The Reminiscences of an Irish Land Agent | Page 4

known as politics, wherein it may be noted that in 1613 Michael
Hussey was Member of Parliament for Dingle.
Now for a coincidence in Christian names.
Only two Husseys forfeited in the Desmond Rebellion, and they were
John and Maurice.
In the Irish Parliament of James II., when Kerry returned eight
members, two of them were Husseys, and their names were John and
Maurice.
My grandfather's name was John, and his father before him was
Maurice, and I christened my two surviving sons John and Maurice.
We do not go in for much variety of nomenclature in our family.
My grandfather, John Hussey, lived at Dingle, his mother being a
member of the well-known Galway family of Bodkin. He was an
offshoot of the Walter Hussey who had been converted into an
animated projectile by the underground machinations of Cromwell's
colonels. He was a very little man, who had a landed property at Dingle,
did nothing in particular, and received the usual pompous eulogy on his
tombstone. I never heard that he left any papers or diaries, and I do not
think that he ever went out of Kerry--he had too much sense.
A rather diverting story in which his sister was the heroine may be
worth telling, if only because it was so characteristic of the period.

In those days, as now, Husseys and Dennys were closely associated,
and both my great-aunt and Miss Denny, known locally as the 'Princess
Royal,' were going to a ball. At that time it was the fashion for the girls
of the period to wear muslin skirts edged with black velvet. The muslin
was easily procured; not so the velvet, which was eventually obtained
by sacrificing an ancient pair of nether garments belonging to my
great-grandfather.
After the early dinner then fashionable, each of the damsels was
departing for the Castle, with a swain at the door of her sedan-chair,
when our kinswoman, Lady Donoughmore, who was on the door-step
watching them off, enthusiastically shouted:--
'Success to the breeches! Success to the breeches!'
Imagine the horrified confusion of the poor 'Princess Royal,' not then
eighteen.
This episode reminds me of the modern Scottish story of a tiresome
small boy who wanted more cake at a tea-party, and threatened his
parents with dire revelations if they did not comply with his demands.
As they showed no signs of intimidation, he banged on the table to
obtain attention, and then announced:--
'Ma new breeks are made out of the winter curtains.'
An incident connected with one of the earliest private carriages in
Kerry is worth telling. The vehicle in question had just been purchased
by a certain Miss Mullins, daughter of a former Lord Ventry, who
regarded it on its arrival with almost sacred awe. A dance in the
neighbourhood seemed an appropriate opportunity for impressing the
county with her newly acquired grandeur, but the night proving wet,
she insisted on reverting to a former mode of progression, and rode
pillion behind her coachman.
The result was that she caught a violent chill, which turned to
pneumonia, and as her relatives were assembled round her deathbed,
the old lady exclaimed, between her last gasps for breath:--

'Thank God I never took out the carriage that wet night.'
CHAPTER II
PARENTAGE AND EARLY YEARS
My father, Peter Bodkin Hussey, was for a long time a barrister at the
Irish Bar, practising in the Four Courts, where more untruths are
spoken than anywhere else in the three kingdoms, except in the House
of Commons during an Irish debate. All law in Ireland is a grave
temptation to lying, and the greatest number of Courts produced a
stupendous amount of mendacity--or it was so in earlier times, at all
events.
Did you ever hear the tale of the old woman who came to Daniel
O'Connell, outside the Four Courts, as he was walking down the steps,
and said to him:--
'Would your honour be so kind as to tell me the name of an honest
attorney?'
The Liberator stopped, scratched his head in a perplexed way, and
replied:--
'Well now, ma'am, you bate me intoirely.'
My father had red hair, and was very impetuous. Therefore he was
christened 'Red Precipitate' by Jerry Kellegher.
This legal luminary was a noted wit even at the Irish Bar of that time, a
confraternity where humour was almost as rampant as
creditors--irresponsible fun, and a light purse are generally allied; your
wealthy fellow has too much care for his gold to have spirits to be
mirthful.
The tales about him are endless. Here are just a few I have heard from
my father's lips.

Jerry had a cousin, a wine merchant, who supplied the Bar mess, and a
complaint was lodged that the bottles were very small.
To which Jerry retorted:--
'You idiot, don't you