Sketch of the company and inmates—Lord Mountmorris—Lieut. Gam Johnson,
R. N.—Sir John and Lady O’Flaherty—Mrs. Wheeler—Lady and Miss
Barry—Memoir and character of Miss Barry, afterward Mrs.
Baldwin—Ruinous effects of a dramatic education exemplified—Lord
Mountmorris’s duel with the Honourable Francis Hely Hutchinson at
Donnybrook—His Lordship wounded—Marquis of Ely, his second.
After my return to Dublin from the Temple, before I could suit myself
with a residence to my satisfaction, I lodged at the house of Mr. Kyle,
in Frederick-street, uncle to the present provost of Dublin University.
Mrs. Kyle was a remarkably plain woman, of the most curious figure,
being round as a ball; but she was as good as she was ordinary. This
worthy creature, who was a gentlewoman by birth, had married Kyle, who,
though of good family, had been a trooper. She had lived many years, as
companion, with my grandmother, and, in fact, regarded me as if I had
been her own child.
In her abode so many human curiosities were collected, and so many
anecdotes occurred, that, even at this distance of time, the
recollection amuses me. Those who lodged in the house dined in company:
the table was most plentifully served, and the party generally comprised
from eight to ten select persons. I will endeavour to sketch the leading
members of the society there at the period of which I speak; and first
on the list I will place the late Lord Mountmorris, of celebrated
memory. He was a very clever and well-informed, but eccentric man;—one
of the most ostentatious and at the same time parsimonious beings in the
world. He considered himself by far the greatest orator and politician
in Europe; and it was he who sent a florid speech, which he _intended_
to have spoken in the Irish House of Lords, to the press:—the debate on
which it was to be spoken did not ensue; but his Lordship having
neglected to countermand the publication, his studied harangue appeared
next day in the Dublin newspapers with all the supposititious
_cheerings_, &c. duly interposed! I believe a similar _faux pas_ has
been committed by some English nobleman.
His Lordship, at the period in question, was patronising what is
commonly ycleped a _led captain_—one Lieutenant Ham or Gam Johnson, of
the royal navy, brother to the two judges and the attorney. He was not,
however, a led captain in the _vulgar_ application: he was an
independent-minded man, and a brave officer; but, like many others,
sought for patronage because _he could not get on without it_. Though
not absolutely _disgusting_, Lieut. Johnson was certainly one of the
ugliest men in Christendom. It was said of him that he need never fire a
shot, since his countenance alone was sufficient to frighten the bravest
enemy. His bloated visage, deeply indented by that cruel ravager of all
comeliness, the smallpox, was nearly as large as the body which
supported it, and that was by no means diminutive. Yet he was civil and
mild, and had, withal, a much higher character as an officer than his
captain in the Artois frigate, Lord Charles Fitzgerald, who, it was at
that time thought, conceived that a sound nap was as good as a hard
battle.
Next in the company came Sir John O’Flaherty, Bart. (whose brother had
been poisoned by Lanegan), and Lady O’Flaherty his _sposa_. He was a
plain, agreeable country gentleman. Her Ladyship was to the full as
_plain_, but not quite so agreeable. However, it was (as Mrs. Kyle said)
a very _respectable_ thing, at a boarding-house, to hear—“_Sir John_
O’Flaherty’s health!”—and “_Lady_ O’Flaherty’s health!”—drunk or
hobnobbed across the table.—They formed, indeed, excellent stuffing to
cram in between my Lord Mountmorris and the simple _gentry_.
Lady Barry, widow of the late Sir Nathaniel Barry, Bart., and mother of
Sir Edward, (who was also an occasional guest,) follows in my catalogue,
and was as valuable a _curiosity_ as any of the set.—She, too, was a
good ingredient in the _stuffing_ department.
Mrs. Wheeler, the grandmother of Sir Richard Jonah Denny Wheeler Cuffe,
a cousin of mine, gave up her whole attention to lap-dogs; and neither
she nor the last-mentioned dowager were by any means averse to the
fermented grape—though we never saw either of them “_very_ far gone.”
Lady Barry’s only daughter, afterward Mrs. Baldwin, was also of the
party. Though this young female had not a beautiful face, it was
peculiarly pleasing, and she certainly possessed one of the finest of
figures,—tall, and slender in its proportions, and exquisitely graceful.
Her father, Sir Nathaniel Barry, many years the principal physician of
Dublin, adored his daughter, and had spared neither pains nor expense on
her education. She profited by all the instruction she received, and was
one of the most accomplished young women of her day.
But unfortunately he had introduced her to the practice of one very
objectionable accomplishment, calculated rather to give unbounded
latitude to, than check, the light and dangerous particles of a volatile
and thoughtless disposition. He was himself enthusiastically fond of
theatricals, and had fitted up a theatre in the upper story of his own
house. There the youthful mind of his untainted daughter was first
initiated into all the schemes, passions, arts, and deceptions of lovers
and of libertines!—the close mimicry of which forms the very essence of
dramatic perfection. At sixteen, with all the warmth of a sensitive
constitution, she was taught to personify the vices, affect the
passions, and assume the frivolities of her giddy sex!
Thus, through the folly or vanity of her father, she was led to
represent by turns the flirt, the jilt, the silly wife, the capricious
mistress, and the frail maiden,—before her understanding had arrived at
sufficient maturity, or his more serious instructions made sufficient
impression, to enable her to resist voluptuous sensations. She had not
penetration enough (how could she have?) to perceive that a moral may be
extracted from almost every crime, and that a bad example may sometimes
be more preservative against error, (from exhibiting its ruinous
consequences,) than a good one. She was too young, and too unsteady, to
make these subtle distinctions. She saw the world’s pleasures dancing
gaily before her, and pursued the vision—until her mimicry, at length,
became nature, her personification identity. After two or three years,
during which this mistaken course was pursued, Sir Nathaniel died,
leaving his daughter in possession of all the powers of attraction
without the guard of prudence. In the dance—in declamation—in music—in
the languages—she excelled: but in those steady and solid qualities
which adapt women for wedlock and domesticity, she was altogether
deficient. Her short-sighted father had been weak enough to deck her
with the gaudy qualifications of an actress at the expense of all those
more estimable acquirements which her mind and her genius were equally
susceptible of attaining.
The misfortunes which ensued should therefore be attributed rather to
the folly of the parent than to the propensities of the child. Her heart
once sunk into the vortex of thoughtless variety and folly, her mother
was unable to restrain its downward progress; and as to her weak,
dissipated brother, Sir Edward, I have myself seen him, late at night,
require her to come from her chamber to sing, or play, or spout, for the
amusement of his inebriated companions;—conduct which the mother had not
sufficient sense or resolution to control. However, good fortune still
gave Miss Barry a fair chance of rescuing herself, and securing complete
comfort and high respectability. She married well, being united to
Colonel Baldwin, a gentleman of character and fortune:—but, alas! that
delicacy of mind which is the best guardian of female conduct, had been
irrecoverably lost by her pernicious education, and in a few years she
relinquished her station in society.
Long after that period, I saw Mrs. Baldwin at the house of a friend of
mine, into which she had been received, under an assumed name, as
governess. This effort, on her part, could not be blamed: on the
contrary, it was most commendable; and it would have been both cruel and
unjust, by discovering her, to have thwarted it. Though many years had
elapsed, and her person had meanwhile undergone total alteration,—her
size being doubled, and her features grown coarse and common,—I
instantly recognised her as one whom I had known long before, but whose
name I could not recollect. I had tact enough to perceive that she
courted concealment, and, in consequence, I carefully abstained from any
pointed observation. The mother of the children subsequently told me
that her governess, Mrs. _Brown_, was an admirable musician, and took me
to the door of her room to hear her play. She was sitting alone, at the
piano. I listened with an anxiety I cannot describe—indeed scarcely
account for. She sang not with superiority, but in plaintive tones,
which I was confident I had heard before, yet could not remember
where,—when an air which, from a very peculiar cause, had in early days
impressed itself _indelibly_ on my memory, brought Miss Barry at once to
my recollection.[29] Her image swam into my mind as she appeared when
youth, grace, innocence, and accomplishments made her a just subject for
general admiration, and had particularly attracted a friend of mine, Mr.
Vicars, the brother of Mrs. Peter Latouche, who loved her to
distraction.—He since married Miss Georges.
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Footnote 29:
It was a favourite air of D. Whittingham’s, and affected me much,
though after a lapse of twenty-four years.
-----
Her secret I kept inviolably:—but some person, I believe, was afterward
less considerate, and she was discovered. Had I supposed it possible she
could have then enfeebled the morals, or injured the habits, of my
friend’s children, I should myself have privately given her a hint to
change her situation;—but I never should have _betrayed_ her. I
conceived her at that time to be trustworthy in the execution of the
duties she had undertaken. She had suffered amply. Her own daughter
resided with her, and scarcely ever left her side. No longer a subject
for the irregular passions, she had just lived long enough, and felt
keenly enough, to render her early follies a warning for her later
years, and even to cause her to entertain disgust for those errors which
had so fatally misled her:—and I then believed, nor have I now any
reason to question the solidity of my judgment, that she was on the
direct road to prudence and good conduct.
I have related these events, as I confess myself to be an avowed enemy
to a dramatic education. That sexual familiarity which is indispensable
upon the stage undermines, and is, in my opinion, utterly inconsistent
with, the delicacy of sentiment, the refinement of thought, and reserve
of action, which constitute at once the surest guards and the most
precious ornaments of female character. Strong minds and discriminating
understandings frequently escape; but, what a vast majority of Thalia’s
daughters fall victims to the practices of their profession!
Let us return to Kyle’s boarding-house. The different pursuits adopted
by these curious members of the society assembled there were to me
subjects of constant entertainment, and I stood well with all
parties.—Good manners, good humour, and good cheer, make every place
agreeable;—all these were united at Kyle’s boarding-table: the society
never exceeded ten; and the company was always good.
One day, after dinner, Lord Mountmorris seemed rather less communicative
than usual, but not less cheerful. He took out his watch; made a speech,
as customary; drank his _tipple_ (as he denominated the brandy and
water), but seemed rather impatient. At length, a loud rap announced
somebody of consequence, and the Marquis of Ely was named.
Lord Mountmorris rose with his usual ceremony, made a very low bow to
the company, looked again at his watch, repeated his _congé_, and made
his exit. He entered the coach where Lord Ely was waiting, and away they
drove. Kyle (a most curious man) instantly decided that a duel was in
agitation, and turned pale at _the dread of losing so good a lodger_.
Lieutenant Gam Johnson was of the same opinion, and equally distressed
by the fear of losing his Lordship’s interest for a frigate. Each
snatched up his beaver, and, with the utmost expedition, pursued the
coach. I was also rather desirous too see _the fun_, as Lieutenant Gam
(though with a sigh!) called it, and made the best of my way after the
two mourners, not, however, hurrying myself so much—as, whilst they kept
the coach in view, I was contented with keeping them within sight. Our
pursuit exceeded a mile; when, in the distance, I perceived that the
coach had stopped at Donnybrook fair-green, where, on every eighth of
June, many an eye seems to mourn in raven gray for the broken skull that
had protected it from expulsion. I took my time, as I was now sure of my
game, and had just reached the field when I heard the firing. I then ran
behind a large tree, to observe further.
Lieut. Gam and Kyle had flown toward the spot, and nearly tumbled over
my Lord, who had received a bullet from the Hon. Francis Hely Hutchinson
(late collector for Dublin) on the right side, directly under his
Lordship’s pistol arm. The peer had staggered and reposed at his length
on the green-sward, and I certainly thought it was all over with him. I
stood snugly all the while behind my tree, not wishing to have any thing
to do at the coroner’s inquest, which I considered inevitable. To my
astonishment, however, I saw my Lord arise, gracefully but slowly; and,
after some colloquy, the combatants bowed to each other and separated;
my Lord got back to his coach, with aid, and reached Frederick-street,
if not in quite as good health, certainly with as high a character for
bravery, as when he left it. In fact, never did any person enjoy a wound
more sincerely! It was little else than a contusion, but twenty grains
more of powder would probably have effectually laid his Lordship “to
rest on the field of battle.” He kept his chamber a month, and was
inconceivably gratified by the number of inquiries daily made respecting
his health—boasting ever after of the profusion of _friends_ who thus
proved their solicitude. His answer from first to last was—“_no
better_.”—To speak truth, one-half of the querists were sent in jest by
those whom his singularity diverted.