Part 23

“Now, Jonah,” said my brother, “before I marry I have a matter of some importance to arrange, lest it should come to the ears of my Alicia, which would be my ruin; and I must get you to see it settled for me at Philipstown, so as to prevent any thing exploding.” He went on to give me the particulars of a certain _liaison_ he had formed with a young woman there, an exciseman’s daughter, which he was now, as may be supposed, desirous of breaking; and (though protesting that interference in such matters was not at all to my taste) I consented to write, at his dictation, a sort of compromise to the party, which he having signed, both epistles were directed at the same time, and committed to the post-office of Kilcullen bridge.

The amorous and fractured invalid was now rapidly advancing to a state of convalescence. His nose had been renovated with but an inconsiderable partiality for the left cheek; his collar-bones had approximated to a state of adhesion; and he began impatiently to count the days and nights that would metamorphose his Alicia from a spinster to a matron.

The extravagance of his flaming love amused me extremely: his aerial castles were built, altered, and demolished with all the skill and rapidity of modern architecture; while years of exquisite and unalloyed felicity arose before his fancy, of which they took an immovable grasp.

We were busily engaged one morning in planning and arranging his intended establishment, on returning to the sports and freaks of a country gentleman (with the addition of a terrestrial angel to do the honours), when, on a sudden, we heard rather a rough noise at the entrance of the little chamber wherein the invalid was still reclining upon a feather-bed, with a pillow under each arm to keep the bones in due position. Our old fat landlady, who was extremely partial to the cornet,[48] burst in with her back toward us, endeavouring to prevent the entrance of a stranger, who, however, without the least ceremony, giving her a hearty curse, dashed into the centre of the room in a state of bloated rage scarcely conceivable—which was more extraordinary as the individual appeared to be no other than Captain Tennyson Edwards, of the 30th regiment, third brother of the beloved Alicia. Of course we both rose to welcome him most heartily: this however he gave us no opportunity of doing; but laying down a small mahogany case, which he carried in his hand, and putting his arms akimbo, he loudly exclaimed without any exordium, “Why, then, Cornet Jack Barrington, are you not the greatest scoundrel that ever disgraced civilised society?”

Footnote 48:

My brother’s _actual_ rank in _the army_.

This quere of course was not answered in the affirmative by either of us; and a scene of astonishment on the one side and increasing passion on the other, baffled all common-place description: I must therefore refer it to the imagination of my readers. The retort courteous was over and over reiterated on both sides without the slightest attempt at any _éclaircissement_.

At length the captain opened his mahogany case, and exhibited therein a pair of what he called his “barking irons,” bright and glittering as if both able and willing to commit most expertly any murder or murders they might be employed in.

“You scoundrel!” vociferated the captain to the cornet, “only that your bones were smashed by your horse, I would not leave a whole one this day in your body. But I suppose your brother here will have no objection to exchange shots _for_ you, and not keep me waiting till you are well enough to be _stiffened_! Have you any objection (turning to me) ‘to take a _crack_?’”

“A very considerable objection,” answered I; “first, because I never fight without knowing _why_; and secondly, because my brother is not in the habit of fighting by proxy.”

“Not know why?” roared the captain. “There! read that! Oh! I wish you were hale and whole, cornet, that I might have the pleasure of a _crack_ with _you_!”

I lost no time in reading the letter; and at once perceived that my unlucky relative had, in the flurry of his love, misdirected each of the two epistles just now spoken of, and consequently informed “the divine Alicia” that he could hold no further intercourse with her, &c.

A fit of convulsive laughter involuntarily seized me, which nothing could restrain; and the captain meanwhile, nearly bursting with rage, reinvited me to be shot at. My brother stood all the time like a ghost, in more pain, and almost in as great a passion as our visitor. He was unable to articulate; and the pillows fixed under each arm rendered him one of the most grotesque figures that a painter could fancy.

When I recovered the power of speaking (which was not speedily), I desired Tennyson to follow me to another room: he took up his pistol-case, and expecting I was about to indulge him with a _crack_ or two, seemed somewhat easier in mind and temper. I at once explained to him the curious mistake, and without the least hesitation the captain burst into a much stronger paroxysm of laughter than I had just escaped from. Never did any officer in the king’s service enjoy a victory more than Captain Edwards did this strange blunder. It was quite to his taste, and on our proposing to make the invalid as happy as exhaustion and fractures would admit of, a new scene, equally unexpected, but of more serious consequences, turned up.

A ruddy, active and handsome country girl came to the door, and sprang with rapidity from a pillion on which she had been riding behind a good-looking rustic lad. Our landlady greeted her new customer with her usual urbanity. “You’re welcome to these parts, miss,” said Mrs. Mahony: “you stop to-night—to be sure you do:—what do you choose, miss?—Clean out the settle-bed parlour:—the chickens and rashers, miss, are capital, so they are.—Gassoon, do run and howld the lady’s beast; go, avourneen, carry him in and wipe him well—do you hear? and throw a wisp of hay before the poor brute. You rode hard, miss, so you did!”

“Oh! where’s the cornet?” cried the impatient maiden, totally disregarding Mrs. Mahony: for it was Jenny —— herself, who had come speedily from Philipstown to forestall the happy moments which my bewildered brother had, in his letter to his Alicia, so delightfully anticipated. Nothing could restrain her impatience; she burst into the little parlour full on the astounded invalid, who was still standing bolt upright, like a statue, in the very position wherein we had left him. His loving Jenny, however, unconscious that his collarbones had been disunited, rushed into his arms with furious affection. “Oh! my dearest Jack!” cried she, “we _never_ part _no_ more! no, never—never!” and tight, indeed, was the embrace wherewith the happy Jenny now encircled the astonished cornet; but, alas! down came one of the pillows! the arm, of course, closed; and one half of the left collar-bone being as ignorant as its owner of the cause of so obstreperous an embrace, and, wishing as it were to see what matter was going forward in the world, instantly divorced itself from the other half, and thrusting its ivory end through the flesh, skin, and integuments (which had obstructed its egress), quickly appeared peeping through the lover’s shirt.

The unfortunate inamorato could stand these accumulated shocks no longer, and sank upon the feather-bed in a state of equal astonishment and exhaustion, groaning pitiously.

Here I must again apply to the imagination of my reader for a true picture of the succeeding scene. Fielding alone could render a detail palatable; the surgeons were once more sent for to reset the collar: an energetic kiss, which his Jenny had imprinted on the cornet’s nose, again somewhat disturbed its new position, and conferred a pain so acute, as to excite exclamations, by no means gentle in their nature, from the unresisting sufferer.

Suffice it to say, Jenny was with much difficulty at length forced away from her Jack, if not in a dead _faint_, at least in something extremely _like_ one. An _éclaircissement_ took place so soon as she came round; and the _compromise_, before hinted at, was ultimately effected.

Edwards asked a hundred pardons of my poor brother, who, worn out, and in extreme pain, declared he would as soon die as live. In fine, it was nearly a month more ere the cornet could travel to Dublin, and another before he was well enough to throw himself at the feet of his dulcinea: which ceremony was in due season succeeded by the wedding[49] I have already given my account of, and which left me much more unaccountably smitten than my more fiery brother.

Footnote 49:

Irish marriages ran, some few years ago, an awkward risk of being nullified _en masse_, by the decision of two English judges. In 1826, I met, at Boulogne-sur-Mer, a young Hibernian nobleman, the eldest son of an Irish peer, who had arrived there in great haste from Paris, and expressed considerable though somewhat ludicrous trepidation on account of a rumour that had reached him of his being _illegitimatised_. In fact, the same dread seized upon almost all the Irish of any family there.

“I have no time to lose,” said Lord ——, “for the packet is just setting off, and I must go and inquire into these matters. By Heaven,” added he, “I won’t leave one of the judges alive, if they take my property and title! I am fit for _nothing else_, you _know_ I am not; and I may as well be hanged as beggared!”

Scarce had his lordship, from whom I could obtain no explanation, departed, when another scion of Irish nobility, the Honourable John Leeson, son to the late Earl of Miltown, joined me on the pier. “Barrington, have you seen to-day’s papers?” asked he.

“No,” I answered.

“Where was your father married?”

“In my grandfather’s house,” replied I, with some surprise.

“Then, by Jove,” exclaimed Leeson, “you are an _illegitimate_, and so am I!—My father was married at home, at eight o’clock in the evening, and that’s _fatal_. A general outcry has taken place among all the Irish at the reading-room.”

He then proceeded to inform me of the real cause of the consternation—and it was no trivial one. Two very able and honest English judges (Bayley and Park), on trying a woman for _bigamy_, had decided that, according to the English law, a marriage in a private house, without special licence or in canonical hours, was _void_; and, of course, the woman was acquitted, having been united to her first husband in Ireland without those requisites. Had that decision stood, it would certainly have rendered ninety-nine out of a hundred of the Irish Protestants, men, women, and children—nobility, clergy, and gentry—absolutely illegitimate; it was a very droll mistake of the learned judges, but was on the merciful side of the question before them; was soon amended, and no mischief whatsoever resulted from it:—though it was said that a great number of husbands and wives were extremely _disappointed_ at the judges altering their decision. I seldom saw any couple married in church in Ireland; and in former times the ceremony was generally performed between dinner and supper, when people are supposed to be vastly more in love with each other than in the middle of the day.

Captain Tennyson Edwards subsequently ran away with the kind-hearted Jenny, and in three or four years after, married one of the prettiest of my six sisters. He was one of the drollest fellows in the world on some occasions, and had once nearly ended his days similarly (though more vulgarly) to the traditional catastrophe of the Duke of Clarence in the Tower. He persuaded a very comely dairy-maid, at Old Court, that if she would not abscond with him, he should end his life in despair; and she would, in the eye of Heaven, be guilty of his _murder_: and to convince her of his fixed determination to commit suicide for love of her, he put his head into a very high churn of butter-milk, which was standing in the dairy—when, the floor being slippery, his feet gave way, and he pounced down, head-foremost and feet upward, clean into the churn; and had not the gardener been at hand on the instant, he would have expired by the most novel mode of extermination on record.

THE LAST OF THE GERALDINES.

Principles of domestic government discussed—How to rule a husband—Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle—Brings her son to see his father hanged by the Cahills—Enjoins him to revenge the outrage—Peculiar methods of impressing the injunction on the boy’s memory—He grows to manhood—Mysterious disappearance of four of the Cahills—Mr. Jemmy Corcoran—Way of identifying a skeleton—Father Doran, and his _spiritual_ theory—Squire Stephen Fitzgerald the son, and Squire Stephen Fitzgerald the grandson, of Elizabeth—Education, marriage, and personal description of the latter—The several members of his family described—Tom, the heir-apparent—A short life and a merry one—Jack, his successor—Moret Castle in its modern state—Miss Dolly Fitzgerald, and her sister Fanny—their respective merits—Matrimonial speculations—Curious family discussion as to the attractions of _hung_ meat, &c.

In the early part of my life, the system of domestic government and family organization was totally different from that at present in vogue. The patriarchal authority was then frequently exercised with a rigour which, in days of degenerate relaxation, has been converted into a fruitful subject for even dramatic ridicule. In Ireland, the “rule of the patriarchs” has become nearly extinguished. New lights have shone upon the rising generation; the “rights of women” have become a statute law of society; and the old, wholesome word _obedience_ (by which all wives and children were formerly influenced) has been reversed, by prefacing it with the monosyllable _dis_.

“Every body is acquainted,” said an intimate friend of mine to his wife, in my presence, “with the ruinous state of obstinacy and contradiction raging in modern times among the subordinate members of families throughout the United Kingdom; as if the word _united_ were applied to the empire only to satirise the _dis_united habits, manners, politics, religion, and morality of its population. There are,” continued he, “certain functions that must be exercised every day (two or three times a day _if possible_) by persons of all descriptions, who do not wish to leave this world within a week at the very latest; but, unless on the absolute necessity of mastication for purposes of self-support, I am not aware of any other subject respecting which unanimity of opinion is even affected among the individuals of any family throughout the country.”

The wife nodded assent, but spake not:—first, because she hated all controversy; and second, because though, on the subject of domestic supremacy, she was always sure of getting the worst of the argument, she contented herself with having, beyond doubt, the best of the practice.[50]

Footnote 50:

Mrs. Mary Morton, of Ballyroan, a very worthy domestic woman, told me, many years since, that she had but one way of ruling her husband, which, as it is rather a novel way, and may be of some use to my fair readers, I will mention in her own words.

“You know,” said Mrs. Morton, “that Tom is most horribly _nice_ in his eating, and _fancies_ that both abundant and good food is _essential_ to his health. Now, when he has been out of temper with me, he is sure of having a very _bad_ dinner; if he grumbles, I tell him that whenever he puts me into a _twitter_ by his _tantrums_, I always _forget_ to give the cook proper directions. This is sure,” added she, “of keeping him in good humour for a week at least!”

My friend’s observations were, I think, just. In my time the change has been excessive; and to enable my readers to form a better judgment of the matter, I will lay before them a few authentic anecdotes of rather antique dates.

In volume one I mentioned the illustrious exploits of my great-aunt, Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle, and the heroic firmness wherewith she bore the afflicting view of my great-uncle Stephen, her husband, “dancing upon nothing” (as the Irish phrase it) at the castle-gate, immediately under the battlements; and though it is _possible_ there may exist some modern ladies who might have sufficient self-possession to look on a similar object without evincing those signs of inconsolability natural to be expected on such an occasion, yet, I will venture to say, few are to be found who, like my aunt Elizabeth, would risk their lives and property rather than accept of a _second_ husband. Nor do I believe that, since the patriarchal government has been revolutionised by the unnatural rebellion of wives and children, there has existed one lady—young, old, or middle-aged, in the three kingdoms, who could be persuaded to imitate the virtuous gentoos, and voluntarily undergo conflagration with her departed lord and master.

My great-uncle had a son born unto him by his magnanimous spouse, who was very young, and in the castle at the time his father was _corded_ (_Hibernice_). Elizabeth led him to the castle top, and showing him his dangling parent, cried, “See there! you were born a Geraldine; the blood of that noble race is in you, my boy! See—see the sufferings of your own father! Never did a _true_ Geraldine forgive an enemy! I perceive your little face gets flushed:—you tremble; ay, ay, ’tis for _revenge_! Shall a Cahill live?”

“No, mother, no! when I’m able, I’ll kill them _all_! I’ll kill all the Cahills myself!” cried the lad, worked on by the fury of his respectable mother.

“That’s my dear boy!” said Elizabeth, kissing him fervently. “Shall _one_ live?”

“No, mother, not one,” replied the youngster.

“Man, woman, or child?” pursued the heroine.

“Neither man, woman, nor child,” echoed her precocious son.

“You are a Geraldine,” repeated Elizabeth. “Call the priest,” added she, turning to a warder.

“He made a little too free, my lady mistress,” said the warder, “and is not very fitting for duty, saving your presence;—but he’ll soon sleep it off.”

“Bring him up, nevertheless,” cried Elizabeth:—“I command you to bring up his reverence.”

The priest was accordingly _produced_ by Keeran Karry. “Father,” said the lady, “where’s your manual?”

“Where should it be,” _answered_ the priest (rather sobered), “but where it always is, lady?” pulling, as he spake, a book out of a pocket in the waistband of his breeches, where (diminished and under the name of a _fob_) more modern clergymen carry their watches.[51]

Footnote 51:

The priests then, to render mass _handy_, invariably kept their manual in their breeches with a piece of strong green ribbon (having beads at the end of it) to lug it out by, resembling the chain of a modern buckish parson’s timepiece. They also gave another very extraordinary reason for keeping their manual in their smallclothes—namely, that no _devil_ would presume to come near them when he was sure he should have the _mass_ to encounter before he could get at their carcases.

“Now, your reverence,” said Elizabeth, “we’ll _swear_ the young squire to revenge my poor Stephen, his father, on the Cahills, root and branch, so soon as he comes to manhood. Swear him!—swear him _thrice_!” exclaimed she.

The boy was duly sworn, and the manual reposited in the priest’s smallclothes.

“Now, take the boy down and duck him, head over heels, in the horse-pond!” cried his mother.[52]

Footnote 52:

When it was sought to make a child remember any thing long and circumstantially, it was the custom in Ireland either to _whip_ him three or four times, _duck_ him in cold water, or put him into a bag, with his face only out, and hang it up against a wall for a whole day. Such an extraordinary and undeserved punishment made an impression on the fresh tablet of the youngster’s mind never to be erased.

Young Fitzgerald roared lustily, but was nevertheless well soused, to make him remember his oath the better. This oath he repeated upon the same spot, while his mother lived, on every anniversary of his father’s murder; and it was said by the old tenants, that “young Stephen” (though flourishing in more civilised times) religiously kept the vow as far as he could; and that, so soon as he came into possession of Moret, four of the ablest of the Cahills (by way of a beginning) were _missed_ from the neighbourhood of Timahoe in one night—nobody ever discovering what had become of them; indeed, the fewest words were considered far the safest.

The skeletons of four lusty fellows, however, were afterwards found in clearing out a pit in the Donane colliery, and many persons said they had belonged to the four Cahills from Timahoe; but, as the colliers very sapiently observed, there being no particular marks whereby to distinguish the bones of a Cahill from those of any other “boy,” no one could properly identify them.

A bystander, who had been inspecting the relics, protested, on hearing this remark made, that _he_ could swear to _one_ of the skulls at least (which appeared to have been fractured and trepanned); and he gave a very good reason for this assertion—namely, that it was himself who had “cracked the skull of Ned Cahill, at the fair of Dysart, with a _walloper_, and he knew the said skull ever after. It was between jest and earnest,” continued Jemmy Corcoran, “that I broke his head—all about a game-cock, and be d—d to it! and by the same token, I stood by in great grief at Maryborough, while Doctor Stapleton was twisting a round piece out of Ned Cahill’s skull, and laying a _two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny_[53] (beaten quite thin on the smith’s forge) over the hole, to cover his brains _any way_. The devil a brain in his sconce but I could see plainly; and the said _two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny_ stayed fast under his _wig_ for many a year, till Ned pulled it off (bad luck to it!) to pay for drink with myself at Timahoe! They said he was ever after a little cracked when in his liquor: and I’m right sorry for having act or part in that same fracture, for Ned was a good boy, so he was, and nobody would strike him a stroke on the head at any rate after the _two-and-eight-penny-halfpenny_ was _pledged_ off his skull.”

Footnote 53:

An Irish silver _half-crown_ piece; the difference of English and Irish currency.

Though Mr. Jemmy Corcoran was so confident as to the skull he had fractured, his testimony was not sufficient legally to identify a Cahill, and the four sets of bones being quietly buried at Clapook, plenty of masses, &c. were said for an entire year by Father Cahill, of Stradbally, to get their souls clean out of purgatory; that is, if they were in it, which there was not a _clergy_ in the place would _take on_ to say he was “sartain sure of.”[54]

Footnote 54:

I recollect (at an interval of more than fifty years) Father Doran, of Culmaghbeg, an excellent man, full of humour, and well-informed, putting the _soul_ in the most comprehensible state of personification possible: he said, the _women_ could not understand what the soul was by the old explanations.

“I tell you all, my flock,” said Father Doran, “there’s not a man, woman, or child among you that has not his soul this present minute shut up in his body, waiting for the last judgment, according to his faith and actions. I tell you fairly, that if flesh could be seen through, like a glass window, you might see every one’s soul at the inside of his body peeping out through the ribs, like the prisoners at the jail of Maryborough through their iron bars: and the moment the breath is out of a man or woman, the soul escapes and makes off to be dealt with as it deserves, and that’s the truth;—so say your beads and remember your clergy!”