Attempts at the abduction of heiresses were then of more frequent occurrence than a lover of Ireland could desire. Mr. Froude has made the most of this blot on their civilization, but he has forgotten that such outrages were not in those days peculiar to Ireland. Mrs. Delany relates a flagrant case which came under her immediate notice. Miss MacDermot was a Connaught lady who with her sister had inherited a large estate. They were originally Catholics, but decided on becoming Protestants. Their intention was suspected, and their maternal uncle, whose name was Flinn, asked them to his house to dine, the distance not being so great as to prevent them from returning home in the evening. They had never had a quarrel with this uncle, and could not well refuse the invitation, though they would rather not have gone, the eldest sister having rejected an offer of marriage from Flinn's only son. After dinner they prepared to leave, but the uncle insisted on their remaining for the night. They refused firmly but politely, and were then told that the chaise and servants had gone home, but would return for them the next day. Miss MacDermot was much frightened, but, as they had no redress, she concealed her feelings, and they sat down to cards. While engaged in this way four men with masks rushed into the room. The two sisters made their escape into the next apartment, but were followed by the masked men. One of these seized upon Miss Maria MacDermot, who had hid behind a bed, but when he saw which he had he flung her from him with an oath, saying that she was not the right sister. The portion of the elder being double that of the other explains this ungallant proceeding. Miss MacDermot was then seized and dragged back into the room, where her uncle was still standing by the fire. He took no notice of her tears and entreaties, but allowed her to be forced into the hall, where a crowd of Flinn's friends and followers were assembled. They set her on a pillion behind the principal mask. She was a tall, strong woman, and struggled so violently that she succeeded in getting off the horse. While they were endeavoring to put her back again, she managed to get the sword of one of the men, for they were all armed with swords and bludgeons. Then, like a true Amazon,
Her back against a tree she bore,
And firmly placed her foot before,
and defended herself for some time, till one of the gang ran a sword up her arm from her wrist to her elbow, and obliged her to drop her weapon. Being no longer able to resist between extreme pain and loss of blood, she was taken to a cabin, where the cousin came in with a priest and some others. The priest told her that if she submitted to the ceremony of marriage with Mr. Flinn, she should be treated with kindness and respect. She declared she would rather die than marry one who had been guilty of such outrageous conduct. They tried to force the ring on her finger, and the priest was proceeding with the ceremony when the lady seized a jug of milk which stood on a table near and dashed it in the face of "His Reverence." Some of the party coming in gave the alarm to Flinn, saying in a whisper that the country was raised and in pursuit of them. More messengers came to confirm the news. The lady's arm was still bleeding profusely, and they carried her out and plunged her up to the shoulder in a bog, two men being left to guard her. This singular treatment stopped the bleeding, but, though she was soon rescued, she remained twenty-one days in great pain and danger. Her sister had previously escaped in time to give the alarm. Some months after they came to Dublin and read their recantation in Dr. Delany's church.
Miss MacDermot's courage was certainly admirable, but it must be admitted that Mr. Flinn was not without his share of the same quality. Few men in these degenerate times would care to have so brave a wife. Indeed, some of these Irish dames were quite capable of defending both their rights and their privileges against assailants belonging to what is called the "stronger sex." Sir Jonah Barrington's great-aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzgerald, and her husband held the castle of Moret against the O'Cahils, who claimed it as having been originally theirs and taken from them by another Elizabeth, the queen of England. They were repulsed with much slaughter, but Squire Fitzgerald had the imprudence to venture outside the walls, and was carried off by the survivors of the hostile faction. They approached the castle again with their prisoner, and one of the party, exhibiting a white cloth on a pike, came forward: "I'm a truce, my lady. Look here!" (showing the terrified squire): "we have your husband in hault: yees have yer castle sure enough. Now we'll change, if you please: we'll render the squire, and you'll render the keep; and if yees won't do that same, the squire will be throttled before your two eyes in half an hour."—"Flag of truce," said the heroine with due dignity and without the slightest hesitation, "mark the words of Elizabeth Fitzgerald of Moret Castle: they may answer for your own wife upon some future occasion. Flag of truce, I won't render my keep, and I'll tell you why: Elizabeth Fitzgerald may get another husband, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald may never get another castle; so I'll keep what I have; and if you can't get off faster than your legs can readily carry you, my warders will try which is the hardest—your skull or a stone bullet." It were too long a story to relate how this Irish Penelope, unsustained by the hope of the return of her Ulysses, inasmuch as she had seen him hanged before her eyes, defended her castle and her liberty against all the neighboring squires, who had agreed to decide by lot which should carry her off. Nearly every one of them had previously tried to persuade her to accept his hand, the proposal being made by "flag of truce," till at length she threatened to hang the next messenger.
These events took place in 1690. Later on, such women as Elizabeth Fitzgerald became more rare, but there is one noted example of womanly daring which must not be passed over. The celebrated "Lady Freemason" confronted the terrors of a Masonic lodge, and, unlike our mother Eve, the forbidden knowledge has brought no evil consequences on her posterity, who continue to be reckoned among the most estimable and most respected families of the county of Cork. The Hon. Elizabeth St. Leger, daughter to Lord Doneraile, was descended from Robert de St. Leger, who accompanied William the Conqueror to England, and cousin to the General St. Leger who instituted the Doncaster St. Leger race. When a young girl she was seized with a desire to see the mysteries of the initiation of a Mason which were about to be celebrated at her father's house. The generally-received tradition is that she concealed herself behind a large old-fashioned eight-day clock, but another version of the story is that some alterations being in progress, she picked a brick out of the partition which divided the room occupied by the Masons from the adjoining apartment. However this may be, the young lady got frightened and attempted to escape, but was detected by the Mason on guard. Her life was spared, it is said, at the intercession of her brother, but on condition of her becoming a member. She afterward married Richard Aldworth of Newmarket, and lived and died much respected. On public occasions she walked at the head of the Freemasons wearing the apron and insignia of the order. Her portrait in this attire is in the lodge-rooms of several Irish lodges and also in the family mansion of the Aldworths. This family is of English descent, and settled in the north-west of the county of Cork, where an ancestor of theirs got a grant of land from James I. They patronized Curran's father, and appointed him seneschal of their manor of Newmarket, in which town the great wit and patriot was born.
The remarkable prevalence of dueling, which rose in Ireland to almost an insane height toward the end of the eighteenth century, had at least the good effect of encouraging a chivalrous feeling toward women, who thenceforward depended on their male relatives and friends for protection. It is said that if any gentleman presumed to pass between a lady and the wall in walking the streets of Dublin, he was considered as offering a personal affront to her escort, and if the parties wore swords, as was then customary, the first salutation to the offender was usually "Draw, sir!" However, such affairs mostly ended in an apology to the lady for inadvertence. But if a man ventured to intrude into the boxes of the theatre in his surtout or boots or with his hat on, it was regarded as a general insult to every lady present, and he had little chance of escaping without a shot or a thrust before the following night. It must be confessed that this species of punctiliousness was carried too far. Some say that dueling reached to such an extravagant pitch in Ireland because the Protestant gentry were a garrison in a hostile country, and were obliged to cultivate familiarity with the means of defence. It is possible that this state of affairs may have originally led to the remarkable prevalence of the custom, for when such transactions as that between Mr. Morris and Arthur O'Leary were of frequent occurrence, there must have been much to provoke the bitterest enmity. Nevertheless, it would seem that there was really a good deal in the practice to warrant the old saying that "the English fight for liberty, the French for glory and the Irish for fun." A gentleman who is said to have been one of the most humane men existing quieted his little son in this wise when the child was crying for something: "Come, now, do be a good boy. Come, now, don't cry, and I'll give you a case of nice little pistols to-morrow. Come, now, don't cry, and we'll shoot them all in the morning."—"Yes, yes," responded the child, drying his little eyes and delighted at the notion—"Yes, we'll shoot them all in the morning." In the regulations for dueling, called in Galway the "Thirty-six Commandments," one of the rules laid down was that when the seconds disagreed and resolved to exchange shots, they should stand at right angles with the principals and all fire together. A duel of this nature took place near Glinsk, the seat of Sir J. Bourke, between that gentleman and a Mr. Bodkin, when the old family steward and other servants brought out the son, then a child, and held him on men's shoulders to see papa fight! Professed duelists were called "fire-eaters," and the first two questions always asked as to a young gentleman's respectability and qualifications, particularly when he proposed for a wife, were, "What family is he of? Did he ever blaze?"
A Mr. Bagenal in the county Carlow, called King Bagenal from his absolute sway within his extensive territories, was a polished gentleman of Norman race. He used to have a brace of pistols laid before him on the dinner-table, and when the claret was brought in after dinner—which was always in an unbroached cask—Bagenal tapped it with a bullet from one pistol, and kept the other in terrorem for any of his guests who should fail to do justice to the liquor. Some pigs belonging to a neighboring gentleman having strayed into his flower-garden, Bagenal had them docked of ears and tails, sending these trophies to the gentleman with an intimation that the owner merited a like punishment. The gentleman, who had only recently settled there, sent him a challenge, which he accepted with alacrity, stipulating, however, that as he was nearly eighty, he should fight sitting in his arm-chair. The duel was fought in this strange fashion: Bagenal wounded his antagonist, but escaped unhurt himself.
Barristers who were good shots were retained at elections as "fighting" counsel. A lawyer of this stamp, having conducted an election more peaceably than his wont, was asked why he acted contrary to his usual custom. He answered coolly, "Because my client does not pay me fighting price." It was not usual for the Irish bar or the Irish members of Parliament to calculate in this way when a chance of "blazing" was in question. Mr. Toler, afterward Lord Norbury of punning celebrity, had some words with Sir Jonah Barrington. They left the House to settle the dispute outside, but the Speaker, perceiving them, sent the sergeant-at-arms with his attendants to bring them back. They caught Toler just as the skirts of his coat had become so entangled in a door-handle that they were torn completely off. Sir Jonah, resisting the sergeant's satellites, was caught up by one of them, brought back like a sack of meal on the man's shoulders, and thrown down in the body of the House. The Speaker required them both to pledge their honor that the matter should end there. When Toler rose to reply the dilapidated condition of his coat became apparent, upon which Curran stood up and said gravely that "it was the most unparalleled insult ever offered to the House, as it appeared that one honorable member had trimmed another honorable member's jacket within those walls, and nearly within view of the Speaker."
The incessant play of wit and drollery then animating the Irish capital has perhaps never had a parallel in any society. The House and the bar were both overflowing with it. When the dull, matter-of-fact Lord Redesdale first came over to take the position of lord chancellor, he felt some curiosity as to the reputation of the latter for these qualities which had reached his ears in England. At one of his first dinners to the judges and higher law-officers he found himself unable to see any wit, or perhaps any meaning, in Toler's jests, and turning to another barrister, Mr. Garrat O'Farrell, he said that he believed his name and family were very numerous and reputable in the county of Wicklow, as he had met several of them in his late tour there. "Yes, my lord," said O'Farrell, "we were very numerous, but so many of us have been lately hanged for sheepstealing that the name is getting rather scarce in that county." This reply reduced his lordship to silence, and it was probably some time before he made up his mind as to whether he had really been associating with law-breakers of so disreputable a class. Mr. Plunket afterward puzzled Lord Redesdale still more when arguing a cause in chancery. The question was about "flying kites" (fictitious bills). His lordship took the word literally, and declared he did not understand the matter. "It is not to be expected that you should, my lord," said Plunket, "for in England the wind raises the kite, but in Ireland the kite raises the wind." The lord chancellor was no wiser than before, and the counsel was obliged to have recourse to a less metaphorical explanation.
So late as the time of the Union old Irish families lived in the way described by De Ounce. When a lad of fifteen he visited Ireland with his young friend Lord Westport. He was even then a keen observer, and his remarks on the Irish nobility of that date are worthy of attention. He first notices that the tardiness and difficulty of communication, the want of newspapers, etc., must in those times have kept the provinces two or three generations in the rear of the metropolis, and accordingly the old Irish rural nobility stood in this relation to English manners and customs. The houses were often large and rambling, in the style of antique English manorial chateaux, ill-planned as regarded convenience and economy, with long winding galleries and innumerable windows, but displaying in the dwelling-rooms a comfort and "coziness," combined with a magnificence, not always so effectually attained in modern times. "Here were old libraries, old butlers and old customs that seemed to belong to the era of Cromwell, or even an earlier era than his; whilst the ancient names, to one who had some acquaintance with the great events of Irish history, often strengthened the illusion." In fact, the aristocracy of Ireland was divided into two sections—the native Irish, who were territorial fixtures, and those who spent so much of their time and revenues at Bath, Cheltenham, Weymouth, London, etc. as to have become almost entirely English. It was the former whom De Quincey saw most of, and though they lived in the amplest comfort and exercised the most unbounded hospitality, still they were greatly behind the English commercial gentry as to modern refinements of luxury. There was at the same time a strength of character and a raciness of manner which could not fail to interest and impress a stranger. Although there was much sterling worth to be found in this class, a high-handed lawlessness broke out now and then. Doubtless, a daily familiarity with the wrongs perpetrated under cover of the penal laws undermined their natural sense of justice. A remarkable instance of the tyranny sometimes practiced occurred in a family well known to the writer. A gentleman rented several hundred acres of land from the earl of B——, a nobleman whose title is now extinct. The tenant exercised some right that was permitted by the terms of his lease, which had been granted by the former owner of the estate. Lord B——, who was a haughty and irascible man, disputed the right, and the tenant came with his lease in his pocket to explain the matter. It was winter, and there was a large fire in the room. Lord B—— asked to see the lease, and when he got it into his hands suddenly thrust it into the middle of the fire, near which he stood. He then told the gentleman that he would continue to let him hold half the land, but that he had another tenant for the rest. As there were no witnesses to the transaction except Lord B—— and the tenant, and the law's delays are always in favor of the rich, the gentleman thought it better to submit. It is believed that a sum of money had been paid on receiving the lease, which made the proceeding the more unjust.