Trinity College, a miser, Whately, Charles Lever.

Chapter VI

The pleasures of coaching - I enter at Trinity College, Dublin - A miser Fellow: Anecdotes about - Whately, Archbishop of Dublin, and his legs - The vocative of cat - Charles Lever’s retort - Courteous to the Bishop.

Travelling in those days - sixty years ago - was an affair very different from what it now is. The journey from Limerick to Dublin, a distance of 120 miles, was a serious undertaking. If you wanted a seat inside the coach, you had to secure it three or four days beforehand; if outside, a day or two before the day on which you meant to travel. The day coach, which carried 17 passengers, four inside and 13 out, nominally performed the journey in 14 hours, but practically took two hours more. The night mail, which was very punctual, did it in 12 hours; it carried only eight passengers, four outside and four in. Of the outside travellers, one sat on the box beside the coachman, and three on the seat behind him. The back of the coach was occupied by the mail-bags and the guard, or guards (there were sometimes two), who were armed with brass- barrelled blunderbusses and pistols to guard the mails, as the mail-coaches were occasionally attacked and robbed. The coach was comparatively small, and, with people of any size, it was a tight fit to squeeze four into it. As soon as the four unhappy passengers were seated, and had put on their night-caps, the first thing was to arrange their legs so as to incommode each other as little as possible; the next was to settle which of the windows was to be open, and how much of it. This was seldom settled without a good deal of bickering and dispute. The box-seat which was the favourite in the day coach, was least sought for in the mail; and rightly so, for it was hard to keep awake all night, and if you fell asleep, you couldn’t lean back - there was nothing to lean on; the box-seat had no back. If you leant to the right, you fell against the coachman, who awoke you with a shove, and requested you would not do that again; if you did it again, he gave you a harder shove, and used some strong language. If you leant to your left, you did it at your peril; the low rail at the side of the seat could not prevent your falling off; it was only about four inches high. How often have I wakened with a start, when I was all but over, resolved to sleep no more. Vain resolution! In 10 minutes I was fast asleep again, again to be awakened with another frightful start; and so on for the greater part of the night. A few years later, when I had constantly to travel by night, I adopted the device of strapping myself to the seat with a strong leather strap.

Besides the two I have mentioned, there was a third, the Birr coach, so called because it broke the journey at the town of Birr, now called Parsonstown from the family name of Lord Rosse, whose fine demesne and castle adjoin the town. This coach took two days to perform the journey, and was on that account much patronized by ladies, children, and invalids, for whom the long day’s journey in the day coach was too fatiguing. It was a fine roomy vehicle, carrying six inside.

It was by this coach that most of our party made our journey from Abington to Dublin. My father, with my brother, had started a day or two before the rest of the family, to have things ready for us in Dublin. We followed - my mother, my sister, a cousin who had been staying with us, and myself -inside the coach, with a lady and gentleman whom we did not know. On the outside were my mother’s maid, a man-servant, 15 other passengers, and a huge pile of luggage on the roof. We got to Birr in time for supper, and had to be up at five next morning, as the coach was to resume its journey at six. It was pitchy dark and snowing thickly when we started. About four miles from Birr the road passes through a bog. As there was about seven inches of snow on the ground, it was not easy for the coachman to see the edge of the road distinctly. He went too much to one side, the off wheels went into a hollow, and in an instant over went the coach on its side. The outside passengers were flung into the bog, but were saved from injury by the softness of the snow and turf - none of them were hurt; while we inside had our hands and faces cut by the broken glass of the windows.

After walking a mile we reached a cabin, whose inmates entertained us till the coach was put upon its legs again, fresh harness brought from Birr, and the luggage repacked. It was nearly four hours before we were on the road again, and we arrived five hours behind our time in Dublin. This kind of mishap was not uncommon in the good old coaching days.

During our residence in Dublin, my brother and I entered Trinity College, where we subsequently took our degrees; but our names being on the country list, we were enabled for the greater part of the year to live at Abington, only coming up periodically to the examinations in the University.

Some years previously one of the Fellows, Doctor Barrett, better known as Jackey Barrett, a remarkable character, had died. He had. been equally famous as a miser and a Hebrew scholar. Of him many a story was told, well known then to the students. Many of them are now forgotten, and some at least will, I hope, be new to my readers. He had never, it was said, but once been out of Dublin, rarely outside the College gates. He dined at Commons; his only other meal was his breakfast, consisting of a penny loaf and a half pennyworth of milk. Every morning he handed a halfpenny to the old woman who looked after his rooms, and sent her out to buy the milk. One frosty morning she slipped, fell, and broke her leg. She was taken to a hospital, and for once Barrett ventured beyond the College precincts, and went to see her. “Well, Mary,” he said to her, “do you see me now, I suppose the jug is broken, but where is the half-penny?”

As a rule he prefaced everything he said with the words, “Do you see me now.” Having never been in the country, he had scarcely seen a bird, except the sparrows which hopped about the College courts. The only time he was known to have been out of Dublin was when he had been summoned to Naas, in the county of Kildare, to give evidence in some law case. As he stood in the stable-yard of the inn he saw a cock on the opposite side of the yard, and addressed the ostler thus - “My good man, do you see me now, what is that beautiful bird over there?” *

Ostler. *“Ah, go away with you! You know what it is as well as I do.”

*Barrett. *“Indeed I do not; and I’ll be greatly obliged if you’ll tell me.”

*Ostler. *“Ah, get out; you’re a-humbugging me! You know well enough it’s a cock.”

*Barrett. *“Is it, indeed? I thank you exceedingly.”

After his death, in the margin of the page in Buffon’s “Natural History,” where the cock is described, there was found in Barrett’s hand these words: “The ostler was right; it *was *a cock.”

At a discussion at the College Board as to how to get rid of a huge heap of rubbish which lay in the College Park, Barrett suggested that they should dig a hole and bury it.

“But, Doctor Barrett,” said they, “what shall we do with the stuff that comes out of the hole?”

“Do you see me now,” said he; “dig another and bury it.”

One morning when a company of the College corps (volunteers) were being drilled in the College Park, Barrett happened to pass by. To show respect to him, as a Fellow of College, the officer in command gave the word “Present arms!” when to his surprise he saw Barrett tucking up his gown and running away as fast as his legs would carry him. Barrett, on being asked afterwards why he ran away, said, “Well, do you see me now, I beard the officer saying ‘Present!’ and I knew the next word would be ‘Fire!’ and if I didn’t run I’d have been shot.”

At this time he was a great friend of a brother Fellow, Magee, afterwards Bishop of Raphoe, and finally Archbishop of Dublin, who was grandfather of the late Archbishop of York, and was the only person to whom Barrett ever lent money. He wanted a loan of five pounds, and went to see Barrett in his rooms, who agreed to make the loan, went into his bedroom, and returned with an old stocking full of guineas in his hand. Just as he came into the room the stocking burst, and the guineas were scattered on the floor. Magee stooped down to help Barrett to pick them up.

“Stop, stop, Magee!” said he. “Do you see me now, get up and stand on that table, and I’ll pick them up.”

The loan was then made, and Magee left him counting the guineas.

A few days afterwards he met him, and said, “I hope, Barrett, you found your guineas all right?”

“Well, do you see me now,” said Barrett, “they were all right but one. One was gone; and maybe it rolled into a mouse-hole, Magee, and maybe it didn’t.”

He afterwards quarrelled with Magee, and, detesting him as much as he had liked him could not bear to hear his name mentioned. When Magee was made bishop, the other Fellows used to tease Barrett by asking him whether he had beard of Magee’s promotion. On one such occasion he replied-

“No, I haven’t heard of it, and moreover I don’t want to hear of it.”

“Didn’t you hear,” said they, “he has been made Bishop of Raphoe?”

“Do you see me now,” said Barrett “I don’t care if he was made bishop of hell so long as I am not in his lordship’s diocese.”

Barrett was Professor of Hebrew. He was examining a class in the Psalms. One of the students, not knowing his work at all, was prompted by one Dickinson, a good Hebrew scholar, who sat next him, and said aloud -

“And the hills skipped like rams.”

“Yes,” said Barrett, “do you see me, the hills did skip like rams, but it was Dickinson that told you so.”

One evening at a dinner-party at Doctor Elrington’s the conversation turned on Barrett. My father told a story of a gentleman who lived in a part of Dublin far from the College, who, on a very cold snowing night, had sent his son, a young boy, to Doctor Barrett’s for a book which he had promised to lend him. The boy knocked at the door; Barrett came out of his room, in which there was no light, and on hearing what he wanted, went in again, leaving the boy shivering outside. He shortly returned with a book in his hand, and said, “Now, go home with this to your father, tell him I think it is the book he wants, for I think I can put my hand on every book in my library; but if it isn’t, come back, do you see me now, and I’ll light a candle and look for it.” As my father finished, Elrington said, “Mr. Dean, I can vouch for the truth of that story, for I was that boy.”

A student who lived in rooms on the floor below those of Doctor Barrett, and who knew what a miser he was, and that he would walk a mile any day to save or get a halfpenny, got one, bored a hole through it, and tied a long thin thread to it, then laid it on a step of the stairs, half-way between his rooms and Barrett’s, and passed the thread under his own door, through a chink in which he watched for the approach of the doctor. The latter soon emerged from his room, and, as he came down the stairs, espied the halfpenny, and at once stooped to pick it up, when a gentle pull at the string brought it to the next step. There Barrett made another attempt to catch it; again it went to the next step; and so on to the bottom of the fright, eluding every grab the doctor made at it, till, by a sudden chuck at the thread, it disappeared altogethei; passing under the student’s door, while Barrett murmured, “Do you see me now, I never saw such a halfpenny as that!”

It is said that on his death his will was found to contain only the following words:- “I leave every thing I am possessed of to feed the hungry and clothe the naked.” By the most penurious saving he had accumulated a considerable amount of money. Owing to the terms of his will legal difficulties arose as to its disposal, but I believe most of it ultimately went to his poor relations, who were many.

When residing near Dublin my father saw a good deal of Whately, who had recently been appointed Archbishop of Dublin in succession to Magee; he admired and liked him, and was often amused by his eccentricities, one of which was a wonderful way he had of throwing his legs about. The late Chief Justice Doherty told me that at the Privy Council he once put his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief; but instead of it found there the foot of the archbishop, who happened that day to sit next him!

Judge Keogh told me that he was witness of the following scene:- the archbishop had a large Newfoundland dog, of which he was very fond. He often took him into Stephen’s Green, the large square opposite the palace, and there made him jump over a stick, fetch and carry, and do other tricks. One day, when thus engaged, he had just thrown a ball for the dog to fetch, when the following dialogue was heard between two women who were standing at the rails watching him:-

“Ah, then, Mary, do you know who that is playin’ wid the dog?”

*Mary. *“Troth, I don’t, Biddy; but he’s a fine-lookin’ man, whoever he is.”

*Biddy. *“That’s the archbishop, Mary.”

*Mary. *“Do you tell me so? God bless the innocent craythur! Isn’t he aisily amused?”

*Biddy. *“He’s not our archbishop at all, Mary; he is the Protestant archbishop.”

*Mary. *“Oh! the b--- ould fool.”

It is well-known that he gave large sums in charity, but made it a boast that on principle he had never given a farthing to a beggar in the streets. He used to tell of a beggar who followed him asking alms, to whom he said, “Go away; I never give anything to a beggar in the streets.” The beggar replied, “And where would your reverence wish me to wait on you?”

At dinner parties, which he often gave to the clergy in his diocese, he was fond of propounding paradoxes, and as it was well known that he did not like any one to try to explain till he did so himself, it had become the custom not to hazard a remark, until it pleased his Grace to expound. At one of the parties he said in a loud voice, so as to be heard by all his guests, “Is it not strange that there should be no connection between religion and morality ?” The usual silence of awe and curiosity which prevailed was, to the consternation of all, broken by a still louder voice from the lower end of the table, exclaiming, “If your Grace means that there are heathen religions which have no connection with morality, it is a truism; but if your Grace means that there is no connection between the Christian religion and morality, it is false.” The offender was the Rev. John Jellett, a young clergyman, who had recently obtained a Fellowship in Dublin University, of which he was subsequently the distinguished Provost. He told me that it was some years before he was again invited to the palace.

Another time lie asked, “Can any one tell me the vocative of cat?”

“O cat!” suggested a mild curate. “Nonsense,” said the archbishop; “did any one ever say, ‘O cat! come here’? Puss is the vocative.”

Again he asked, “Is there any one here who is interested in ornithology? I ask because I was surprised, as I took a walk in the Phoenix Park today, to see a large number of fieldhares.”

“A very rare bird, your Grace,” said the Rev. Mr. A.

“Not at all, Mr. A.,” said the archbishop, - ” a very common bird indeed; but I was surprised to see them so early in the winter.”

At another dinner party he asked, “Did any of you particularly observe the autumn tints this year?”

“I did, your Grace,” said Mr. B.; “and most lovely they were.”

“On the contrary,” said his Grace, “I thought them about the poorest I ever saw in my life.”

The last time I ever met Charles Lever (Harry Lorrequer) he told me that he and the archbishop, accompanied by two curates, X. and Z., were taking a walk together in the Park, at a time when Whately was much exercised about mushrooms, as to what species were edible and wholesome, and what sorts poisonous. As they walked) along, the archbishop espied and picked up a dreadful looking brown and yellow fungus. “Now, Lever,” he said, “many people might fancy that that is a poisonous fungus, while in reality no better or more wholesome mushroom grows.” He thereupon broke off a bit of it, and handing it to Mr. X., said, “Try a bit, X., and tell us what you think of it.”

“A very nice fungus, indeed, your Grace, and rather sweetish,” said the Rev. Mr. X.

“Here’s a bit for you, Z.; let us have your opinion of it.”

“If it were nicely cooked, your Grace,” said the Rev. Mr. Z., making a very wry face, “with a little salt and butter, it would, I am sure, be delicious,”

Whately then, handing a piece of it to Lever, said, “Here, Lever, try a bit, and say what you think of it.”

“I thank your Grace, I’d rather not,” said he. “‘Tis true I have a brother in the Church, but he is not in your Grace’s diocese.”

To Chapter 7. Le Fanu Index Home.