DUBLIN CASTLE BY NIGHT--THE DRAWING-ROOM--LORD WHARTON AND HIS COURT.
Sir Richard Ashwoode had set his heart upon having Lord Aspenly for his
son-in-law; and all things considered, his lordship was, perhaps,
according to the standard by which the baronet measured merit, as good
a son-in-law as he had any right to hope for. It was true, Lord Aspenly
was neither very young nor very beautiful. Spite of all the ingenious
arts by which he reinforced his declining graces, it was clear as the
light that his lordship was not very far from seventy; and it was just
as apparent that it was not to any extraordinary supply of bone,
muscle, or flesh that his vitality was attributable. His lordship was a
little, spindle-shanked gentleman, with the complexion of a consumptive
frog, and features as sharp as edged tools. He condescended to borrow
from the artistic talents of his valet the exquisite pencilling of his
eyebrows, as well as the fine black line which gave effect to a set of
imaginary eyelashes, and depth and brilliancy to a pair of eyes which,
although naturally not very singularly effective, had, nevertheless,
nearly as much vivacity in them as they had ever had. His smiles were
perennial and unceasing, very winning and rather ghastly. He used much
gesticulation, and his shrug was absolutely Parisian. To all these
perfections he added a wonderful facility in rounding the periods of a
compliment, and an inexhaustible affluence of something which passed
for conversation. Thus endowed, and having, moreover, the additional
recommendation of a handsome income, a peerage, and an unencumbered
celibacy, it is hardly wonderful that his lordship was unanimously
voted by all prudent and discriminating persons, without exception, the
most fascinating man in all Ireland. Sir Richard Ashwoode was not one
whit more in earnest in desiring the match than was Lord Aspenly
himself. His lordship had for some time begun to suspect that he had
nearly sown his wild oats--that it was time for him to reform--that he
was ripe for the domestic virtues, and ought to renounce scamp-hood. He
therefore, in the laboratory of his secret soul, compounded a virtuous
passion, which he resolved to expend upon the first eligible object who
might present herself. Mary Ashwoode was the fortunate damsel who first
happened to come within the scope and range of his lordship's
premeditated love; and he forthwith in a matrimonial paroxysm applied,
according to the good old custom, not to the lady herself, but to Sir
Richard Ashwoode, and was received with open arms.
The baronet indeed, as the reader is aware, anticipated many
difficulties in bringing the match about; for he well knew how deeply
his daughter's heart was engaged, and his misgivings were more sombre
and frequent than he cared to acknowledge even to himself. He resolved,
however, that the thing should be; and he was convinced, that if his
lordship only were firm, spite of fate he would effect it. In order
then to inspire Lord Aspenly with this desirable firmness, he not
unwisely believed that his best course was to exhibit him as much as
possible in public places, in the character of the avowed lover of Mary
Ashwoode; a position which, when once unequivocally assumed, afforded
no creditable retreat, except through the gates of matrimony. It was
arranged, therefore, that the young lady, under the protection of Lady
Stukely, and accompanied by Lord Aspenly and Henry Ashwoode, should
attend the first drawing-room at the Castle, a ceremonial which had
been fixed to take place a few days subsequently to the arrival of Lord
Aspenly at Morley Court. Those who have seen the Castle of Dublin only
as it now stands, have beheld but the creation of the last sixty or
seventy years, with the exception only of the wardrobe tower, an old
grey cylinder of masonry, very dingy and dirty, which appears to have
gone into half mourning for its departed companions, and presents
something of the imposing character of an overgrown, mouldy band-box.
At the beginning of the last century, however, matters were very
different. The trim brick buildings, with their spacious windows and
symmetrical regularity of structure, which now complete the quadrangles
of the castle, had not yet appeared; but in their stead masses of
building, constructed with very little attention to architectural
precision, either in their individual formation or in their relative
position, stood ranged together, so as to form two irregular and gloomy
squares. That portion of the building which was set apart for state
occasions and the vice-regal residence, had undergone so many repairs
and modifications, that very little if any of it could have been
recognized by its original builder. Not so, however, with other
portions of the pile: the ponderous old towers, which have since
disappeared, with their narrow loop-holes and iron-studded doors
looming darkly over the less massive fabrics of the place with stern
and gloomy aspect, reminded the passer every moment, that the building
whose courts he trod was not merely the theatre of stately ceremonies,
but a fortress and a prison.
The viceroyalty of the Earl of Wharton was within a few weeks of its
abrupt termination; the approaching discomfiture of the Whigs was not,
however, sufficiently clearly revealed, to thin the levees and
drawing-rooms of the Whig lord-lieutenant. The castle yards were,
therefore, upon the occasion in question, crowded to excess with the
gorgeous equipages in which the Irish aristocracy of the time
delighted. The night had closed in unusual darkness, and the massive
buildings, whose summits were buried in dense and black obscurity, were
lighted only by the red reflected glow of crowded flambeaux and
links--which, as the respective footmen, who attended the crowding
chairs and coaches flourished them according to the approved fashion,
scattered their wide showers of sparks into the eddying air, and
illumined in a broad and ruddy glare, like that of a bonfire, the
gorgeous equipages with which the square was now thronged, and the
splendid figures which they successively discharged. There were
coaches-and-four--out-riders--running footmen and hanging
footmen--crushing and rushing--jostling and swearing--and burly
coachmen, with inflamed visages, lashing one another's horses and their
own. Lackeys collaring and throttling one another, all "for their
master's honour," in the hot and disorderly dispute for precedence, and
some even threatening an appeal to the swords--which, according to the
barbarous fashion of the day, they carried, to the no small peril of
the public and themselves. Others dragging the reins of strangers'
horses, and backing them to make way for their own--a proceeding which,
of course, involved no small expenditure of blasphemy and vociferation.
On the whole, it would not be easy to exaggerate the scene of riot and
confusion which, under the very eye of the civil and military executive
of the country, was perpetually recurring, and that, too, ostensibly in
honour of the supreme head of the Irish Government.
Through all this crash, and clatter, and brawling, and vociferation,
the party whom we are bound to follow made their way with some
difficulty and considerable delay.
The Earl of Wharton with his countess, surrounded by a brilliant staff,
and amid all the pomp and state of vice-regal dignity, received the
distinguished courtiers who thronged the castle chambers. At the time
of which we write, Lord Wharton was in his seventieth year. Few,
however, would have guessed his age at more than sixty, though many
might have supposed it under that. He was rather a spare figure, with
an erect and dignified bearing, and a countenance which combined
vivacity, good-humour, and boldness in an eminent degree. His manners
were, to those who did not know how unreal was everything in them that
bore the promise of good, singularly engaging, and that in spite of a
very strong spice of coarseness, and a very determined addiction to
profane swearing. He had, however, in his whole air and address a kind
of rollicking, good-humoured familiarity, which was very generally
mistaken for the quintessence of candour and good-fellowship, and which
consequently rendered him unboundedly popular among those who were not
aware of the fact that his complimentary speeches meant just nothing,
and were very often followed, the moment the object of them had
withdrawn, by the coarsest ridicule, and even by the grossest abuse.
For the rest, he was undoubtedly an able statesman, and had clearly
discerned and adroitly steered his way through the straits and perils
of troublous and eventful times. He was, moreover, a steady and
uncompromising Whig, upon whom, throughout a long and active life, the
stain of inconsistency had never rested; a thorough partisan, a quick
and ready debater, and an unscrupulous and daring political intriguer.
In private, however, entirely profligate--a sensualist and an infidel,
and in both characters equally without shame.
Through the rooms there wandered a very wild, madcap boy of some ten or
eleven years, venting his turbulent spirits in all kinds of mischievous
pranks--sometimes planting himself behind Lord Wharton, and mimicking,
with ludicrous exaggeration, which the courtly spectators had enough to
do to resist, the ceremonious gestures and gracious nods of the
viceroy; at other times assuming a staid and manly carriage, and
chatting with his elders with the air of perfect equality, and upon
subjects which one would have thought immeasurably beyond his years,
and this with a sound sense, suavity, and precision which would have
done honour to many grey heads in the room. This strange, bold,
precocious boy of eleven was Philip, afterwards Duke of Wharton, the
wonder and the disgrace of the British peerage.
"Ah! Mr. Morris," exclaimed his excellency, as a middle-aged gentleman,
with a fluttered air, a round face, and vacant smile, approached, "I am
delighted to see you--by ---- Almighty I am--give me your hand. I have
written across about the matter we wot of: but for these cursed
contrary winds, I make no doubt I should have had a letter before now.
Is the young gentleman himself here?"
"A--a--not quite, your excellency. That is, not at--all," stammered the
gentleman, in mingled delight and alarm. "He is, my lord, a--a--laid
up. He--a--it is a sore throat. Your excellency is most gracious."
"Tell him from me," rejoined Wharton, "that he must get well as quickly
as may be. We don't know the moment he may be wanted. You understand
me?"
"I--a--do indeed," replied Mr. Morris, retiring in graceful confusion.
"A d----d impudent booby," whispered Wharton to Addison, who stood
beside him, uttering the remark without the change of a single muscle.
"He has made some cursed unconscionable request about his son. I'gad, I
forget what; but we want his vote on Tuesday; and civility, you know,
costs no coin."
Addison smiled faintly, and shook his head.
"May the Lord pardon us all," exclaimed a country clergyman in a rusty
gown and ill-dressed wig, with a pale, attenuated, eager face, which
told mournful tales of short commons and hard work; he had been for
some time an intense and a grieved listener to the lord-lieutenant's
conversation, and was now slowly retiring with a companion as humble as
himself from the circle which surrounded his excellency, with simple
horror impressed upon his pale features--"may the Lord preserve us all,
how awful it is to hear one so highly trusted by _Him_, take His name
thus momentarily in vain. Lord Wharton is, I fear me much, an habitual
profane swearer."
"Believe me, sir, you are very simple," rejoined a young clergyman who
stood close to the position which the speaker now occupied. "His
excellency's object in swearing by the different persons of the Trinity
is to show that he believes in revealed religion--a fact which else
were doubtful; and this being his main object, it is manifestly a
secondary consideration to what particular asseveration or promises his
excellency happens to tack his oaths."
The lank, pale-faced prebendary looked suddenly and earnestly round
upon the person who had accosted him, with an expression of curiosity
and wonder, evidently in some doubt as to the spirit in which the
observation had been made. He beheld a tall, stalwart man, arrayed in a
clerical costume as rich as that of a churchman who has not attained to
the rank of a dignitary in his profession could well be, and in all
points equipped with the most perfect neatness. In the face he looked
in vain for any indication of jocularity. It was a striking
countenance--striking for the extreme severity of its expression, and
for its stern and handsome outline. The eye which encountered the
inquiring glance of the elder man was of the clearest blue, singularly
penetrating and commanding--the eyebrow dark and shaggy--the lips full
and finely formed, but in their habitual expression bearing a character
of haughty and indomitable determination--the complexion of the face
was dark; and as the country prebendary gazed upon the countenance,
full, as it seemed, of a scornful, stern, merciless energy and
decision, something told him, that he looked upon one born to lead and
to command the people. All this he took in at a glance: and while he
looked, Addison, who had detached himself from the vice-regal coterie,
laid his hand upon the shoulder of the stern-featured young clergyman.
"Swift," said he, drawing him aside, "we see you too seldom here. His
excellency begins to think and to hope you have reconsidered what I
spoke about when last we met. Believe me, you wrong yourself in not
rendering what service you can to men who are not ungrateful, and who
have the power to reward. You were always a Whig, and a pamphlet were
with you but the work of a few days."
"Were I to write a pamphlet," rejoined Swift, "it is odds his
excellency would not like it."
"Have you not always been a Whig?" urged Addison.
"Sir, I am not to be taken by nicknames," rejoined Swift. "I know
Godolphin, and I know Lord Wharton. I have long distrusted the
government of each. I am no courtier, Mr. Secretary. What I suspect I
will not seem to trust--what I hate I hate entirely, and renounce
openly. I have heard of my Lord Wharton's doing, too. When I refused
before to understand your overtures to me to write a pamphlet for his
friends, he was pleased to say I refused because he would not make me
his chaplain--in saying which he knowingly and malignantly lied; and to
this lie he, after his accustomed fashion, tacked a blasphemous oath.
He is therefore a perjured liar. I renounce him as heartily as I
renounce the devil. I am come here, Mr. Secretary, not to do reverence
to Lord Wharton--God forbid!--but to offer my homage to the majesty of
England, whose brightness is reflected even in that cracked and
battered piece of pinchbeck yonder. Believe me, should his excellency
be rash enough to engage me in talk to-night, I shall take care to let
him know what opinion I have of him."
"Come, come, you must not be so dogged," rejoined Addison. "You know
Lord Wharton's ways. He says a good deal more than he cares to be
believed--everybody knows _that_--and all take his lordship's
asseverations with a grain of allowance; besides, you ought to consider
that when a man unused to contradiction is crossed by disappointment,
he is apt to be choleric, and to forget his discretion. We all know his
faults; but even you will not deny his merits."
Thus speaking, he led Swift toward the vice-regal circle, which they
had no sooner reached than Wharton, with his most good-humoured smile,
advanced to meet the young clergyman, exclaiming,--
"Swift! so it is, by ----! I am glad to see you--by ---- I am."
"I am glad, my lord," replied Swift, gravely, "that you take such
frequent occasion to remind this godless company of the presence of the
Almighty."
"Well, you know," rejoined Wharton, good-humouredly, "the Scripture
saith that the righteous man sweareth to his neighbour."
"And _disappointeth_ him not," rejoined Swift.
"And disappointeth him not," repeated Wharton; "and by ----," continued
he, with marked earnestness, and drawing the young politician aside as
he spoke, "in whatsoever I swear to thee there shall be no
disappointment."
He paused, but Swift remained silent. The lord-lieutenant well knew
that an English preferment was the nearest object of the young
churchman's ambition. He therefore continued,--
"On my soul, we want you in England--this is no stage for you. By ----
you cannot hope to serve either yourself or your friends in this
place."
"Very few thrive here but scoundrels, my lord," rejoined Swift.
"Even so," replied Wharton, with perfect equanimity--"it is a nation of
scoundrels--dissent on the one side and popery on the other. The upper
order harpies, and the lower a mere prey--and all equally liars,
rogues, rebels, slaves, and robbers. By ---- some fine day the devil
will carry off the island bodily. For very safety you must get out of
it. By ---- he'll have it."
"I am not enough in the devil's confidence to speak of his designs with
so much authority as your lordship," rejoined Swift; "but I incline to
think that under your excellency's administration it will answer his
end as well to leave the island where it is."
"Ah! Swift, you are a wag," rejoined the viceroy; "but by ---- I honour
and respect your spirit. I know we shall agree yet--by ---- I know it.
I respect your independence and honesty all the more that they are
seldom met with in a presence-chamber. By ---- I respect and love you
more and more every day."
"If your lordship will forego your professions of love, and graciously
confine yourself to the backbiting which must follow, you will do for
me to the full as much as I either expect or desire," rejoined Swift,
with a grave reverence.
"Well, well," rejoined the viceroy, with the most unruffled
good-humour, "I see, Swift, you are in no mood to play the courtier
just now. Nevertheless, bear in mind what Addison advised you to
attempt; and though we part thus for the present, believe me, I love
you all the better for your honest humour."
"Farewell, my lord," repeated Swift, abruptly, and with a formal bow he
retired among the common throng.
"A hungry, ill-conditioned dog," said Wharton, turning to the person
next him, "who, having never a bone to gnaw, whets his teeth on the
shins of the company."
Having vented this little criticism, the viceroy resumed once more the
formal routine of state hospitality.
"It is time we were going," suggested Mary Ashwoode to Emily Copland.
"My lord," she continued, turning to Lord Aspenly, whose attentions had
been just as conspicuous and incessant as Sir Richard Ashwoode could
have wished them, "Do you know where Lady Stukely is?"
Lord Aspenly professed his ignorance.
"Have _you_ seen her ladyship?" inquired Emily Copland of the gallant
Major O'Leary, who stood near her.
"Upon my conscience, I have," rejoined the major. "I'm not considered a
poltroon; but I plead guilty to one weakness. I am bothered if I can
stand fire when it appears in the nose of a gentlewoman; so as soon as
I saw her I beat a retreat, and left my valorous young nephew to stand
or fall under the blaze of her artillery. She is at the far end of the
room."
The major was easily persuaded to undertake the mission, and a word to
young Ashwoode settled the matter. The party accordingly left the
rooms, having, however, previously to their doing so, arranged that
Major O'Leary should pass the next day at Morley Court, and afterwards
accompany them in the evening to the theatre, whither Sir Richard, in
pursuance of his plans, had arranged that they should all repair.