The Amazing Marriage | Page 6

'O little lass, at play on the grass,
Come earn a silver penny, And you'll be dear to my bold Buccaneer For
news of his Countess Fanny.'
In spite of her bravery, that poor woman suffered!
We used to learn by heart the ballads and songs upon famous events in
those old days when poetry was worshipped.
But Captain Kirby gave provocation enough to both families when he
went among the taverns and clubs, and vowed before Providence over
his big fist that they should rue their interference, and he would carry
off the lady on a day he named; he named the hour as well, they say,
and that was midnight of the month of June. The Levelliers and
Cressetts foamed at the mouth in speaking of him, so enraged they
were on account of his age and his passion for a young woman. As to
blood, the Kirbys of Lincolnshire were quite equal to the Cressetts of
Warwick. The Old Buccaneer seems to have had money too. But you

can see what her people had to complain of: his insolent contempt of
them was unexampled. And their tyranny had roused my lady's high
spirit not a bit less; and she said right out: 'When he comes, I am ready
and will go with him.'
There was boldness for you on both sides! All the town was laughing
and betting on the event of the night in June: and the odds were in
favour of Kirby; for though, Lord Cressett was quite the popular young
English nobleman, being a capital whip and free of his coin, in those
days men who had smelt powder were often prized above titles, and the
feeling, out of society, was very strong for Kirby, even previous to the
fight on the heath. And the age of the indomitable adventurer must
have contributed to his popularity. He was the hero of every song.
"'What's age to me!" cries Kirby; "Why, young and fresh let her be, But
it 's mighty better reasoned For a man to be well seasoned, And a man
she has in me," cries Kirby.'
As to his exact age:
"'Write me down sixty-three," cries Kirby.'
I have always maintained that it was an understatement. We must
remember, it was not Kirby speaking, but the song-writer. Kirby would
not, in my opinion, have numbered years he was proud of below their
due quantity. He was more, if he died at ninety-one; and Chillon
Switzer John Kirby, born eleven months after the elopement, was, we
know, twenty- three years old when the old man gave up the ghost and
bequeathed him little besides a law-suit with the Austrian Government,
and the care of Carinthia Jane, the second child of this extraordinary
union; both children born in wedlock, as you will hear. Sixty-three, or
sixty-seven, near upon seventy, when most men are reaping and
stacking their sins with groans and weak knees, Kirby was a match for
his juniors, which they discovered.
Captain John Peter Avason Kirby, son of a Lincolnshire squire of an
ancient stock, was proud of his blood, and claimed descent from a chief
of the Danish rovers.

'"What's rank to me!" cries Kirby; "A titled lass let her be, But unless
my plans miscarry, I'll show her when we marry; As brave a pedigree,"
cries Kirby.'
That was the song-writer's answer to the charge that the countess had
stooped to a degrading alliance.
John Peter was fourth of a family of seven children, all males, and hard
at the bottle early in life: 'for want of proper occupation,' he says in his
Memoirs, and applauds his brother Stanson, the clergyman, for being
ahead of him in renouncing strong dunks, because he found that he
'cursed better upon water.' Water, however, helped Stanson Kirby to
outlive his brothers and inherit the Lincolnshire property, and at the
period of the great scandal in London he was palsied, and waited on by
his grandson and heir Ralph Thorkill Kirby, the hero of an adventure
celebrated in our Law courts and on the English stage; for he took
possession of his coachman's wife, and was accused of compassing the
death of the husband. He was not hanged for it, so we are bound to
think him not guilty.
The stage-piece is called 'Saturday Night', and it had an astonishing run,
but is only remembered now for the song of 'Saturday,' sung by the
poor coachman and labourers at the village ale-house before he starts to
capture his wife from the clutches of her seducer and meets his fate.
Never was there a more popular song: you heard it everywhere. I
recollect one verse:
'O Saturday money is slippery metal, And Saturday ale it is tipsy stuff
At home the old woman is boiling her kettle,