Part 7

The noble Earl had then also the appellation of “Blind Ben,” which had been conferred on him by the agreeable and witty Lady Aldborough, and which ought not to have been by any means considered derogatory, inasmuch as his name is certainly _Benjamin_, and one of his eyes is actually “_not at home_;” and as the abrupt mode of its quitting his Lordship’s service was rather humorous, it may be amusing to mention it.

He had once (as he thought) the honour of killing a crane. Benjamin’s evil genius, however, maliciously scattered the shot, and the crane had only been what they call in Ireland _kilt_; but feeling pretty sure that her death was determined on, she resolved to die heroically, and not unrevenged. She fell, and lying motionless, seduced her assassin to come and wring her head off, according to the usual rules and practice of humanity by fowlers. The honourable sportsman approached triumphantly, and stooping to seize the _spolia opima_, Madam Crane, (having as good eyes of her own as the one that took aim at her,) in return for his compliment, darted her long bill plump into the head of the Honourable Benjamin O’Neil Stratford, entering through the very same casement which he had closed the shutters of to take _his aim_. In fact, she turned the honourable gentleman’s eye clean out of its natural residence; and being thus fully gratified by extinguishing the light in one of her enemy’s lanterns, she resigned her body to be plucked, stuffed, and roasted, in the usual manner, as was performed accordingly. Thus, though her slayer was writhing in agony, his _family_ was fully revenged by _feasting_ on his _tormentor_. Daily consultations were held to ascertain whether her long rapier had not actually penetrated the _brain_ of the Honourable Benjamin. One of the tenants being heard to say, in a most untenant-like manner, that it might in such case be _all for the best_, was asked his reason for so undutiful an expression; and replied, that if she had just pricked his honour’s brain, maybe it might have let out the _humours_, which would have done no harm either to his honour or to Baltinglass.

On their arrival in the presence of the doctor, who pretended never to know any body in Court, he asked, “Who _those people_ were?” and on being informed, proceeded to inquire what business brought them there.

The Honourable Benjamin answered, “that he wanted a marriage-license for his nephew, George Hartpole, of Shrewl Castle, Esq., and Miss Maria Otway, of Castle Otway, County Tipperary.”

He had scarcely pronounced the words when the doctor, rising, with the utmost vehemence roared out, “George Hartpole! George Hartpole! is that the rascal who has _another wife_ living?”

George, struck motionless, shrank within himself; but Benjamin, not being so easily frightened, said something equally warm, whereupon the doctor, without further ceremony, rushed at him, seized him by the collar, and cried, “Do you want me to countenance bigamy, you villains?” at the same time roaring to his crier and servants to “turn the fellows out!” which order, if not literally, was virtually performed, and the petitioners for a license congratulated themselves upon their providential escape from so outrageous a judge of prerogative.

The fact was, a suit of nullity had been actually _commenced_ in the Court, but its merits never having been stated, the judge only knew Hartpole as a married man _de facto_, and it certainly could not appear very correct of the Honourable Benjamin to apply to the _same_ judge who was to try the validity of the _first_ marriage, to grant his license for the solemnization of a _second_ while the first remained undecided. On Hartpole’s mind the circumstance made an indelible impression, and he never afterward took any further proceedings in the cause then instituted.

Hartpole returned to me and recounted the adventure, affecting to treat it as a jest against his uncle. But it was a vain disguise; although, by struggling sharply with his feelings, he in some degree overcame them.

But what was now to be done, since no license could be obtained in Dublin? A general consultation was held; Mr. Otway (still singularly to me) appeared to regard the circumstance as a mere _bagatelle_. I thought _far otherwise_; and it was so deeply engraven on Hartpole’s mind, that he mentioned it to me not three days previous to his dissolution, as having foreboded all his subsequent misfortunes.

It was at length agreed on that he should be married in the diocese of Kildare, by a license from the bishop’s surrogate there. This was in effect accomplished. I did not attend at the ceremony; after which, the parties pursued their journey to Castle Otway, where, in the midst of every thing that was desirable on earth, Hartpole commenced the trial of his new connexion.

In spite of these apparent advantages, however, my friend soon began either to find or conjure up new and dangerous sources of uneasiness. He continued some months at Castle Otway, listless and devoured by _ennui_—pining for a change of scene, and longing to return to his hereditary domain. His health gradually, although slowly, declined; yet he took no medical advice: remote symptoms of consumption began to exhibit themselves, and the effects of care upon a constitution naturally irritable favoured their development. But, amidst all this, he fancied for awhile that he possessed every thing he could wish for;—his wife daily improved in her person, her manners were delightful, her conduct unexceptionable.

Maria was adored by her parents, but adored to a degree that tended eventually to create her misery: the thought of separating from them was to her almost unbearable; she durst scarcely look at such an event with firmness. Her reluctance could not be concealed from the sharp eye of her uneasy husband. Every mark of affection lavished by her on her parents he considered as if filched from him. He thought her heart should have no room for _any_ attachments but to himself, whereas it had been wholly preoccupied by filial tenderness, that true passion of nature. In a word, she had never _loved_ Hartpole, for whom she felt no other than a neutral species of attachment. Neither her mind nor her person had arrived at their full maturity, when she was called upon to love; and under such circumstances, she really evinced more affection for her husband than I supposed she would do, but far less than he expected.

At length it was agreed that they should come, on a visit, to my house in Dublin for some time, and that her mother should afterwards stay with her at Shrewl Castle till Maria was gradually reconciled to the dreaded change, and to final residence with a man whom I believe she early discovered was not exactly calculated to make her happy. The story of Mary Sleven, I believe, she had not heard; if she had, I am pretty sure she never would have left the protection of her father.

When Hartpole arrived at my house, I soon perceived that my gloomy auguries had been too well grounded. I found his mind bewildered; he received no enjoyment from reading; his health did not permit strong exercise; he took no pleasure in new and strange society; but, on the contrary, pined for his own home, his free associates, his steward, his tenants, his colliers, and above all, for a passive, fond companion who should have no wish but her husband’s.

Now, none of these things were to Maria’s taste, and she yielded to the inroads of discontent, as I think, unreasonably: still, this feeling never showed itself with offensive prominence. She gave way to every desire expressed by her husband, but her acquiescence seemed to me like that of a _victim_. I have often noticed that, even whilst she intimated her obedience, her averted eye betrayed a rebel tear, and she only awaited the moment when it might gush out with safety, and relieve her.

I perceived that, unless some step was taken to occupy George’s mind, a residence at Shrewl Castle would surely proclaim to the world both his folly and his ruin. I therefore applied to Mr. Pelham, then secretary in Ireland, to appoint Hartpole to the office of high sheriff for Queen’s County for the ensuing year, 1794. My application was immediately conceded. I also took out for him a commission of the peace. Meanwhile his old castle was in part newly furnished, and I was happy to see that he felt a sort of gratification in the appointment of sheriff; and though in a state of health badly calculated to execute the duties of such an office, the occupation of his mind would, I hoped, make ample amends for his necessary personal exertions. If that year had passed favourably, it was my intention to have recommended a tour to some foreign country, where change of climate and of scene might tend to restore my friend’s health, to amuse his mind, and perhaps to make a desirable alteration in the feelings both of himself and his wife:—but Heaven decreed otherwise.

While on their visit at my house, I perceived, in Hartpole’s disposition, among other traits which so close a communion could scarcely fail to develope, one which I had never before suspected in him, and calculated to prove the certain and permanent source of unhappiness. Jealousy is of all others the most terrible of human passions. When once it fixes its roots in a hasty, sanguine nature, it becomes master of every action and every word; and reason, justice, and humanity, all fly before it! When it pervades a less ardent spirit, impetuosity is bridled; but the desire of revenge is no less powerful, and too often seeks gratification in the exercise of cold treachery or petty annoyance: in either case, the eye magnifies every object which can at all feed the greediness of suspicion. When this passion has any fair cause, it may be justifiable, and a crisis generally ends it; but when no cause exists, save in the distempered fancy of a sinking constitution, it is permanent and invincible.

Such was the case with my friend: his jealousy had no fixed object on which to fasten itself, but wandered from person to person. Indeed, it could have no resting-place; for, in this point of view, Maria was blameless. But in the eye of my friend she had guilt—the guilt of being attractive. He conceived that every body must love her as he did himself, and fancied that a female universally admired could not be universally _ungrateful_.

This melancholy and morbid state of mind appeared to me likely to increase from residence in a metropolis, and I hastened his departure for Shrewl Castle, to take upon himself the office of high sheriff. I did not go with them, for my mind misgave me: her mother met them there, and innocently completed the ruin of her children by a step the consequences whereof should ever be a warning to wives, to parents, and to husbands!

At Shrewl, Mrs. Otway perceived George’s ideal malady: she was a silly woman, who fancied she was wise, and thought she never could do wrong because she always intended to do right. She proposed to Maria a most desperate remedy to cure her husband of his jealousy, though she did not reflect that it might probably be at the expense of his existence, and certainly of her daughter’s duty. They conspired together, and wrote two or three letters directed to Mrs. Hartpole, without signature, but professing love and designating meetings. These they took measures to drop so as Hartpole might accidentally find some of them, and thus they thought in the end to convince him of his folly, and _laugh_ him out of his suspicions.

The result may be easily anticipated by those who have read with attention the character of the husband. He became outrageous; the developement did not pacify him; and his paroxysm was nearly fatal. Maria was in consequence but little better, and the unexpected result of her own injudicious conduct nearly distracted the unhappy mother. But it was too late to retrieve their error: the die was thrown. Hartpole was inflexible; and the first I heard of it was Maria’s departure to her father’s, and a final separation:—and thus, after a marriage of a few months, that ill-starred young man, completely the sport of fortune, became once more solitary! Labouring under the false idea that he could soon conquer his attachment, he made Maria an ample separate maintenance, and determined to go to Lisbon, where he thought a change of scene might, perhaps, restore his peace, and the climate his shattered constitution.

Before he sailed, I endeavoured in vain to reconcile them. She did not love him well enough to risk a further residence at Shrewl, in the absence of her connexions; and his mind was case-hardened against the whole family from which she sprang. His reasons to me for parting from her finally were at least plausible.

“I acquit her at once,” said he, “of ever having shown a symptom of impropriety, nay, even of giddiness: there I was wrong, and I own it: but she has proved herself perfectly capable of, and expert at, _deception_; and the woman that has practised deception for _my_ sake would be equally capable of practising it for _her own_. So far from _curing my error_, she has confirmed me in it; and when confidence ceases separation ought to ensue.”

Hartpole shortly after embarked for Portugal, and only returned to terminate his short career by a lingering and painful death.

On his arrival at Lisbon without any amendment either in mind or body, I felt, and I am sure he did himself, that the world was fast receding from him. The rough manners of one Lieutenant Waters, the person whom he had chosen as a _led captain_, were little congenial to his own characteristic mildness. He had, however, Simon, a most faithful Scotch valet; and after a few posts, I conceived, from his letters, that his spirits had very much improved, when a circumstance occurred which, had he been in health, would have been merely ludicrous; but which the shattered state of his nerves rendered him almost incapable of bearing up against.

On his marriage he had given the commission in the army which he then held to Mr. Otway, his brother-in-law (I believe, now, General Otway); on his separation, however, he determined to resume the profession, and accordingly purchased a commission in a regiment of the line then raising by his uncle the late Lord Aldborough; and he had been gazetted previously to his departure.

After he had been a short time at Lisbon, some mischievous person, for some mischievous object, informed his uncle that he had been dead a fortnight! and, without further inquiry, that nobleman resold George’s commission, and an announcement appeared in the newspapers, that Hartpole had fallen a victim at Lisbon, to consumption, the rapid progress of which had rendered his case hopeless even before he quitted Ireland,—adding the name of the party who had succeeded him in his regiment.

Now the fact was, that the climate of Lisbon had been of great service to his health; and he was quickly recovering strength and spirits when, taking up, one day, an English paper, he read the above-mentioned paragraph.

His valet described to me coarsely the instantaneous effect of this circumstance on his master’s mind. It seemed to proclaim his fate by anticipation:—his commission was disposed of, under the idea that he was actually dead; every melancholy reflection crowded upon him; he totally relapsed; and I firmly believe that paragraph was his death-blow. After lingering several months longer, he returned to England, and I received a letter requesting me to meet him without delay at Bristol, and stating that he had made his will. I immediately undertook the journey, and took him over a horse which I conceived adapted to him at that time. His sister (the present Mrs. Bowen, of Rutland-square) was with him. His figure was emaciated to the last degree, and he was sinking rapidly into the grave. He was attended by a very clever young physician of that place, a Doctor Barrow, and I soon perceived that the doctor had fallen a victim to the charms of Miss Hartpole.

The patient had, however, declined but little in appetite, when the disorder fixed itself in his throat, and he ceased to have the power of eating: he now entirely gave himself up as a person who must die of hunger. This melancholy scene almost distracted me. The doctor gave us little consolation; and Hartpole himself, though reduced to such a state, was really the most cheerful of the party, evincing a degree of resignation at once heroic and touching. His will had been prepared by Mr. Lemans of Bristol, (to me a perfect stranger,) and executed whilst I was in Ireland: he informed us all that I was joint executor with two of his uncles.

On the morning of Hartpole’s death he sent for me to rise and come to him. I found him in an _agony of hunger_—perspiration in large drops rolling down his face. He said neither food nor liquid could descend into his stomach; that his ribs had contracted inward, as if convulsively drawn together; and that he was in great pain. I cannot describe my emotion! He walked about his room and spoke to me earnestly on many subjects, on some of which I have been, and ever shall be, totally silent. At length he called me to the window:—“Barrington,” said he, “you see at a distance a very green field?” “Yes,” I replied. “Well,” continued George, “it is my dying request that I may be buried there _to-morrow evening_.”

He spoke so calmly and strongly, that I felt much surprised. He observed this, and said, “It is true: _I am in the agonies of death_.” I now called in the doctor and Hartpole’s servant: the invalid sat down upon the bed; and when he took me by the hand, I shuddered, for it was burning hot, whilst every nerve and sinew seemed to be in spasmodic action, then iced and clammy. I never had been in collision with a dying person before: he pressed my hand with great fervour, and murmured, “My friend!”—these were the last words I heard him utter. I looked in his face: his eyes were glazed—his lips quivered—he laid his head on the pillow, and expired.

This awful scene, to me so perfectly new, overpowered me, and for a few minutes I was myself totally insensible.

I disobeyed Hartpole’s injunctions respecting his funeral; for I had his body enclosed in a leaden coffin and sent to be interred at Shrewl Castle, in the cemetery of his ancestors, wherein his remains were not admitted without much reluctance by his ungrateful sister and her husband, who resided there in his absence.

On the reading of the will, his first bequest appeared to be to “his friend Barrington, six thousand pounds,” together with the reversion of his landed estates and collieries, by moieties, on the death of each of his sisters without children: one had been some years married and had none; the other was unmarried, but soon after made a match with a respectable gentleman of very considerable property, but whom I should think few young ladies of fortune would have fancied.

The uncles would not act as executors; considered me as an interloper; and commenced a suit to annul the will, as prepared under undue influence. Fortunately for my reputation, I had never known or even seen the persons who prepared it. I was in another kingdom at the time, and had not seen Hartpole for many months before its execution: _his sister_ was with him; not I.—I was utterly unacquainted with his will or its contents.

I got a decree without delay. The family of Stratford, who preferred _law_ to all other species of _pastime_, appealed. My decree was confirmed, and they were burdened with the whole costs; and in effect paid me six thousand pounds, on an amicable arrangement. My reversion yielded me nothing; for I fancy the sisters have since had nearly twenty children between them to inherit it.

Thus ended Hartpole’s life, and thus did a family become extinct, of the most respectable description. I neither looked to nor expected any legacy from my friend, beyond a mourning-ring. He left numerous other bequests, including a considerable one to Mary Sleven, whose fate I never heard.

The sequel of Maria Otway’s history was not much less melancholy than that of her unhappy partner, as she died prematurely, by the most affecting of all deaths, some time after—childbirth. I saw her after the separation, but never after George’s decease. As I predicted, her style of beauty was not calculated to _wear well_; and even before she was out of her teens, Maria Otway _had been_ much handsomer. Her manner became more studied—of course, less graceful: and that _naïveté_, which had rendered her so engaging to my friend, was somewhat superseded by the affectation of fashionable manners.

Maria, I think, _never_ had been attached to Hartpole; and within two years after his decease, she made another and a most unexceptionable match—namely, with Mr. Prittie, the present member for Tipperary: but Providence seemed to pursue fatally even the relict of my friend; and, at the age of twenty-three, death cut off the survivor of that union which an unconcerned spectator would have deemed so auspicious. It was said and believed, (but I do not wish to be understood as vouching the report,) that after Mrs. Prittie’s death a prediction of that event was found written by herself six months before it occurred, designating the precise time of her departure.

I have been diffuse on the memoirs of Hartpole, because I felt myself interested in almost every material event of his career. To overlook our friendship, indeed, and his liberality, would have been ungrateful, in any memoir of myself.[17]

Before I quit these “records,” and the associations which they excite, I am tempted once more to revert to the peculiarities of the Stratford family, which indeed present an ample field for anecdote. More curious or dissimilar characters never, surely, bore the same name.

Earl Robert, one of those who declared war against me on Hartpole’s death, was surnamed “The Peer of a Hundred Wills;” and it is matter of fact, that, upon a trial at law in County Wicklow, since his Lordship’s death, fifty-one different wills were produced, together with a great number of affidavits, &c., also signed by the Earl. Several of these documents are of the most singular description, highly illustrative of the Earl’s character, and I should think among the most extraordinary papers existing.

Footnote 17:

George Hartpole was sponsor to my only son.

It was a general rule with this peer to make a will or codicil in favour of any person with whom he was desirous of carrying a point,—taking especial care that the party should be made acquainted with his proceeding: no sooner, however, was his end accomplished, and other game started, than a fresh instrument annulled all the provisions of the preceding one! Thus, if desirous of obtaining a lady’s regards, _he made a will in her favour_, and let her find it _by accident_. He at length got 50,000_l._ with a grand-daughter of the Duke of Chandos, and brought her over to Belan.