He
dined with me repeatedly at Paris about six years since, and was the
most disfigured warrior that could possibly be imagined. When he left
Cullenagh for the continent, in 1784, he was as fine, clever-looking a
young farmer as could be seen; but he had been blown up once or twice in
storming batteries, which, with a few sabre-gashes across his features,
and the obvious aid of numerous pipes of wine, or something not weaker,
had so spoiled his beauty, that he had become of late absolutely
frightful.
-----
Footnote 6:
Sir Neil O’Donnel, _who was present_, first told me the anecdote. They
fought with sabres: the whole company were intoxicated, and nobody
minded them _much_ till the German’s head came spinning like a top on
the mess-table, upsetting their bottles and glasses. He could not
remember what they quarrelled about. Colonel Doran himself assured me
that he had very little recollection of the particulars. The room was
very gloomy:—what he best remembered was, a tolerably effective gash
which he got on his left ear, and which nearly eased him of that
appendage:—it was very conspicuous.
-----
This occurrence of my great-grandfather fixed the political creed of my
family. On the 1st of July, the orange lily was sure to garnish every
window in the mansion: the hereditary patereroes scarcely ceased
cracking all the evening, to glorify the victory of the Boyne Water,
till one of them burst, and killed the gardener’s wife, who was tying an
orange ribbon round the mouth of it, which she had _stopped_ for fear of
_accidents_.
The tenantry, though to a man Papists, and at that time nearly in a
state of slavery, joined heart and hand in these rejoicings, and forgot
the victory of their enemy while commemorating the rescue of their
landlord. A hundred times have I heard the story repeated by the
“_Cotchers_,”[7] as they sat crouching on their hams, like Indians,
around the big turf fire. Their only lament was for the death of old
John Neville, the game-keeper. His name I should well remember; for it
was his grandson’s wife, Debby Clarke, who nursed me.
-----
Footnote 7:
A corruption of “_Cottager_;” the lowest grade of the Irish peasants,
but the most cheerful, humorous, and affectionate. The word is spelt
differently and _ad libitum_. Though the poorest, they were formerly
the most happy set of vassals in Europe.
-----
This class of stories and incidents was well calculated to make
indelible impression on the mind of a child, and has never left
mine.—The old people of Ireland (like the Asiatics) took the greatest
delight in repeating their legendary tales to the children, by which
constant, unvarying repetition, their old stories became hereditary, and
I dare say neither gained nor lost a single sentence in the recital, for
a couple of hundred years. The massacres of Queen Elizabeth and Cromwell
were quite familiar to them; and by an ancient custom of every body
throwing a stone on the spot where any celebrated murder had been
committed, upon a certain day every year, or whenever a funeral passed
by, it is wonderful what mounds were raised in numerous places, which no
person, but such as were familiar with the customs of the poor
creatures, would ever be able to account for.
I have often thought that people, insulated and shut out from society
and external intercourse, ignorant of letters and all kinds of legends
save their own local traditions, are as likely to be faithful historians
as the plagiarists and compilers of the present day.
I have heard the same stories of old times told in different parts of
the country by adverse factions and cotchers, with scarcely a syllable
of difference as to time or circumstance. They denote their periods, not
by “the year of our Lord,” or reigns, or months; but by seasons and
festivals, and celebrated events or eras,—such as “the Midsummer after
the _great frost_”—“the All-hallow eve before the _Boyne Water_”—“the
Candlemas that Squire Conolly had _all the hounds_ at Bally
Killeavan”—“the time the _English Bishop_[8] was hanged,” &c. &c.
-----
Footnote 8:
Arthur, Bishop of Waterford, was hung at Dublin for an unnatural
crime—a circumstance which the prejudiced Irish greatly rejoiced at,
and long considered as forming an epocha.
-----