Part 9

D. Whittingham was the _fashion_:—but she depended solely, as to fortune, on her father and her uncle. I was the third son of a largely estated, but not at all prudent family, and was entitled to a younger child’s portion, in addition to some exclusive property of my own (from my grandmother): but I had passed twenty-one, and not even fixed on a profession—therefore, the only probable result of our attachment seemed to be misery and disappointment. Notwithstanding, when in the same neighbourhood, we met,—when separate, we corresponded; but her good sense at length perceived that some end must be put to this state of clandestine correspondence, from which, although equally condemning it, we had not been able to abstain. Her father died, and she became entitled to a third of his estate and effects; but this accession was insufficient to justify the accomplishment of our union. I saw, and, with a half-broken heart, acquiesced in, her view of its impossibility until I should have acquired some productive profession. She suggested that there was no other course but the Bar, which might conciliate her uncle. The hint was sufficient, and we then agreed to have a ceremony of _betrothal_ performed by a clergyman, and to separate the next moment, never to meet again until Fortune, if ever so disposed, should smile upon us.

The ceremony was accordingly performed by a clerical person in the parlour of the post-office at Bray, County Wicklow; and immediately afterward I went on board a packet for England, determined, if possible, to succeed in a profession which held out a reward so essential to my happiness.

I did succeed in that profession: but, alas! she for whose sake my toil was pleasure had ceased to exist. I never saw her more! Her only sister still lives in Merrion Square, Dublin, and in her has centred all the property of both the father and uncle. She is the widow of one of my warmest friends, Mr. Burne, a king’s counsel.

I hasten to quit a subject to me so distressing. Some very peculiar circumstances attended, as I learned, the death of that most excellent of women; but a recital of these would only increase the impression which I fear I have already given grounds for, that I am deeply superstitious. However, I have not concealed so important an incident of my life hitherto not published, and I have done.

A DUBLIN BOARDING-HOUSE.

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.

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.

IRISH BEAUTIES.

Strictures on change of manners—Moral influence of dress—The three beauties—Curious trial respecting Lady M—— —Termination favourable to her Ladyship—Interesting and affecting incidents of that lady’s life—Sir R—— M——, his character, and cruelty—Lady M—— married against her will—Quits her husband—Returns—Sir R. mistakes her for a rebel in his sleep, and nearly strangles her.

It is singular enough, but at the same time true, that female beauty has of late years kept pace in improvement with modern accomplishments. She who in the early part of my life would have been accounted a perfect beauty,—and whose touch upon a harpsichord or spinnet, accompanied by a simple air sung with what they then called “judgment,” (in tune,) would have constituted her a syren as well as a Venus, would now be passed by merely as “a pretty girl, but such a confounded _bore_ with her music!” In fact, women fifty years since (and much later) not being, generally speaking, thrust into society till they had arrived at the age of maturity, were more respected, more beloved, and more sedulously attended than in these days, when the men seem to have usurped the ladies’ corsets, to affect their voices, practise their gait, imitate their small-talk, and, in surtouts and trowsers, hustle ladies off the foot-paths, to save their own dog-skins from humidity.

This degradation of both sexes has arisen from various causes. Beauty is now less rare, accomplishments more common, dress less distinguished, dignity worse preserved, and decorum less attended to, than in former times. It is a great mistake in women not to recollect their own importance, and keep up that just medium between reserve and familiarity which constitutes the best criterion whereby to appreciate the manners of a gentlewoman. But women are too apt to run into extremes in every thing; and overlook the fact, that neither personal beauty nor drawing-room display are calculated to form permanent attractions, even to the most adoring lover.—The _breakfast-table_ in the morning, and _fire-side_ in the evening, must be the ultimate touch-stones of connubial comfort; and this is a maxim which any woman who intends to marry should never lose sight of.

To such lengths did respect for the fair sex extend, and so strong was the impression formerly that men were bound to protect it even from accidental offence, that I remember the time, (indeed I witnessed two instances,) when, if any gentleman presumed to pass between a lady and the wall in walking the streets of Dublin, he was considered as offering a personal affront to her escort; and if the parties wore swords, (as was then customary,) it is probable the first salutation to the offender would be—“Draw, sir!” However, such affairs usually ended in an apology to the lady for inadvertence, scarcely ever proceeding to extremities unless the offence was premeditated.

But if a man ventured to intrude into the boxes of the theatre in his surtout, or boots, or with his hat on, it was regarded as a general insult to every lady present, and he had little chance of escaping without a shot or a thrust before the following night. Every gentleman then wore in the evening a sword, a queue, and a three-cocked hat—appointments rather too fierce-looking for the modern dandy! whilst the morning dress consisted of what was then called a French frock, (having no skirt-pockets,) a waistcoat bordered with lace, velvet or silk breeches, silk stockings, pumps, and a _couteau de chasse_, with a short, curved broad blade—the handle of green ivory, with a lion’s head in silver or gilt at the end, and a treble chain dangling loose from its mouth, terminating at an ornamented cross or guard, which surmounted the green scabbard. Such was the costume: but although either the male or female attire of that day might now appear rather grotesque, yet people of fashion had then the exclusive dress and air of such, and ladies ran no risk of being copied in garb or manner, or rivalled, perhaps surpassed, by their pretty waiting-maids—now called “young persons!”—who not unfrequently first ape, then traduce, and next supplant, their mistresses. The _nice_ young governesses also, (of twenty,) now selected to instruct young ladies of seventeen, present a modern system of education to which, I believe, Doctors Commons is under obligation.

The Irish court at that period was kept up with great state, and hence the parties who frequented it were more select. I recollect when the wives and daughters of attorneys (who now, I believe, are the general occupiers of the red benches, then solely the seats of nobles) were never admitted to the viceregal drawing-rooms. How far the present growing system of equality in appearance among different ranks will eventually benefit or injure society in general, is for casuists, not for me, to determine. I must, however, take occasion to own myself an admirer, and (whenever it is proper) a zealous contender for distinction of ranks; and to state my decided opinion, that superior talents, learning, military reputation, or some other quality which raises men by general assent, should alone be permitted to amalgamate common with high society. Nature, by conferring talent, points out those whom she intended to distinguish: but “free agency” too frequently counteracts the _intention_ of Nature, and great talent is often overpowered, and lost in a crowd of inferior propensities.

It is an observation I have always made, (although it may be perhaps considered a frivolous one,) that dress has a moral effect upon the conduct of mankind. Let any gentleman find himself with dirty boots, old surtout, soiled neckcloth, and a general negligence of dress, he will, in all probability, find a corresponding disposition to negligence of address. He may, _en deshabille_, curse and swear, speak roughly and think coarsely: but put the same man into full dress; powder, or at least curl him well, clap a sword by his side, and give him an evening coat, waistcoat, breeches, and silk stockings, lace ruffles and a _chapeau bras_, and he will feel himself quite another person!—To use the language of the blackguard would then be out of character: he will talk smoothly, affect politeness if he has it not, pique himself upon good manners, and respect the women: nor will the spell subside until, returning home, the old _robe de chambre_ (or its substitute surtout), the heelless slippers, with other slovenly appendages, make him lose again his brief consciousness of being a gentleman!

Some women mistake the very nature and purposes of dress: glaring abroad, they are slatterns at home. The husband detests in his _sposa_ what he is too apt to practise himself: he rates a dirty wife; she retorts upon a filthy husband, and each of them detests the other for that neglect of person which neither will take the trouble of avoiding, except to encounter strangers.