Would that I could do justice to his courtesy, his dignity of mind, his humility, his simplicity, his learning, his piety; but his setting sun only irradiated my path during my childhood. His habits I well remember. Till fourscore years of age he rose at six, lighted his own fire, was temperate even to abstemiousness, never tasting any but the plainest food; was strictly attentive to every religious exercise, public and private; was polite and hospitable, receiving frequently large companies, from whom he retired to his study when they sat down to cards; and on every Sunday inviting a numerous party of clergymen and officers to an early dinner, which admitted of attending divine service in the evening. He was always employed in his study in the intervals of meals; but though apparently engrossed by his pen and his books, never showed the slightest impatience of interruption, whether from the claims of society or of indigence. An airing, or a short walk to look at his pines, grapes, or melons, was to him sufficient relaxation; and, as his deafness precluded him from enjoying general conversation, he had peculiar pleasure in a private interview with those he loved or esteemed. His courtesy was specially that of Christianity, more solicitous to avoid offending the poor and low than the rich and great. I have seen him receive an old woman who asked alms in the street, and a young one who came to solicit a recommendation to the Magdalen Asylum, with all the politeness of a courtier, and all the respect of a supplicant. His green old age, always serene, and often cheerful, was wholly exempt from ennui, listlessness, or any dispiriting complaint.
He was so attached to his diocese of Waterford, that when offered, while Lord Townsend was Viceroy, the Archbishopric of Dublin, he refused to leave ‘his children.’ In his diocese he was beloved as a father, and honoured wherever known. Dr. Woodward, on being made a bishop, went to entreat his blessing, received it with reverence, and often spoke of the feelings of that moment with tears in his eyes. Dr. Law, when Bishop of Killaloe, pronounced in the House of Lords an eloquent and animated eulogium on his virtues many years after his death.
His love for literature tinctured perhaps too strongly the system he formed for my education. He condemned ornamental accomplishments, lest they should seduce me from severer studies; and insensibly books became my business and my only pleasure. At seven years old, after reading Rollin as a task, I turned to Shakspeare and Molière as an amusement; and though debarred from most of the enjoyments of my age, was happy while in my grandfather’s presence. When absent from him, I longed for young companions, unrestrained exercise, childish sports, and fresh air; for I was deprived of all these from an excess of care and apprehension for my health. My grandfather’s having survived all his children and grandchildren, rendered him so timid with regard to my preservation, that his good understanding in this single instance had not fair play; and I was brought up with so much delicacy that nothing but naturally a strong constitution and uncommon high spirits could have saved my life. I was thus bred up in ignorance of all modern accomplishments—no music, no drawing, no needlework, except occasionally for the poor; no dancing, except the ‘sweet austere composure’ of the minuet, which was admitted as favourable to grace and deportment.
My grandfather, called to his rest and his reward while I was yet a child, left an impression of love and reverence never to be erased from the hearts of those who witnessed the daily beauty of his life; least of all from mine; and perhaps I owe to the strength of this first attachment a tenderness for declining age, a power of understanding its language, and a pleasure in anticipating its wants and wishes, which have accompanied me through life.
The Bishop’s death took place in 1779, when therefore the writer of these recollections was eleven years old. After that happy year spent under Lady Lifford’s roof, and already described, it was the wish of her maternal grandfather, Archdeacon Gervais, that she should reside with him; and this she continued to do till she had completed her eighteenth year.
Early in her nineteenth she was married to Colonel St. George, of Carrick-on-Shannon, Ireland, and of Hatley St. George, Cambridgeshire. Here, again, a fragment of considerable length has reached my hands, which I quote:—
On the last day of October, 1786, at the age of eighteen, I entered into the arduous duties of a wife. The moment the ceremony was performed we set out to Dangan, a seat lent to us by Lord Mornington, as neither Mr. St. George nor his father had ever lived on the family estate; consequently he had no country-house fit for my reception. The old mansion covered a large extent of ground, in the midst of a very fine park. Without, it had every appendage of ancient magnificence; within, every article of modern luxury. Here we lived for some time—I, in a kind of pleasing dream, which every particularity in my situation served to increase. My husband’s excessive fondness, a constant succession of young and gay society, the ‘chimera of independence,’ successive amusements, and late hours, left no moment for recollection. About two months after our marriage we invited, for a Christmas party, the Duke and Duchess of Rutland, with the suite that attended him as Lord-Lieutenant: Lord Westmeath, Lord Fitzgibbon, General Pitt, General Conynghame, some of the prettiest women, and a group of the gayest young men. I thought myself in Elysium for half the first week; but the charm was soon broken, and I grew weary of turning night into day for no obvious reason, as all hours in the twenty-four were equally free from interruption, of listening to the double entendres of Mrs. —— and Lady ——, and of playing commerce with a party of women impatient for the hour of eleven, which usually brought the men in a state very unfit for the conversation or even the presence of our sex.
Under these impressions I accompanied the same party to Lord ——’s, where I wrote a letter to Miss Chenevix, expressing my opinion of the society I was engaged in. This letter lay on the table while I retired to dress. —— —— and —— ——, who examined all my words and actions with the strictest scrutiny, each hinted a desire to know the contents. This inclination, in the more polished mind of the latter, would have died away, had it not been encouraged by the daring spirit of the former, who, collecting several of the female party, proposed as an agreeable frolic that action from which honour and principle alike recoil. The moment she obtained a half consent and a promise of secresy, she heated her penknife and raised the seal. Pause a moment and consider the group—agitated with a fear of discovery, conscious of being each in the power of the rest; one, mistress of the house, acting in direct violation of the laws of hospitality; another, condemned to read aloud the just censure of her own behaviour; a third, stung with resentment at a charge she could never refute without a confession of her own baseness; a fourth, in silent expectation of being held up to view in the light she deserved;—all trembling with apprehension, ill disguised under bitter smiles and affected indifference. As soon as they had finished reading, they re-sealed the letter, committed it to the post, vented their rage against its author, and reiterated promises of secresy. These promises were kept like most others of the same nature. One of the ladies confessed all to her lover—that lover betrayed her to his friend—that friend imparted the secret to Mr. St. George, and he disclosed it to me. I felt no great resentment, particularly when I recollected that the fault was attended with its own punishment, even in the moment of commission; and I ever after behaved to the fair culprits with distant civility, though I never renewed with any one of them the slightest degree of intimacy. From the public they met with less indulgence. They were blamed, ridiculed, and even lampooned.
From Dangan I removed to Dublin in the ensuing spring, and from Dublin to Cork, where Mr. St. George’s regiment was quartered. But these changes made no alteration in our mode of life. As I rose late, I never found an hour in the day unoccupied, either by his society, by dressing, visiting public places, consultations with the milliner, receiving company at home, or fulfilling my engagements abroad. Every study, every accomplishment were laid aside. I never opened a book except while my hair was dressing. I never touched a note, except when asked to play by St. George. On domestic arrangements I never bestowed a thought; what was our income, and what our expense, I was equally ignorant. Scarcely could I find a moment to write to those I most loved. Both my temper and my taste would soon have been spoiled by this disposal of my time. Nothing is so quickly lost as the habit of occupation, which, till now, I had always in some degree maintained; now it was totally extinct. The injury my taste received from a recurrence of frivolous pursuits and the absence of reflection was still more evident; for I saw the Lakes of Killarney about seven months after our marriage, with an indifference to its beauties I surely could not have experienced either before or since.
Soon after, however, an event occurred which awakened all my dormant sensibilities, and conferred on me the purest happiness I had ever tasted. I had not long attained my nineteenth year, when I became a mother. The delight of that moment would counterbalance the miseries of years. When I looked in my boy’s face, when I heard him breathe, when I felt the pressure of his little fingers, I understood the full force of Voltaire’s declaration:—