In the year 1791, George Hartpole, of Shrewl Castle, Queen’s County, Ireland, had just come of age. He was the last surviving male of that name, which belonged to a popular family, highly respectable, and long established in the county. Few private gentlemen commenced life with better promise, and none better merited esteem and happiness. He was my relative by blood; and though considerably younger, the most intimate and dearest friend I had.
His father, Robert, had married a sister of the late and present Earls of Aldborough. She was the mother of George; and through this connexion originated my intercourse with that eccentric nobleman and his family.
A singular fatality had attended the Hartpole family from time immemorial. The fathers seldom survived the attainment of the age of 23 years by their elder sons, which circumstance gave rise to numerous traditionary tales of sprites and warnings.[[12]]
[12]. The country authorities were very wise, very grave, and very grim on this subject; but, after all, I suspect the most natural way of accounting for the fatality alluded to is, that the old gentlemen were commonly among the hardest livers in the country, and consequently, the gout was certain to be their companion, and generally their executioner.
If wood be kept alternately in and out of moisture, it rots soon:—if it is always in water, it never decays. A man’s constitution and rum-punch may to a degree resemble wood and water in this respect. The hardest incessant drinkers I ever recollect lived to a great age, were generally healthy, and usually made their exit, at last, by apoplexy, without troubling either doctor, parson, or apothecary: while, on the contrary, most of those who were only intermitting boozers, died much earlier; their finisher being, nine times out of ten, gout in the head or stomach: a cause, however, occasionally varied by a broken neck by a fall from a horse, when riding home from a housewarming, or drowning in a ditch, whilst watering their horses after the dogh à dourish. A few were smothered in shaking bogs, whilst attending the turf-cutters, &c. &c.
It required at least three days and nights incessant hard going to kill a drinker of the first class. It cost Squire Luke Flood of Roundwood, a place situated in Queen’s County, five days and nights hard working at port before he could finish either himself or the piper. Old Squire Lewis Moor of Cremorgan died, by way of variety, at seventy-six, of a violent passion, because his wife became jealous of his proceedings with the kitchen-maid. A few died of Drogheda usquebaugh, and several of sore ancles. I recollect, in fact, many of the most curious deaths and burials in Ireland that ever took place in any country under heaven. None of them were considered as being melancholy events, since every hard going squire then generally took his full turn in this world, and died by some coup de grace, as stated: however, he was commonly regretted by all his acquaintance and family, except his eldest son.
Robert, as usual with the gentlemen of his day, was the dupe of agents, and the victim of indolence and hospitality. He had deposited his consort in the tomb of her fathers, and had continued merrily enjoying the convivialities of the world (principally in the night-time) till his son George had passed his 22nd year, and then punctually made way for the succession, leaving George inheritor of a large territory, a moderate income, a tattered mansion, an embarrassed rent-roll, and a profound ignorance (without the consciousness of it) of business in all departments.
George, though not at all handsome, had completely the mien and manners of a gentleman. His features accorded well with his address, bespeaking the cordiality of a friend and the ardour of an Irishman. His disposition was mild—his nature brave, generous, and sincere: on some occasions he was obstinate and peevish; on others, somewhat sullen and suspicious; but in his friendships, George Hartpole was immutable.