Principles of domestic government discussed—How to rule a
husband—Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle—Brings her son to see
his father hanged by the Cahills—Enjoins him to revenge the
outrage—Peculiar methods of impressing the injunction on the boy’s
memory—He grows to manhood—Mysterious disappearance of four of the
Cahills—Mr. Jemmy Corcoran—Way of identifying a skeleton—Father Doran,
and his _spiritual_ theory—Squire Stephen Fitzgerald the son, and
Squire Stephen Fitzgerald the grandson, of Elizabeth—Education,
marriage, and personal description of the latter—The several members
of his family described—Tom, the heir-apparent—A short life and a
merry one—Jack, his successor—Moret Castle in its modern state—Miss
Dolly Fitzgerald, and her sister Fanny—their respective
merits—Matrimonial speculations—Curious family discussion as to the
attractions of _hung_ meat, &c.
In the early part of my life, the system of domestic government and
family organization was totally different from that at present in vogue.
The patriarchal authority was then frequently exercised with a rigour
which, in days of degenerate relaxation, has been converted into a
fruitful subject for even dramatic ridicule. In Ireland, the “rule of
the patriarchs” has become nearly extinguished. New lights have shone
upon the rising generation; the “rights of women” have become a statute
law of society; and the old, wholesome word _obedience_ (by which all
wives and children were formerly influenced) has been reversed, by
prefacing it with the monosyllable _dis_.
“Every body is acquainted,” said an intimate friend of mine to his wife,
in my presence, “with the ruinous state of obstinacy and contradiction
raging in modern times among the subordinate members of families
throughout the United Kingdom; as if the word _united_ were applied to
the empire only to satirise the _dis_united habits, manners, politics,
religion, and morality of its population. There are,” continued he,
“certain functions that must be exercised every day (two or three times
a day _if possible_) by persons of all descriptions, who do not wish to
leave this world within a week at the very latest; but, unless on the
absolute necessity of mastication for purposes of self-support, I am not
aware of any other subject respecting which unanimity of opinion is even
affected among the individuals of any family throughout the country.”
The wife nodded assent, but spake not:—first, because she hated all
controversy; and second, because though, on the subject of domestic
supremacy, she was always sure of getting the worst of the argument, she
contented herself with having, beyond doubt, the best of the
practice.[50]
-----
Footnote 50:
Mrs. Mary Morton, of Ballyroan, a very worthy domestic woman, told me,
many years since, that she had but one way of ruling her husband,
which, as it is rather a novel way, and may be of some use to my fair
readers, I will mention in her own words.
“You know,” said Mrs. Morton, “that Tom is most horribly _nice_ in his
eating, and _fancies_ that both abundant and good food is _essential_
to his health. Now, when he has been out of temper with me, he is sure
of having a very _bad_ dinner; if he grumbles, I tell him that
whenever he puts me into a _twitter_ by his _tantrums_, I always
_forget_ to give the cook proper directions. This is sure,” added she,
“of keeping him in good humour for a week at least!”
-----
My friend’s observations were, I think, just. In my time the change has
been excessive; and to enable my readers to form a better judgment of
the matter, I will lay before them a few authentic anecdotes of rather
antique dates.
In volume one I mentioned the illustrious exploits of my great-aunt,
Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle, and the heroic firmness wherewith
she bore the afflicting view of my great-uncle Stephen, her husband,
“dancing upon nothing” (as the Irish phrase it) at the castle-gate,
immediately under the battlements; and though it is _possible_ there may
exist some modern ladies who might have sufficient self-possession to
look on a similar object without evincing those signs of inconsolability
natural to be expected on such an occasion, yet, I will venture to say,
few are to be found who, like my aunt Elizabeth, would risk their lives
and property rather than accept of a _second_ husband. Nor do I believe
that, since the patriarchal government has been revolutionised by the
unnatural rebellion of wives and children, there has existed one
lady—young, old, or middle-aged, in the three kingdoms, who could be
persuaded to imitate the virtuous gentoos, and voluntarily undergo
conflagration with her departed lord and master.
My great-uncle had a son born unto him by his magnanimous spouse, who
was very young, and in the castle at the time his father was _corded_
(_Hibernice_). Elizabeth led him to the castle top, and showing him his
dangling parent, cried, “See there! you were born a Geraldine; the blood
of that noble race is in you, my boy! See—see the sufferings of your own
father! Never did a _true_ Geraldine forgive an enemy! I perceive your
little face gets flushed:—you tremble; ay, ay, ’tis for _revenge_! Shall
a Cahill live?”
“No, mother, no! when I’m able, I’ll kill them _all_! I’ll kill all the
Cahills myself!” cried the lad, worked on by the fury of his respectable
mother.
“That’s my dear boy!” said Elizabeth, kissing him fervently. “Shall
_one_ live?”
“No, mother, not one,” replied the youngster.
“Man, woman, or child?” pursued the heroine.
“Neither man, woman, nor child,” echoed her precocious son.
“You are a Geraldine,” repeated Elizabeth. “Call the priest,” added she,
turning to a warder.
“He made a little too free, my lady mistress,” said the warder, “and is
not very fitting for duty, saving your presence;—but he’ll soon sleep it
off.”
“Bring him up, nevertheless,” cried Elizabeth:—“I command you to bring
up his reverence.”
The priest was accordingly _produced_ by Keeran Karry. “Father,” said
the lady, “where’s your manual?”
“Where should it be,” _answered_ the priest (rather sobered), “but where
it always is, lady?” pulling, as he spake, a book out of a pocket in the
waistband of his breeches, where (diminished and under the name of a
_fob_) more modern clergymen carry their watches.[51]
-----
Footnote 51:
The priests then, to render mass _handy_, invariably kept their manual
in their breeches with a piece of strong green ribbon (having beads at
the end of it) to lug it out by, resembling the chain of a modern
buckish parson’s timepiece. They also gave another very extraordinary
reason for keeping their manual in their smallclothes—namely, that no
_devil_ would presume to come near them when he was sure he should
have the _mass_ to encounter before he could get at their carcases.
-----
“Now, your reverence,” said Elizabeth, “we’ll _swear_ the young squire
to revenge my poor Stephen, his father, on the Cahills, root and branch,
so soon as he comes to manhood. Swear him!—swear him _thrice_!”
exclaimed she.
The boy was duly sworn, and the manual reposited in the priest’s
smallclothes.
“Now, take the boy down and duck him, head over heels, in the
horse-pond!” cried his mother.[52]
-----
Footnote 52:
When it was sought to make a child remember any thing long and
circumstantially, it was the custom in Ireland either to _whip_ him
three or four times, _duck_ him in cold water, or put him into a bag,
with his face only out, and hang it up against a wall for a whole day.
Such an extraordinary and undeserved punishment made an impression on
the fresh tablet of the youngster’s mind never to be erased.
-----
Young Fitzgerald roared lustily, but was nevertheless well soused, to
make him remember his oath the better. This oath he repeated upon the
same spot, while his mother lived, on every anniversary of his father’s
murder; and it was said by the old tenants, that “young Stephen” (though
flourishing in more civilised times) religiously kept the vow as far as
he could; and that, so soon as he came into possession of Moret, four of
the ablest of the Cahills (by way of a beginning) were _missed_ from the
neighbourhood of Timahoe in one night—nobody ever discovering what had
become of them; indeed, the fewest words were considered far the safest.
The skeletons of four lusty fellows, however, were afterwards found in
clearing out a pit in the Donane colliery, and many persons said they
had belonged to the four Cahills from Timahoe; but, as the colliers very
sapiently observed, there being no particular marks whereby to
distinguish the bones of a Cahill from those of any other “boy,” no one
could properly identify them.
A bystander, who had been inspecting the relics, protested, on hearing
this remark made, that _he_ could swear to _one_ of the skulls at least
(which appeared to have been fractured and trepanned); and he gave a
very good reason for this assertion—namely, that it was himself who had
“cracked the skull of Ned Cahill, at the fair of Dysart, with a
_walloper_, and he knew the said skull ever after. It was between jest
and earnest,” continued Jemmy Corcoran, “that I broke his head—all about
a game-cock, and be d—d to it! and by the same token, I stood by
in great grief at Maryborough, while Doctor Stapleton was
twisting a round piece out of Ned Cahill’s skull, and laying a
_two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny_[53] (beaten quite thin on the smith’s
forge) over the hole, to cover his brains _any way_. The devil a
brain in his sconce but I could see plainly; and the said
_two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny_ stayed fast under his _wig_ for many a
year, till Ned pulled it off (bad luck to it!) to pay for drink with
myself at Timahoe! They said he was ever after a little cracked when in
his liquor: and I’m right sorry for having act or part in that same
fracture, for Ned was a good boy, so he was, and nobody
would strike him a stroke on the head at any rate after the
_two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny_ was _pledged_ off his skull.”
-----
Footnote 53:
An Irish silver _half-crown_ piece; the difference of English and
Irish currency.
-----
Though Mr. Jemmy Corcoran was so confident as to the skull he had
fractured, his testimony was not sufficient legally to identify a
Cahill, and the four sets of bones being quietly buried at Clapook,
plenty of masses, &c. were said for an entire year by Father Cahill, of
Stradbally, to get their souls clean out of purgatory; that is, if they
were in it, which there was not a _clergy_ in the place would _take on_
to say he was “sartain sure of.”[54]
-----
Footnote 54:
I recollect (at an interval of more than fifty years) Father Doran, of
Culmaghbeg, an excellent man, full of humour, and well-informed,
putting the _soul_ in the most comprehensible state of personification
possible: he said, the _women_ could not understand what the soul was
by the old explanations.
“I tell you all, my flock,” said Father Doran, “there’s not a man,
woman, or child among you that has not his soul this present minute
shut up in his body, waiting for the last judgment, according to his
faith and actions. I tell you fairly, that if flesh could be seen
through, like a glass window, you might see every one’s soul at the
inside of his body peeping out through the ribs, like the prisoners at
the jail of Maryborough through their iron bars: and the moment the
breath is out of a man or woman, the soul escapes and makes off to be
dealt with as it deserves, and that’s the truth;—so say your beads and
remember your clergy!”
-----
This Stephen Fitzgerald,—who had killed the Cahills, sure enough, as
became the true son and heir of the aforesaid Stephen, who was
hanged,—lived, as report went, plentifully and regularly at Moret. No
better gentleman existed, the old people said, in the quiet way, after
once he had put the four Cahills into the coal-pit, as he promised his
worthy mother Elizabeth, “the likes of whom Moret never saw before nor
since, nor ever will while time is time, and longer too!”
Stephen had one son only, who is the principal subject of my present
observations; and as he and his family (two lovely boys and two splendid
girls) were not exactly the same sort of people commonly seen
now-a-days, it may not be uninteresting to give my readers a picture of
them.
Stephen, the son of Elizabeth, had been persuaded by Mr. John Lodge, an
attorney of Bull Alley, in the city of Dublin, (who married a
maid-servant of my grandfather’s at Cullenagh,) that the two-mile
race-course of the Great Heath in Queen’s County, which King George
pretended was his property because it had been formerly taken from a
papist Geraldine, now reverted to my great-uncle’s family, in
consequence of their being Protestants; and Mr. Lodge added, that if
Squire Stephen would make his son a counsellor, no doubt he would more
aptly trace pedigrees, rights, titles, and attainders, and, in fine, get
possession of several miles of the Great Heath, or of the race-course at
any rate.
The advice was adopted, and Stephen the son was sent to the Temple in
London, to study law; and while there, was poisoned at a cook’s shop by
the cook’s daughter because he would not marry her. This poisoning
(though it was not fatal) he always said, _stopped his growth_ like
witchcraft.
The father died in his bed; and my uncle, Stephen the counsellor, became
a double relative from marrying Catherine Byrne, daughter of Sir John
Byrne, Bart., of Timahoe Castle, and sister to my grandmother,
heretofore mentioned. After he had studied Bracton, Fleta, Littleton,
the Year Books, the three Cokes, and in short the _marrow_ of the
English law, he used to say that he got on very well with the _first_
book, not so well with the _second_, worse with the _third_; and at
length found that the more he read, the more he was puzzled, knowing
less when he left off than when he began—as all the law books
contradicted each other like the lawyers themselves: thus, after two
years’ hard work, he gave up all further attempts to expound, what he
swore _fore God_ was utterly inexplicable. He also relinquished his
father’s squabble with King George as to the race-course on the Great
Heath; and, concentrating his search after knowledge upon one learned
book, the “Justice of Quorum’s pocket companion,” commenced
_magistrate_. He was likewise a horse-racer, country gourmand, tippler,
and farmer. His wife, my aunt, was as ordinary a gentlewoman “as may be
seen of a summer’s day;” but then, she was worthy in proportion.
As to my uncle’s figure, nothing resembling it having ever been seen, at
least by me, I cannot pretend to give any idea of it, save by an
especial description. He was short, (which he said was the effect of the
poison,) and as broad as long—appearing to grow the wrong way. He
observed, touching this subject, that where there are _materials_ for
growth, if any thing does not advance in height, it spreads out like a
_fir-tree_,[55] when the top shoot is broken off and it fills wide at
the bottom. He was not actually fat, nor particularly bony: I think his
bulk consisted of solid, substantial flesh. His face was neither
extravagantly ugly, nor disproportioned to his body; but a double, or
rather treble chin descended in layers very nearly to the pit of his
stomach, whence his paunch abruptly stretched out, as if placed by
Nature as a shelf for the chin to rest upon. His limbs each gained in
thickness what it wanted in length; so that it would seem impossible for
him to be _thrown down_, or if he were, he would roll about like a ball.
His hands (as if Nature exhibited the contrast for amusement’s sake)
were thin, white, and lady-like; so much so, indeed, that did he fall,
they could not help him up again. “Each particular hair” was almost of
the thickness of a goose-quill; his locks were _queued_ behind, and
combed about once or twice a _month_. His nostrils were always crammed
with snuff, (now and then discharged, as from a mortar, by sneezing,)
and his _chins_ were so well dusted and caked with that material, that
the whole visage at times appeared as if it were a magazine thereof.
-----
Footnote 55:
This idea was a standing joke with him for some time, till old Kit
Julian, the retired exciseman, (heretofore mentioned,) made a hit at
my uncle, which put his comparison to an end. “By my troth, then,
Counsellor,” said Kit, “if you _are_ like a fir, it is not a ‘_spruce_
fir’ any how.” This sarcasm cut my uncle in the _raw_; and it was said
that he had an additional shaving day, and clean cravat every week
afterward.
-----
My uncle’s dress exactly matched his style of person: he always wore a
_snuff_-coloured coat and breeches, with a scarlet waistcoat that had
been once bound with lace (the strings whereof remained, like ruins in a
landscape); blue worsted stockings, and immense silver shoe and
knee-buckles. His hat was very large, with a blunt cock in front. It had
also once been fully laced; but, no _button_ had been seen on it since
the year succeeding his nuptials.
The fruits of my uncle’s marriage were, as I have said, two boys and two
girls. The eldest of these Geraldines, Tom, took to what ignorant
doctors call _poison_—but country gentlemen, _potation_. My uncle
declared, he knew from his own experience that a “little learning was a
dangerous thing;” and therefore thought it better that Tom should have
_none at all_! Tom therefore studied nothing but “Carolan’s receipt for
drinking!” The art of writing his own name came pretty readily; but his
penmanship went no further. At twenty-six he quarrelled with a vicious
horse, which was easily offended. The animal, on his master’s striking
him with a whip, returned the blow with his hoof (a horse’s _fist_); and
on Tom being taken to his chamber and examined, it was found that he had
left the greater part of his brains in the stable.
Jack, his brother, was now heir-apparent. His figure was nearly as
grotesque, but only half the size of his father’s; his eyes were of the
most _cautious_ description, one closely watching his nose, the other
glancing quite _outward_, to see that no enemy approached. He loved
liquor as well as Tom, but could not get down so much of it.
Nevertheless, after a pretty long life, he was _concluded_ by rather
extravagant and too frequent doses of port and potsheen.
I have already given some account of the castle of Moret as it formerly
appeared. When I last saw it, some dozen of years back, it presented
nothing remarkable save its ivy covering. The dwelling-house, which as
it stood in my uncle’s time would have been worth detailing (had not
every country gentleman’s mansion been of a similar genus), had declined
into an ordinary residence. In Squire Stephen’s day, it was low, long,
dilapidated, dirty, old, and ugly—and had defied paint, plaster and
whitewash for at least the better half of a century. The barn, court,
dunghill, pigeon-house, horse-pond, piggery, and slaughter-house,
formed, as usual, the chief prospects from the parlour-windows; and on
hot days the effluvia was so exquisite (they accounted it very
_wholesome_) that one might clearly distinguish each several perfume.
My uncle never could contrive to stick on horseback, and therefore
considered riding as a dangerous exercise for _any_ gentleman. He used
to say (it was indeed one of his standing jokes) that jockeys and vulgar
persons, being themselves _beasts_, might stick by virtue of mutual
attraction upon their own species; but that ladies and gentlemen were,
as a matter of course, always subject to tumble off. He bred and kept,
notwithstanding, four or five race-horses, which he got regularly
trained; and at every running upon the heath or curragh, he entered such
of them as were qualified by weight, &c.: yet, singularly enough, though
the animals were well bred and well trained, not one, during the whole
of the five-and-twenty years that he kept them, ever won a plate, prize,
or race of any description: for all that, he would never sell either for
_any_ price; and when they got too old to run any more, they were turned
out to end their days unmolested in a marsh and the straw-yard. It was
said by those competent to judge that some of these animals were
excellent; but that Squire Fitzgerald’s old groom used to give _trials_,
and to physic the horses; and that (through his people) they were
_bought off_ when there was a probability of their winning. However, my
uncle, so that none of them were _distanced_, was just as well pleased,
exhibiting not the least uneasiness at their failure. Indeed, he never
attended any of the races personally, or betted a shilling upon the
event of one—circumstances which remind me of a certain judge, who was
always sufficiently _gratified_ by a simple _conviction_ and by passing
_sentence_ on a culprit, eventually saving more lives by pardon than any
two of his colleagues.
I was very young when taken to my uncle’s, for a stay of some months, by
my grandmother; but at an age when strong impressions are sometimes made
upon the memory. I was a great favourite, and indulged in every thing,
even by my uncle; and very frequently, afterward, while my aunt lived at
Moret in her widowhood, I visited there, every visit reminding me of
former times, and recalling persons and things that might otherwise have
been lost to my juvenile recollection. This latter was the period when,
having nobody of my own age in the house to chatter to, I took delight
in hearing the old people about Moret tell their long traditionary
stories, which, as I observed in my first sketch (Vol. i.) descended
from generation to generation with hereditary exactness; and, to the
present day, I retain a fondness for hearing old occurrences detailed.
My eldest female cousin, Miss Dolly Fitzgerald, was at least twelve
years older than I when I was first taken to Moret by my grandmother;
the second, Miss Fanny, ten. Never, sure, did two sisters present such a
contrast. Dolly was as like her father as rather more height and an
uncommonly fair skin would permit; her tongue was too large for the
mouth, and consequently thickened her pronunciation; her hair was
yellow; her feet were like brackets, and her hands resembled milk-white
shoulders of mutton. Her features were good; but her nostrils and upper
lip displayed considerable love of the favourite _comforter_ of her
father. She was very good-natured, but ignorance personified.
Her sister was as thin as the handle of a sweeping-brush, and had dark
eyes twinkling like stars on a vapoury evening; with yellow skin, black
hair, a mouth literally stretching across the face, (like a foss to
protect her chin,) very red lips, and much more vivacity than
comprehension. There were few sound teeth in the whole family, and none
that a dentist would think worth the expense of dressing.
For these two amiable young ladies it was the principal object of my
aunt to procure husbands, if possible, in the neighbourhood. But the
squires were shy of matching into the family of so great an oddity as my
uncle. They preferred getting wives among people who went on the
jog-trot of the world like themselves.
On this point my uncle and aunt entirely differed; and during the
discussions as to their differences, time ran on, nothing was done for
the ladies, and Miss Dolly was in her six-and-twentieth year before she
was fully emancipated from the discipline of the nursery and suffered to
dine at papa’s table. When that important period arrived, it was
considered as a great epocha at Moret Castle; all the neighbours were
invited, and Dolly’s majority was formally announced. She was then given
to understand she might thereafter dine at the great table, speak to any
gentleman she pleased, and, in short, have full liberty to act entirely
as she thought proper, _provided_ she always _previously_ consulted her
father’s will, and obeyed it without “questions asked.” She was likewise
enjoined to take especial care not to forget her pastry.[56]
-----
Footnote 56:
The Irish ladies in the country at that period were always taught the
art of pie and dumpling making, as a necessary accomplishment; and a
husband who liked a good table always preferred a _housekeeper_ to a
_gadder_. _Tempora mutantur!_
-----
On these free and happy terms, Dolly was to have the chariot for a day,
and to set the world on fire. The old carriage was accordingly cleared
for action from the dust accumulated upon it; the horses’ tails were
trimmed; and the young lady was to go to the church of Portarlington the
ensuing Sunday—“Where,” said my uncle to his spouse, “fore gad, Kate,
our Dolly will catch some young fellow after the service is over, either
in the aisle or the churchyard. She’ll have some proposals; but, fore
gad, it’s not _every body_ I’d give her to.”
“Don’t be too sure, Stephen,” rejoined my aunt. “You keep your daughters
as if they were haunches of venison. It’s not every body who has a taste
for meat that has been hung a fortnight in the larder to give it a
flavor. The men, I tell you, like _fresh and fresh_, Stephen; and be
assured you have kept Dolly too long to suit every man’s palate. I have
always been telling you so, but you are perpetually saying you’ll be the
_head_ of your _own family_; so now you’ll see the end of it!”
“Why, Kate, you were a good while in the larder yourself at Timahoe
before you got a husband,” replied my uncle.
“I may thank the smallpox for that, Stephen,” retorted my aunt: “only
for that enemy I should never have been mistress of Moret Castle,
Counsellor Stephen being governor of it!”
“Well, you’ll see that I’m right,” said my uncle. “I tell you, men who
look out for wives like a seasoned, obedient woman at the head of their
families, and not your tittering, giddy young creatures, that have not
had time to settle their brains or mature their understandings. No girl
should be away from the eye of her natural guardian till she arrives at
the full extent of her twenty-sixth year, like Dolly. You’ll see now
she’ll do some _mischief_ at the church or churchyard of Portarlington!”
“Stephen,” said my aunt, (who, by the bye, had her nose nearly stopped
by the smallpox, which made her somewhat snuffle, and gave a peculiar
_emphasis_ to her vowels,) “’tis too late! Dolly knows nothing of the
world. It would take a full year at the church and balls at
Portarlington, the races of the Great Heath and green of Maryborough,
the hurlings at the fort of Dunrally, and a month or two on a visit to
our nephew, Jack Barrington, at Blandsfort, before she would learn
enough to be able to converse with mankind on any subject—except darning
your stockings, or turning off a kitchen-maid.“
My uncle started as much as his form would admit; cocked his eyebrows,
and stared with all his might. “Fore gad, Kate, I believe you are out of
your wits! Did you say Jack Barrington’s of Blandsfort? Jack
Barrington’s! Why, you know very well, Kate, as every body knows, that
there’s nothing going on at that house but hunting and feasting; dancing
all night, and rattling about all day, like mad people; and coshering
with raking pots of tea, hot cakes, syllabubs, pipers, and the devil
knows what! No, no. If Dolly were to get one month among her cousins at
Blandsfort, I should never see a day’s comfort after; topsy-turvy would
go Moret! I’d never be master of my own house half an hour after Dolly
had received a course of instruction at Jack Barrington’s. I don’t wish
her to know too much of the world. No, no. ’Fore Gad, Kate, Dolly never
puts her foot, while she is a spinster, into Jack Barrington’s house at
Blandsfort.”
Folks generally become mulish as their years advance, and my uncle
enjoyed that quality in its greatest perfection.—The Misses Dolly and
Fanny Fitzgerald were commanded, under the pain of displeasure, by their
patri-archal father, Stephen, to abjure and give up all thoughts of the
festivities of Blandsfort.
“’Fore Gad, Kate!” said my uncle to their more conceding mother—“’Fore
Gad, Kate, you had better send the girls a visiting to the _antipodes_
than be turning them upside down at Blandsfort. No rational man would
have any thing to do with them afterwards.—There it is, only pull-haul
and tear, and the devil take the hindmost!—eh?”
“And for Heaven’s sake, Stephen,” replied my aunt, (who was no
cosmographer,) “what _family_ are these _antipodes_ whom you would send
our daughters to visit in preference to their nearest relations?—I never
heard of them: they must be upstarts, Stephen. I thought I knew every
family in the county.”
“’Fore Gad, Kate!” rejoined my uncle, laughing heartily, “your father,
old Sir John, ought to be tied to the cart’s tail for so neglecting your
education. Why, Kate, the antipodes are at this moment standing on their
heads immediately under you—upside down, just as you see a fly on the
ceiling, without the danger of falling down from it.”
“And for Heaven’s sake, Stephen,” said my puzzled aunt, “how do the
ladies keep down their petticoats in that position?”
“Ask Sir Isaac Newton that,” said my uncle (who was not prepared for
that interrogation). “But let me hear no more of the topsy-turvy of
their cousins at Blandsfort. I’ll send my daughters to church at
Portarlington, Kate, where they cannot fail of being seen and much
noticed.”
“And that may not be much in their favour at present, Stephen,” replied
my aunt, who was not blind to her progeny—“at least, until they are a
little better rigged out than in their present nursery dresses,
Stephen.”
“Rig away, rig away, Kate!” said my uncle, “rig away; you may make them
as tawdry as jackdaws, so as you don’t turn their heads at Jack
Barrington’s.”
In fine, they were made sufficiently glaring, and, accompanied by aunt
in the resuscitated post-chaise, made their first _début_ at the church
of Portarlington. Of course they attracted universal notice: the ladies
congratulated my aunt on her _showy_ girls; the parson on their _coming
of age_; and the innkeeper declared they were the most genteelest of all
the new subscribers to his ball and supper at the market-house.
The ladies returned to Moret highly delighted with their cordial
reception in the church-yard, and Mrs. Gregory, the head mantua-maker of
the county, was immediately set to work to fit out the ladies in the
newest taste of Dublin fashions, preparatory to the next ball.
Now, Portarlington had been a very small village in the Queen’s County
until the French Protestant emigrants, on the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes, made a settlement there, (it was said, from the enormous
quantity of fine frogs generated in that neighbourhood,) and there they
commenced schoolmasters and mistresses, with a good reputation, which
they ceased not to keep up, until in time it became an established
seminary. Here the numerous schools and academies were always ready to
pour out their hobbardehoys and misses in their teens to the dances and
assemblies; but very few mature gentlemen assisted at these coteries,
and it was the customary prayer of all the young ladies going to those
balls—“If I cannot get a _man_ for a partner, O Heaven, in thy mercy,
send me a big boy!”
Suffice it to say, that my cousins, at the first ball, outglared all the
females in the room put together; my aunt’s old rings and hereditary
paraphernalia had been brought fully into requisition. But,
unfortunately, Providence sent them that night neither a grown man
partner nor a big boy in the shape of a man partner, and, after having
sat as full-blown wall-flowers the whole night, they returned to Moret
highly discouraged, that their rose-colour satin and family Dresdens,
which cut all the other girls out of feather, had no better result than
the going home again, my philosophical aunt telling them all the way
home—“that balls were no places to catch husbands at, there was so much
variety; and I assure you, Dolly,” said my aunt, “men, now-a-days, look
more at a girl’s purse than her flounces, and you’ll have nothing very
showy in that way whilst your father and mother are alive, Dolly.”
My poor cousin Dolly’s feet also, after three balls more (dead failures)
got so crimped and cramped by tight shoes, to restrain her fat brackets
within reasonable boundaries, that corns, bunnions, callosities, &c.,
showed a plentiful harvest the ensuing summer, and, conspiring with her
winter chilblains, and tortures to match, put my poor cousin’s jigging
out of the question for the remainder of her existence.
My cousin Fanny, whose feet were only bone and gristle, made numerous
exhibitions, both in the minuet and rigadoon, and for the same purpose;
but no wooers for the Miss Fitzgeralds of Moret Castle made their
advances; not a sigh was exploded for either of the demoiselles, though
the church, the balls, the races at the great heath, and hurlings at the
fort of Dunnally, were all assiduously attended for the laudable purpose
aforesaid; all in vain; and after a two years’ vigorous chase, the game
was entirely given over, and my cousins slunk back into cover, where, in
all human probability, they would have remained during their lives, had
not Heaven sent down a putrid fever to bring my uncle Stephen up to it,
as all the old ladies asserted (to please the widow), although old
Julian, the exciseman, ungratefully remarked, that “there must have been
a great number of vacancies in heaven, when they called up the
counsellor there.” However, before her weeds got rusty, my aunt, shaking
a loose leg, after having been forty years handcuffed and linked to
Counsellor Stephen, set out with the entire family for the great city of
Dublin, where, no doubt, the merits, if not the beauty of my cousins,
with a more proximate reversion, would be duly appreciated.
However, neither their merit nor beauty, nor the reversion, could
exorcise the spirit of celibacy, which still pursued them from Moret.
Jack, their brother, married a mantua-maker; and my poor uncle not being
a Mahomedan, and, of course, not having any houri in the clouds to
solace his leisure hours, and finding himself lonesome without his old
Kate, Providence again showed its kindness towards him, and sent down a
pulmonary consumption to Dublin, to carry my aunt up to her well-beloved
Stephen. My unfortunate cousins were now left orphans, of only forty and
forty-one years of age, to buffet with the cares of the world, and
accept the brevet rank of old maidens, which they certainly did, with as
much good-humour and as little chagrin as are generally exhibited on
those occasions. Their incomes were ample for all their purposes, and
they got on to the end of their career very comfortably. Dolly chose
three lap-dogs and a parrot for her favourites, and Fanny adopted a
squirrel and four Tom-cats to chase away her ennui. But those animals
having a natural antipathy to each other, got into an eternal state of
altercation and hostility, the parrot eternally screeching, to make
peace between them. So a maid-servant, who understood the humour of
poodles, cats, &c. &c., was hired to superintend and keep them in peace
and proper order.
This maid of natural history got great ascendancy; and, as she was what
is termed in Ireland a swaddler, (in England a canter or psalm-singer,)
she soon convinced my cousins that there was no certain road to
salvation, save through the preachers and love-feasts of those
societies. Of course a plate was laid ready for some lank pulpiteer at
dinner, every day, and my cousins became thorough-paced swaddlers
(singing excepted). But, as years would still roll on, and they could
not be always swaddling, and saving their souls, some extra comfort was,
as customary, found necessary for their languid hours. The maid of
natural history therefore suggested that, as solid food and weak
Bourdeaux were not of the best efficacy for feeble appetites, which her
mistresses were beginning to show symptoms of, a glass of cordial, now
and then, in the morning, might restore the tone of their stomachs. Of
consequence, a couple of liqueur bottles were prepared, and always
properly replenished; the ladies found their liquid appetites daily
increase: the preacher got the whole bottle of wine to himself; Lundy
Foot’s most pungent was well crammed into my cousins’ nostrils, as an
interlude, till snuffling was effected; and the matter went on as
cheerily as possible between the dogs and cats, the preacher, snuff, and
the cordial comforts, till an ill-natured dropsy, with tappings to
match, sent my cousin Dolly to my uncle Stephen; and some other disorder
having transmitted cousin Fanny the same journey to her mother, I
anticipated very great satisfaction in opening the last will and
testament of the survivor; whereupon, all things being regularly
prepared, with an audible voice I read the first legacy, bequeathing
“her body to the dust, and her soul to God,” in most pious and pathetic
expressions, and of considerable longitude. The second legacy ran:
“Item—to my dear cousin, Jonah Barrington, I bequeathe my mother’s
wedding-ring and my father’s gold sleeve-buttons, as family keepsakes;
also all my father’s books and papers of every description, except
bonds, or any securities for money, or contracts;” and so far looked
favourable, till, casting my eye over the third legacy, to the wonder of
the company, I stopped short, and handing it cautiously to the swaddling
preacher (who was present), begged he would be so kind as to read it
himself. This office he coyly accepted, and performed it in a drawling
whine, and with heavy sighs, that made every body laugh, except myself.
In fine, cousin Fanny, after her “soul to God, and her body to the
dust,” (the latter of which legacies she could not possibly avoid,) as
to all her worldly substance, &c., bequeathed it “to such _charitable_
purposes as her maid Mary might think proper, by and with the spiritual
advice and assistance of that holy man, Mr. Clarke.” This pious
philosopher never changed a muscle at his good fortune. The will,
indeed, could be no surprise either to him or Mrs. Mary. With the aid of
the orator’s brother, who was an attorney, (and got snacks,) they had
prepared it according to their own satisfaction; and cousin Fanny
executed it one evening, after her cordial and prayers had their full
operation; and, in a few days more, her disorder put a conclusive
termination to any possibility of revoking it.
This affair had its sequel exactly as any rational person might have
anticipated. The preacher and Mrs. Mary, after a decent mourning, united
their spiritual and temporal concerns, and became flesh of the flesh and
bone of the bone; in which happy state of husband and wife (which happy
state they had been in many months before the _ceremony_ was thought
necessary) they remained nearly two years, when His Reverence, happening
to light on a younger and handsomer swaddler, and legatee, after beating
Mrs. Mary almost to a jelly, embarked with his new proselyte for
America, where, changing his name, curling his hair, colouring his
eyebrows, &c. &c., he turned quaker, and is at this moment, I have
learned, in good repute at meeting, and solvency as a trader, in the
city of Philadelphia.
The entire of my uncle Stephen’s library and manuscripts, with the
exception of the year books, Newcastle on the Manége, seven farriery and
several cookery books, I gave to my friend, old Lundyfoot, to envelope
his powder in; and most of my books being well impregnated, or rather
populously inhabited by divers minute and nearly impalpable maggots,
probably added some poignancy to the sneezing qualities of his
celebrated preparation.
I recollect a whimsical expression used by Davy Lander, an Irish
counsellor, whom I brought with me to hear the will read.
“By my soul, Barrington,” said Lander, “she was right enough in
bequeathing her soul to God, out of hand, or the devil would certainly
have taken it as _heir-at-law_! But I hope he has the reversion.”
That branch of the Geraldines is now entirely extinct, having ended with
my cousin Fanny, the swaddler; and nothing now remains but the old
castle, its celebrated ivy tree, St. Bridget’s stone, and my legends, to
preserve even the recollection of Moret.