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.