The scene may be imagined;—but its results had like to have been of a more serious nature. The sportsman and the boys were ordered to get off as fast as they could; but my grandfather and grandmother were held to heavy bail, and tried at the ensuing assizes at Galway. The evidence of the entire company, however, united in proving that my grandmother never had an idea of any such order, and that it was a misapprehension on the part of the servants. They were, of course, acquitted. The sportsman never re-appeared in the county till after the death of Dennis Bodkin, which took place three years subsequently, when old Gahagan was reinstated as game-keeper.
This anecdote may give the reader an idea of the devotion of servants, in those days, to their masters. But the order of things is reversed—and the change of times cannot be better illustrated than by the propensity servants now have to rob (and, if convenient, murder) the families from whom they derive their daily bread. Where the remote error lies, I know not; but certainly the ancient fidelity of domestics seems to be totally out of fashion with those gentry at present.
A more recent instance of the same feeling as that indicated by the two former anecdotes,—namely, the devotion of the country people to old settlers and families,—occurred to myself; and, as I am upon the subject, I will mention it. I stood a contested election, in the year 1790, for the borough of Ballynakill, for which my ancestors had returned two members to Parliament during nearly 200 years. It was usurped by the Marquis of Drogheda, and I contested it.
On the day of the election, my eldest brother and myself being candidates, and the business preparing to begin, a cry was heard that the whole colliery was coming down from Donane, about eight miles off. The returning officer, Mr. Trench, lost no time: six voters were polled against me; mine were refused generally in mass; the books were repacked, and the result of the poll declared—the election ended, and my opponents just retiring from the town,—when seven or eight hundred colliers were seen entering it with colours flying and pipers playing; their faces were all blackened, and a more tremendous assemblage was scarce ever witnessed. After the usual shoutings, they all rushed into the town with loud cries of “A Barrinton! a Barrinton! Who dares say black is the white of his eye? Down with the Droghedas!—We don’t forget Ballyragget yet!—Oh, cursed Sandy Cahill!—High for Donane!” &c.
The chief captain came up to me:—“Counsellor, dear!” said he, “we’re all come from Donane to help your honour against the villains that oppose you:—we’re the boys that can tittivate!—Barrinton for ever! hurra!”—Then coming close to me, and lowering his tone, he added,—“Counsellor, jewel! which of the villains shall we settle first?”
To quiet him, I shook his black hand, told him nobody should be hurt, and that the gentlemen had all left the town.
“Left the town?” said he, quite disappointed: “Why then, counsellor, we’ll be after overtaking them. Barrinton for ever!—Donane, boys!—Come on, boys! we’ll be after the Droghedas.”
I feared that I had no control over the riotous humour of the colliers, and knew but one mode of keeping them quiet. I desired Billy Howard, the innkeeper, to bring out all the ale he had; and having procured many barrels in addition, together with all the bread and cheese in the place, I set them at it as hard as might be. I told them I was sure of being elected in Dublin, and “to stay azy” (their own language); and in a little time I saw them as tractable as lambs. They made a bonfire in the evening, and about ten o’clock I left them as happy and merry a set of colliers as ever existed. Such as were able strolled back in the night; the others next morning; and not the slightest injury was done to any body or any thing.
The above was a totally unexpected and voluntary proof of the disinterested and ardent attachment of the Irish country people to all who they thought would protect or procure them justice.[[13]]