The author’s efforts to discover the source of his name and family—The
Irish herald-at-arms—Reference made by him to the English
professor—Heraldic speculation—Ascent of the author’s pedigree to the
reign of William the Conqueror—Consultation with the Norman herald
suggested—Author’s visit to Rouen—Anecdotes of French convents—Madame
Cousin and her _system_—Traits of toleration—M. Helliot, the
celebrated _ancien avocat_ of Rouen—Practice of _legal bigamy_ in
Normandy—A breakfast party—Death of M. Helliot—Interview with an old
herald, formerly of the noblesse—His person and costume
described—Discovery of the town and castle of _Barentin_—Occurrences
there—The old beggar-man—Visit to Jersey, where Drogo de Barentin was
killed in defending the castle of Mont Orgueil—Return to Barentin, and
singular incident at Ivetot—Conclusion.
My visit to France enabled me, besides gratifying myself by the sight
and observation of the distinguished characters of whom I have in the
Sketches immediately foregoing made mention, to pursue an inquiry that I
had set on foot some time previously in my own country.
As I have already informed the reader in the commencement of this work,
I was brought up among a sort of democratic aristocracy, which, like the
race of wolf-dogs, seems to be extinct in Ireland. The gentry of those
days took the greatest care to trace, and to preserve by tradition, the
pedigree of their families and the exploits of their ancestors.
It is said that “he must be a wise man who knows _his own_ father;” but
if there are thirty or forty of one’s forefathers to make out, it must
necessarily be a research rather difficult for ordinary capacities. Such
are therefore in the habit of resorting to a person who obtains his
livelihood by begetting grandfathers and great-grandfathers _ad
infinitum_!—namely, the herald, who, without much tedious research, can,
in these commercial days, furnish any private gentleman, dealer, or
chapman, with as beautifully transcribed, painted, and gilt a pedigree
as he chooses to be at the expense of purchasing—with arms, crests, and
mottoes to match: nor are there among the nobility themselves
emblazonments more gaudy than may occasionally be seen upon the tilbury
of some retired tailor, whose name was probably selected at random by
the nurse of a foundling hospital.
But as there is, I believe, no great mob of persons bearing my name in
existence, and as it is pretty well known to be rather old, I fancied I
would pay a visit to our Irish herald-at-arms, to find out, if possible
to a certainty, from what country I originally sprang. After having
consulted every thing he had to consult, this worthy functionary only
brought me back to Queen Elizabeth, which was doing nothing, as it was
that virgin monarch who had made the first territorial grant to my
family in Ireland, with liberty to return two members to every future
parliament, which they actually did down to my father.
The Irish herald assured me that he could not honestly carry me one inch
farther _back_ on the _male_ line, and so (having painted a most
beautiful pedigree) he recommended me to the English herald-at-arms,
who, he had no doubt, could take the thread at the top, and unravel it
to my satisfaction.
I accordingly took the first opportunity of consulting this fresh oracle
in London, whose minister having politely heard my case, transferred it
to writing, screwed up his lips, and looked steadfastly at the ceiling
for some five minutes: he then began to reckon centuries on his fingers;
but there being only _eight_ of them, he applied to his _thumbs_; took
down several large books full of emblazonments, nodded his head, and at
last, cleverly and scientifically taking me up from the times of Queen
Elizabeth, where I had been abruptly dropped by my fellow-countryman,
delivered me, in less than a fortnight, as handsome a genealogical tree
as could be reasonably desired: on this I triumphantly ascended to the
reign of William the Conqueror, and the battle of Hastings, at which
some of my ancestors were, it appears, fairly sped, and provided with
neat lodgings in Battle Abbey, where, for aught I know to the contrary,
they still remain.
The English herald-at-arms also informed me (but rather mysteriously)
that it was _probable_ I had a right to put a French _De_ at the
beginning of my name, as there was a Norman _ton_ at the end of it; but
that, as he did not profess French heraldry, I had better inquire
further from some of the craft in Normandy, where that science had at
the period of the crusades greatly flourished—William the Conqueror, at
the time he was denominated _the Bastard_, having by all accounts
established a very celebrated heraldic college at Rouen.
I was much pleased with his candour, and thus the matter rested until
Louis XVIII. returned home with his family, when, as the reader is
aware, I likewise passed over to France with mine.
I did not forget the hint given me by my armorial friend in London; and
in order to benefit by it, repaired, as soon as circumstances permitted,
to Rouen, in which town we had been advised to place our two youngest
daughters, for purposes of education, at a celebrated Ursuline convent,
the abbess whereof was considered a more tolerating _religieuse_ than
any of her contemporaries. Before I proceed to detail the sequel of my
heraldic investigations I will lay before the reader one or two
anecdotes connected with French nunneries.
The abbess of the convent in question, Madame Cousin, was a fine,
handsome, fat old nun, as affable and insinuating as possible, and
gained on us at first sight. She enlarged on the great advantages of her
system; and showed us long galleries of beautiful little bed-chambers,
together with gardens overlooking the boulevards, and adorned by that
interesting tower wherein Jeanne d’Arc was so long confined previous to
her being humanely burned alive as a _witch_ by our Duke of Bedford, who
_attended the execution_! The window he overlooked her tortures from is
still preserved in the square at Rouen. Her table, Madame Cousin assured
us, was _excellent_ and _abundant_.
I was naturally impressed with an idea that a _nun_ feared God at any
rate too much to tell twenty direct falsehoods, and practise twenty
deceptions in the course of half an hour, for the lucre of fifty
Napoleons,—which she required in advance, without the least intention of
giving the value of five for them: and, under this impression, I paid
the sum demanded, gave up our two children to Madame Cousin’s _motherly_
tutelage, and returned to the Hôtel de France, almost in love with the
old abbess.
On our return to Paris we received letters from my daughters, giving a
most flattering account of the convent generally, of the excellence of
Madame l’Abbesse, the plenty of good food, the comfort of the bed-rooms,
and the extraordinary progress they were making in their several
acquirements. I was hence induced to commence the second half-year, also
in advance, when a son-in-law of mine, calling to see my daughters,
requested the eldest to dine with him at his hotel, which request was
long resisted by the abbess, and only granted at length with manifest
reluctance. Arrived at the hotel, the poor girl related a tale of a very
different description from the foregoing, and as piteous as unexpected.
Her letters had been _dictated_ to her by a _priest_, the brother of the
abbess. I had scarcely arrived at Paris when my children were separated,
turned away from the _show_ bed-rooms, and allowed to speak _any_
language to each other only _one hour_ a day, and _not a word_ on
Sundays. The eldest was urged to turn Catholic; and, above all, they
were fed in a manner at once so scanty and so bad, that my daughter
begged hard not to be taken back, but to accompany her brother-in-law to
Paris. This he conceded; and when the poor child arrived, I saw the
necessity of immediately recalling her sister. I was indeed shocked at
seeing her,—so wan and thin, and _greedy_ did she appear.
On our first inquiry for the convent above alluded to, we had been
directed by mistake to another establishment belonging to the saint of
the same name, but bearing a very inferior appearance, and superintended
by an abbess whose _toleration_ certainly erred not on the side of
laxity. We saw the old lady within her grated lattice. She would not
come out to us; but, on being told our business, smiled as cheerfully as
fanaticism would let her. (I dare say the expected _pension_ already
jingled in her glowing fancy.) Our terms were soon concluded, and every
thing was arranged, when Lady Barrington, as a final direction,
requested that the children should not be called _too early_ in the
morning, as they were unused to it. The old abbess started: a gloomy
doubt seemed to gather on her furrowed temples; her nostrils distended;
and she abruptly asked, “_N’êtes-vous pas Catholiques?_”
“_Non_,” replied Lady Barrington, “_nous sommes Protestans_.”
The countenance of the abbess now utterly fell, and she shrieked out,
“_Mon Dieu! alors, vous êtes hérétiques! Je ne permets jamais
d’hérétique dans ce convent!—allez!—allez!—vos enfans n’entreront jamais
dans le couvent des Ursulines!—allez!—allez!_” and instantly crossing
herself, vehemently counting her beads, and muttering Latin like a
schoolmaster, she withdrew from the grate.
Just as we were _turned out_, we encountered, near the gate, a very odd
though respectable-looking figure. It was that of a man whose stature
must originally have exceeded six feet, and who was yet erect, and, but
for the natural shrinking of age, retained his full height and manly
presence: his limbs still bore him gallantly, and the frosts of more
than eighty winters had not yet chilled his warmth of manner. His dress
was neither neat nor shabby: it was of silk—of the old costume: his thin
hair was loosely tied behind; and, on the whole, he appeared to be what
we call _above the world_.
This gentleman saw that we were at a loss about something; and with the
constitutional politeness of a Frenchman of the old school, at once
begged us to mention our embarrassment and command his services. Every
body, he told us, knew him, and he knew every body at Rouen. We accepted
his offer, and he immediately constituted himself _cicisbeo_ to the
ladies and Mentor to me. After having led us to the other _Convent des
Ursulines_, of which I have spoken, he dined with us, and I conceived a
great respect for the old gentleman. It was Monsieur Helliot, once a
celebrated _avocat_ of the parliament at Rouen: his good manners and
good-nature rendered his society a real treat to us; while his memory,
information, and activity were almost wonderful. He was an _improvisore_
poet, and could converse in rhyme, and sing a hundred songs of his own
composing.
On my informing M. Helliot that one of my principal objects at Rouen was
a research in heraldry, he said he would next day introduce me to the
person of all others most likely to satisfy me on that point. His friend
was, he told me, of noble family, and had originally studied heraldry
for his amusement, but was subsequently necessitated to practise it for
pocket-money, since his regular income was barely sufficient (as was
then the average with the old nobility of Normandy) to provide him soup
in plenty, a room and a bed-recess, a weekly laundress, and a repairing
tailor. “Rouen,” continued the old advocate, “requires no heralds now!
The nobles are not even able to emblazon their pedigrees, and the
manufacturers purchase arms and crests from the Paris heralds, who have
always a variety of magnificent ones to _dispose of_ suitable to their
new customers.”
M. Helliot had an apartment at Rouen, and also a country-house about
four miles from that city, near the Commandery, which is on the Seine;—a
beautiful wild spot, formerly the property of the Knights of St. John of
Jerusalem. Helliot’s house had a large garden ornamented by his own
hands. He one day came to us to beg we would fix a morning for taking a
_déjeûner à la fourchette_ at his cottage, and brought with him a long
bill of fare (containing nearly every thing in the eating and drinking
way that could be procured at Rouen), whereon he requested we would mark
with a pencil our favourite dishes! He said this was always their
ancient mode when they had the honour of a _société distingué_; and we
were obliged to humour him. He was delighted; and then, assuming a more
serious air,—“But,” said he, “I have a very particular reason for
inviting you to my cottage: it is to have the honour of introducing you
to a lady who, old as I am, has consented to marry me the ensuing
spring. I know,” added he, “that I shall be happier in her society than
in that of any other person; and, at my time of life, we want somebody
interested in rendering our limited existence as comfortable as
possible.”
This seemed ludicrous enough, and the ladies’ curiosity was excited to
see old Helliot’s sweetheart. We were accordingly punctual to our hour.
He had a boat ready to take us across the Seine near the Commandery, and
we soon entered a beautiful garden in a high state of order. In the
house (a small and very old one) we found a most excellent repast. The
only company besides ourselves was the old herald to whom M. Helliot had
introduced me; and, after a few minutes, he led from an inner chamber
his intended bride. She appeared, in point of years, at least as
venerable as the bridegroom; but a droop in the person and a waddle in
the gait bespoke a constitution much more enfeebled than that of the
gallant who was to lead her to the altar. “This,” said the advocate, as
he presented her to the company, “is Madame * * *:—but _n’importe!_
after our repast you shall learn her _name_ and history. Pray, madame,”
pursued he, with an air of infinite politeness, “have the goodness to do
the honours of the table;” and his request was complied with as nimbly
as his inamorata’s shrivelled and quivering hands would permit.
The wine went round merrily: the old lady declined not her glass; the
herald took enough to serve him for the two or three following days; old
Helliot hobnobbed _à la mode Anglaise_; and in half an hour we were as
cheerful, and, I should think, as curious a breakfast party as Upper
Normandy had ever produced.
When the repast was ended, “Now,” said our host, “you shall learn the
history of this venerable bride that is to be on or about the 15th of
April next. You know,” continued he, “that between the age of seventy
and death the distance is seldom _very_ great, and that a person of your
nation who arrives at the one is generally fool enough to be always
gazing at the other. Now we Frenchmen like, if possible, to evade the
prospect; and with that object we contrive some new event, which, if it
cannot conceal, may at least take off our attention from it; and, of all
things in the world, I believe _matrimony_ will be admitted to be most
effectual either in fixing an epoch or directing a current of thought.
We antiquated gentry here, therefore, have a little law, or rather
custom of our own—namely, that after a man has been in a state of
matrimony for _fifty_ years, if his charmer survives, they undergo the
ceremony of a _second_ marriage, and so begin a new contract for another
half-century, if their joint lives so long continue! and inasmuch as
_Madame Helliot_ (introducing the old lady anew, kissing her cheek, and
chucking her under the chin) has been now forty-nine years and four
months on her road to a second husband, the day that fifty years are
completed we shall re-commence our honey-moon, and every friend we have
will, I hope, come and see the happy re-union”—“Ah!” said madame, “I
fear my bride’s-maid, _Madame Veuve Gerard_, can’t hold out so
long!—_Mais, Dieu merci!_” cried she, “I think I shall myself, monsieur,
(addressing me) be well enough to get through the ceremony!”
I wish I could end this little episode as my heart would dictate. But,
alas! a cold caught by my friend the advocate boating on the Seine,
before the happy month arrived prevented a ceremony which I would have
gone almost any distance to witness. The old gentleman spent three or
four days with me every week during several months that I continued at
Rouen.—_Sic transit gloria mundi!_
But to my heraldic investigation. The old professor with whom M. Helliot
had made me acquainted had been one of the _ancienne noblesse_, and
carried in his look and deportment evident marks of the rank from which
he had been compelled to descend. Although younger than the advocate, he
was somewhat stricken in years. His hair, thin and highly powdered,
afforded a queue longer than a quill, and nearly as bulky. A tight
plaited stock and _solitaire_, a tucker and ruffles, and a cross with
the order of St. Louis;—a well-cleaned black suit, (which had survived
many a cuff and cape, and seen many a year of full-dress service,) silk
stockings, _paste_ knee and large _silver_ shoe-buckles, completed his
toilet.
He said, on my first visit, in a desponding voice, that he deeply
regretted the republicans had burned most of his books and records
during the Revolution; and having consequently little or nothing left of
remote times to refer to, he really could not recollect my ancestors,
though they might perhaps have been a very _superbe famille_. On
exhibiting, however, my English and Irish pedigrees, (drawn out on
vellum, beautifully ornamented, painted and gilt, with the chevalier’s
casquet, three scarlet chevanels and a Saracen’s head,) and touching his
withered hand with the _metallic tractors_, the old herald’s eyes
assumed almost a youthful fire; even his voice seemed to change; and
having put the four dollars into his breeches’-pocket, buttoned the
flap, and then felt at the outside to make sure of their safety, he drew
himself up with pride:—
“Between this city and Havre-de-Grace,” said he, after a longer pause,
and having traced with his bony fingers the best gilded of the
pedigrees, “lies a town called Barentin, and there once stood the superb
château of an old warrior, Drogo de Barentin. At this town, monsieur,
you will assuredly obtain some account of your noble family.” After some
conversation about William the Conqueror, Duke Rollo, Richard Cœur de
Lion, &c. I took my leave, determining to start with all convenient
speed toward Havre-de-Grace.
On the road to that place I found the town designated by the herald, and
having refreshed myself at an auberge, set out to discover the ruins of
the castle, which lie not very far distant. Of these, however, I could
make nothing; and, on returning to the auberge, I found mine host decked
out in his best jacket and a huge opera-hat. Having made this worthy
acquainted with the object of my researches, he told me, with a smiling
countenance, that there was a _very old_ beggar-man extant in the place,
who was the depositary of all the circumstances of its ancient history,
including that of the former lords of the castle. Seeing I had no chance
of better information, I ordered my dinner to be prepared in the first
instance, and the mendicant to be served up with the dessert.
The figure which presented itself really struck me. His age was said to
exceed a hundred years: his beard and hair were white, and scanty, while
the ruddiness of youth still mantled in his cheeks. I don’t know how it
was, but my heart and purse opened in unison, and I gratified the old
beggar-man with a sum which, I believe, he had not often seen before at
one time. I then directed a glass of eau-de-vie to be given him, and
this he relished even more than the money. He then launched into such an
eulogium on the noble race of Drogo of the castle, that I thought he
never would come to the point; and when he did, I received but little
satisfaction from his communications, which he concluded by advising me
to make a voyage to the island of Jersey. “I knew,” said he, “in my
youth, a man much older than I am now, and who, like me, lived upon the
good people. This man was the final descendant of the Barentins, being
the last lord’s bastard, and he has often told me, that on that island
his father had been murdered, who having made no will, his son was left
to beg, while the king got all, and bestowed it on some young lady. They
called him here _Young Drogo_ down to the day of his death! They did
indeed:—they did!—heigh ho!”
This whetted my appetite for further intelligence, and I resolved,
having fairly engaged in it, to follow up the inquiry. Accordingly, in
the spring of 1816, leaving my family in Paris, I set out for St.
Maloes, thence to Granville, and, after a most interesting journey
through Brittany, crossed over in a fishing-boat, and soon found myself
in the square of St. Hilliers, at Jersey. I had been there before on a
visit to General Don, with General Moore and Colonel le Blanc, and knew
the place: but this time I went _incog._
On my first visit to Jersey I had been much struck with the fine
situation and commanding aspect of the magnificent castle of Mont
Orgueil, and had much pleasure in anticipating a fresh survey of it. But
guess the gratified nature of my emotions, when I learnt from an old
warder of the castle that Drogo de Barentin, a Norman chieftain, had
been its last governor!—that his name was on some of its records, and
that he had lost his life in its defence on the outer ramparts! He left
no offspring that could be traced, and thus the Norman’s family had
become extinct. The old man said that he had left children by a Saxon
woman in _England_; but that the Normans would surely have destroyed
them had they come to Barentin.
This I considered as making good progress; and I returned cheerfully to
Barentin, to thank my mendicant and his patron the _aubergiste_,
intending to prosecute the inquiry further at Rouen. I will not hazard
fatiguing the reader by detailing the result of any more of my
investigations; but it is curious enough that at Ivetot, about four
leagues from Barentin,—to an ancient château near which place I had been
directed by mine host, and where there was to be an auction of old
trumpery, the ancient furniture of the château, I met, among a parcel of
scattered articles collected for that sale, the portrait of an old
Norman warrior, which _exactly_ resembled those of my great-grandfather,
Colonel Barrington of Cullenaghmore. But for the difference of scanty
black hair in one case, and a large white wig in the other, the heads
and countenances would have been quite undistinguishable! I marked this
picture with my initials, and left a request with the innkeeper at
Ivetot to purchase it for me at any price; but having unluckily
forgotten to leave him money likewise, to pay for it, the man, as it
afterward appeared, thought no more of the matter. So great was my
disappointment, that I advertised for this portrait—but in vain.