Part 27

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.

I will now bid the reader farewell,—at least for the present.

END OF VOL. II.

PROSPECTUS

OF

SIR JONAH BARRINGTON’S

HISTORIC MEMOIRS OF IRELAND,

WITH SECRET ANECDOTES OF THE UNION;

Illustrated by Delineations of the principal Characters connected with those Transactions, curious Letters and Papers in fac-simile; and numerous Original Portraits engraved by the elder HEATH.

* * * * *

Unforeseen circumstances, over which the Author had no influence or control, had altogether checked the progress of this Work, suspended the publication of its latter parts, and left them on the Publisher’s shelves unadvertised and uncirculated.

This temporary relinquishment had given rise to unfounded and injurious reports of its suppression; an object which never was for one moment in the contemplation of the Author, nor sought for, or even suggested, by the Government of England.

On the contrary—the lamentable and unimproving march of Ireland from the period of the Union having fully proved the deceptious prospective given to that fatal measure by its mistaken or corrupt supporters, and exciting a novel interest and grave reflections of vital importance to the British Empire, the Author had determined to seize upon the first available opportunity of fulfilling his engagement to the friends and patrons of the Work, by its completion.

Those friends were not confined to one party. They were mingled in all—they comprised several of the highest orders of society—many who held, and some who still hold, important stations in the Government of both countries:—and the commencing parts of this Work having been honoured by the approbation and encouragement of His late Majesty and other Members of His Royal House, it was with deep regret the Author found himself, from a succession of causes, for several years unable to fulfil his intentions, and gratify his own laudable ambition, by compiling into a compact Memoir the most important Historic Events of Ireland. In many of those he was himself a not unimportant actor. He possessed also the advantage of individual intimacy or acquaintance with the most celebrated personages of all parties; without which, and the fidelity of a contemporary and independent pen, the delineation of their characters and the record of their conduct, if not lost for ever, would have descended to posterity with imperfect details and an ambiguous authenticity,—or have left a wide chasm in a highly interesting epocha of British History.

The fallacious measure of a Legislative Union,—the progress of which from commencement to consummation the Author energetically resisted—has proved, by its inoperative or mischievous results, the justness of that resistance. And he now, in common with many of the most distinguished of its original supporters, deeply deplores its accomplishment. But established by lapse of time—confirmed by passive assent—and complicated with some beneficial, and many political and financial arrangements, its tranquil reversal seems to have passed feasibility. Yet—as an hereditary friend to British connexion—the Author hopes, by the revival and completion of this History, to open wide the eyes of Great Britain to the present dangers of Ireland—to draw aside the curtain of ignorance and prejudice by which her history has been so long obscured—to compare her once rising prosperity with her existing miseries—to discover the occult causes of their continuance and the false principles of her misrule—to display her sacrifices for England—and to unmask her libellers in both countries.

Developments such as these may rouse the Legislature to probe her wounds to their depth—to employ her labour—to succour—to foster—and to rule her on the broad principles of a steady and philanthropic policy—and to relinquish for ever that system of coercive Government, which an experience of many centuries has proved to be destructive of almost every thing—except her crimes and her population.

The British people should also learn that the absence of the ancient Nobles and protecting Aristocracy of Ireland,—drawn away by the Union from their demesnes and their tenantry to the Seat of Legislation, and replaced only by the griping hands and arbitrary sway of upstart deputies,—increases in proportion with the miseries and turbulence of the lower orders; and that the luxuriance of vegetation which clothes that capable Island, has, through the same causes, become only a harbinger of want, or the forbidden fruit of a famished peasantry.

It should therefore be the object of every pen and of every tongue, to render the Union as innoxious as its paralysing nature can now admit of; to recall the proprietors of the Irish soil to a sense of their own security and their country’s welfare; and thereby strengthen the ties which should bind the two nations together, in equality, prosperity, and affection—on the firmness and durability of which _species_ of connexion depends, not only the constitutional security of England herself, but perhaps the political existence of both countries.

Such is the Author’s view in the completion of this Work. The obstacles to its progress are surmounted, and its publication is now in the hands of those who will spare nothing to render it worthy of its object, and ensure a lasting and beneficial record to the United Empire.

It is fortunate for Ireland, and disastrous to her calumniators, that a recent and great event has at once exposed the misrepresentations of her enemies, and displayed a great source of her misfortunes. The visit of a conciliating King to a distracted people rapidly disclosed their native character, and produced a burst of unfeigned, unanimous, genuine loyalty, never before experienced in such profusion by any Monarch from his subjects. The equivocating language of diplomacy was rejected for a while. The King was a Patriot, and the People were loyal. For the first time they were allowed to approach each other. Both were sincere—and both were ardent. In a few days, the King became despotic in the affections of the Nation, and his Ministers descended into a comparative insignificance. When he arrived, he was respected as a British King—but when he departed, he was adored as an Irish Monarch. He saw at once that the existence of faction and discord was incompatible with the peace and prosperity of Ireland; and that she hung on Great Britain, as a withering limb upon a healthful body—essential to its symmetry, but useless to its functions, and injurious to its Constitution.

There was but one remedy—conciliation. His Majesty saw its efficacy and commanded its adoption.—But his commands were disobeyed by the _Regal Rebels_[53]—and Ireland is still seen withering and cankering—by the obstinacy of intolerant faction, the irritation of local tyranny, and the multiplying mischiefs resulting from disobedience to the benevolent and wise commands of the only British King who ever yet set foot on the Irish shore as a friend and as a patriot.

Footnote 53:

Mr. Grattan’s definition of men, “_Who make their loyalism a pretence to perpetuate their supremacy,—and distract the peace of a country under colour of protecting it_.”

* * * * *

The above work will shortly be completed in ten numbers, royal 4to, price 10_s._ 6_d._ each, and published by Messrs. COLBURN and BENTLEY, New Burlington Street, London; BELL and BRADFUTE, Edinburgh; and JOHN CUMMING, Dublin: and subscribers are particularly requested to send their orders to their respective booksellers for the completion of their sets.

PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.