Chapter I: Part 1

Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. III.

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PERSONAL SKETCHES

OF

HIS OWN TIMES,

BY

SIR JONAH BARRINGTON,

AUTHOR OF

“THE HISTORY OF THE IRISH UNION,” &c. &c.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1832.

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PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.

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DEDICATION.

TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD STOWELL,
_&c._ _&c._

January 1st, 1832.

MY DEAR LORD,

To experience the approbation of the public in general must ever be gratifying to the author of any literary work, however humble may be its subject: such has been my fortunate lot as to the first two volumes of these light sketches of incident and character.

But when my attempt also received the unqualified approbation of one of the most able, learned, and discriminating official personages that England has, or probably will have to boast of, my vanity was justly converted into pride, and a value stamped upon my production which I durst not previously have looked to.

Greatly indeed was my pleasure enhanced when your Lordship informed me that my Sketches had “given me much repute here, were read with _general avidity_, and considered as giving much insight into the original character of the Irish.”

Yet a still stronger testimonial of your Lordship’s favour was reserved to augment my pride and pleasure—your Lordship’s note to me, stating, that my volumes “had afforded him much amusement, and had given very general satisfaction; and that he was tempted to wish for a third volume composed of similar materials.”

Your wish, my Lord, is obeyed. A third volume is composed, and if it should have the good fortune to afford your Lordship an hour’s amusement, my gratification will be consummated.

After more than threescore and ten winters have passed over the head of man, any increase of mental faculty, or intellectual powers in a writer can never be expected; at the very best he may be stationary. I can, therefore, only offer you this volume, such as it is: receive it, then, my Lord, as the last and only _souvenir_ I can now tender to mark the sincerity, respect, and attachment, with which I am your Lordship’s faithful servant,

JONAH BARRINGTON.

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PREFACE.

The Introduction prefixed to the first volume of these Sketches somewhat developes the origin of the work, and the source of its materials. Commenced to wear away the tedium of a protracted winter, it continued, for nearly three months, the amusement of my leisure hours. During that short space the entire of the two first volumes was collected and composed.

I do not allude to this as any proof of literary expertness: on the contrary, I offer it as some apology for the inaccuracies incidental to so hasty a performance. In common with all biographical and anecdotical compositions, mine cannot affect to be exempt from small errors; but whatever they may be, I alone am responsible. Not one anecdote—character—sentence—observation—line—or even thought, was contributed or suggested to me by any living person; nor was a single page of the MS. even seen by any friend save one (and that but very partially), on whose suggestion it had been commenced, and on whose recommendation I transmitted the two first volumes to my present publisher, but with (I own) very great diffidence as to their catastrophe. On that point, however, I was most agreeably disappointed. The flattering excitement which originated the present volume appears in the dedication.

In deference to the _goût_ of the present fashionable class of readers, I deeply regret that these volumes are not the florid children of fiction and of fancy. Unfortunately, they are only embellished recitals of actual facts and incidents, extracted from authentic sources, and forming an _Olla Podrida_ of variegated materials—some, perhaps, too cheerful for the grave—others too _sombre_ for the cheerful, and, on the whole, I fear, rather too _ordinaire_ for refinement, or insufficiently _languid_ for modern sensibility—particularly of the softer sex, whose favour, of all things, I should wish to cultivate.

I cannot deny also my presumption in having garnished these Sketches here and there with my own crude or digressive observations; but my _ensemble_ being altogether a whimsical composition, without sequence or connexion, minor errors may merge in the general confusion, and the originator of them be screened under the gabardine of his singularity.

The only merit which I actually claim is, that the principal sketches somewhat illustrate the native Irish character at _different epochas_ in different grades of society, and furnish some amusing points of comparison between the more _remote_ and the _modern_ manners and habits of that eccentric people;—and there my irregularities are perfectly appropriate. But a far more dangerous ordeal lies glowing hot before me;—I fear my fair readers will never pardon me for introducing so small a proportion of true love into my anecdotes—an omission for which I am bound, so far as in me lies, to give the very best apology I can. But when I reflect on the exquisite tenderness of the female heart, and its intrinsic propensity to imbibe that most delicious of the passions on every proper opportunity, I almost despair of being able to conciliate the lovely spinsters who may deign to peruse my lucubrations; and if the ladies of an _age mûr_ do not take my part, I shall be a ruined author. Trembling, therefore, I proceed to state some matters of fact, which, if dispassionately considered and weighed, may prove that, from the rapid movements of love in Ireland, there can be but very scant materials for interesting episodes in that country.

Ireland has been ever celebrated by every author who characterised it, as the most amatory of islands; and the disinterestedness of its lovers, and their inveterate contempt of obstacles, and abhorrence of any species of procrastination, has been a subject of general eulogium.

Love is the only object of liberty and equality as yet enjoyed by the Irish people. Even among the better orders, _money_, not being in general there the circulating medium of matrimony, is always despised when it does not attend, and abused behind its back as inveterately as if it was a sub-sheriff.

A love-stricken couple seldom lose their precious moments practising idle sensibilities, and waiting for bank-notes that won’t come, or parchments that have not one word of truth in them. Such illusory proceedings were very sensibly dispensed with, and a justifiable impatience generally, because quite natural, sent formality about its business. The lovers themselves came to the real point; a simple question and categorical reply settled the _concours_ at once; and marriage and possession occupied not unfrequently the second or third evening after a first acquaintance, whilst the first of a honey-moon, and the commencement of a new family, dated sometimes from the first evening of acquaintance. After that knot was tied, they always had an indefinite time and unrestrained opportunities to cultivate their love, or what remained of it, for the remainder of their existence.

This rapid, but rational consummation of love-matches in Ireland, however, left no opportunity or field for amatory adventures, as in countries where love, jealousy, and murder are often seen bubbling in the same cauldron!

No doubt the Irish manner of courtship plunders love of its episodes, romance of its refinements, and consequently my fair English readers of those sentimentalities which so beautifully garnish the produce of imagination-workers. Take it all for all, however, Irish love is found to answer very well for domestic purposes, and, making allowances for wear and tear, to be, I believe, to the full, as durable as in any other country.

In a plainer way, I now frankly confess that during the composition of the three volumes, my _inventive_ genius, (if I have any,) like one of the seven sleepers, lay dormant in my _occiput_, and so torpid, that not one fanciful anecdote or brilliant hyperbole awakened during the whole of that ordinary period; and I fear that there is not an incident in the whole which has any just chance of melting down my fair sensitives into that delicious trickle of pearly tears, so gratifying to the novel writers, or even into one soft sigh of sympathetic feeling, so naturally excited by exploits in aerial castles, or the embroidered scenery of fancy and imagination.

Of the egotistical tone of these volumes I am also most gravely accused. The best reply I can make, (and it seems rather a decisive one,) is, that it would be a task somewhat difficult for the wisest author that ever put pen to paper, to separate egotism from autobiography; indeed, I believe it has never yet been practically attempted. Were I to leave myself out of three volumes of my own _personal_ anecdotes, I rather think I should be consigned to Miss Edgeworth for the destiny of increasing her volume of Irish Blunderers. I fancy also that with most ladies and gentlemen in these civilized parts of this terrestrial globe, the _amour propre_ (_alias_ _egotism_) holds a very considerable rank amongst their intellectual gallantries; and, as in _garçon_ Cupid’s amours, it would be no easy matter for either sex to enforce profound silence on the matter of their adoration; and I apprehend the singular number will hardly be turned out of service in the English grammar to gratify my commentators by making me write nonsense.

These observations are addressed to my good-humoured and playful critics; but there is another class of a very different description. I have been honoured by the animadversions of as many of these sharp-set gentry as any uncelebrated author could possibly expect, or indeed any reasonable writer could possibly wish for; and, though the comparison may be considered as out of course, I shall nevertheless add it to the rest of my _errata_, and compare my orchestra of cavillers to the performers in a Dutch concert, where every musician plays his own tune, and no two of their airs or instruments are in harmony.

Literary works may be fairly termed literary chopping-blocks; like the human species, they never fail to have plenty of snarlers to cut up the reputation of the author, and probably the very best parts of his production. However, it is consolatory to perceive that many of those ingenious gentry who have done me that honour may with convenience and economy pluck their _own wings_ to make their pens of; and I am satisfied that if the Roman gander who saved the Capitol were permitted to return to earth, and visit the metropolis of England, he would feel infinite gratification at finding that so many of his family have been raised to the rank of critics, and are now flourishing amongst the human species.

By some of my most inveterate cavillers I have been accused of personality. Never was an imputation worse founded. I feel incapable of leaning on any fair or worthy person. But it is impossible for any biographical writer to avoid topics of general allusion, which the equivocal good-nature of _intimate friends_ seldom fails to find out an appropriate application for. Should the proprietors of shallow egotism or arrogant folly, however, (and such things _are_,) please to fit caps on their own heads, and look at general allusion through a microscope, I do not feel myself bound either to undeceive or confirm their applications—the _qui capit ille facit_ is their own act, not my aphorism.

In truth, the multiplicity of inaccuracies, fibs, bounces, and impossibilities imputed to me are of so many families and ranks, that I scarcely know how to arrange their table of precedence; but as all manner of things connected with theology, from the days of Jupiter Ammon to Pope Joan, and thence to our own episcopacy, take place of temporal concerns, so I rather think I should adopt the same course of procedure; and therefore, as the doctrine of spirits and ghosts is incontestably connected with theological dogmas, so I conceive it most decorous to begin with that very supernatural subject.

The article as to Lord Rossmore’s Bansheen, (in the first volume,) has been the favourite subject of general animadversion, incredulity, and inveterate impeachment of my orthodoxy, common sense, religion, and morality. Yet, strange to say, I absolutely persist unequivocally as to the matters therein recited, and shall do so to the day of my death, after which event I shall be able to ascertain individually the matter of fact to a downright certainty, though I fear I shall be enjoined to absolute secrecy.

To give new food to my cavillers, I now reassert what has been already read with expressed surprise at my heterodoxy—namely, that no man or woman, old or young, _professing_ Christianity, and yet denying the possible appearance of apparitions in the world, can be a genuine, or indeed any Christian at all; nay, not even an unadulterated Deist, and most certainly not a member of the Jewish persuasion, as this can be _his_ only argument. Nor shall I omit in my following challenge every member of the 104 sects that have, like suckers, sprouted out of and weakened the established Church of England, (which, I think, might, after reforming the clergy, have served people very well, without the assistance of any hair-splitters, unless they were unconscionable epicures in theology); to all such folks I here throw down my glove—and by these presents, I invite any preacher, teacher, priest, bishop, deacon, fat dignitary, or lank curate, who disclaims my said doctrine, to reply to it if he can—otherwise I shall crow over him, reasonably considering that “silence gives consent,” and set down my doctrines as admitted fully and unanimously by the _nil dicits_ of all the Christian clericals and pious labourers in the holy vineyards, and all the singers at the Meeting Houses in the British Empire.

Consistently with my rank as a goblin _chaperone_, I should consider myself guilty of great impoliteness did I not notice one or two of the lectures I have received from lay disputants since the two first volumes have been published, but which other occupations have heretofore prevented me from duly noticing.

The most formidable, because the most rational, of my avowed contraventionists, has attacked me on a point which I admit to be the most assailable of my anecdotes, and to constitute the most plausible ground he could pitch his scepticism on: I allude to his dogma as to my Rossmore Bansheen, in which he asserts that all supernaturals are now-a-days as much out of fashion and as scarce as miracles. I admit that miracles, _eo nomine_, have diminished very considerably (without any good reason that I know of) for some centuries past, and consequently, that my assertion of modern supernaturals has, in the opinion of many wise persons, lost the advantage of that scriptural confirmation, which it certainly would have had eighteen hundred years ago. But that is only begging the question without the candour of admitting that if miracles _ever_ existed, the same Omnipotence which created may _revive_ them, particularly as all these matters are decided in a world that not a priest in Europe has any communication with. Prejudices—whether natural or transplanted—have long roots: they shoot deep and strong, and are most difficult to eradicate. Out of a hundred pertinacious argumentators, I verily believe there is seldom even one of the debaters, who at the conclusion admits a single _scintilla_ of diminution in his original hypothesis. So prone is man to prejudice, that I have known clerical rhetoricians argue, on points of their own trade, very _nearly_ that black was white; and I really believe all the Saints in the calendar could not make any impression on their sentiments; therefore, yielding all argument deducible either from the Witch of Endor, or the Weird Sisters, &c., I found my tenet upon proven facts and causes, of which the (assailed) anecdote of Lord Rossmore is only as a vanguard.

This plausible and ingenious antagonist, to whom I allude, is a gentleman universally considered to be in his sound senses, and of high respectability; and one who, I believe, both individually and professionally, generally _looks_ before he _leaps_: this gentleman has so billeted his scepticism on his brain, that it lives at free quarters, and shuts its door against all reasoning; and I much fear his incredulity will retain its post, till he becomes a goblin himself, and learns the fallacy of his prejudices by actual demonstration.

Some other intolerant correspondents, of much personal consideration, are fully entitled to my proper observation; and I regret that, a preface being inappropriate to any controversy in detail, I am obliged to postpone paying my _devoirs_ to them. But this above-named gentleman having favoured me with a letter of many pages, expressing his unqualified disbelief of Lord Rossmore’s Bansheen and all ghosts in general, and his extreme _surprise_ that I could venture to support so exploded a doctrine, I should act unhandsomely if I did not acknowledge the receipt of it, and assure him that I shall take the earliest opportunity I can of putting in my rejoinder.

I admit that the reasoning of this respectable intolerant (Mr. T—— of Gray’s Inn) appeared so moral, rational, religious, pious, and plausible, that even an idiot, or a soft country gentleman with a blank mind, might, without any further imputation against his understanding, be actually convinced by it. However, as I do not boast of these latter qualities, I retain my own doctrine inflexibly,—and so does Mr. T——; and lamentable it is to say, that there is not the most remote probability of either of us yielding his hypothesis, or any human possibility of finding any person in the whole world who could decide as an arbitrator. Mr. T—— conceives that I cannot be a Christian if I believe in supernaturals, and I am as steadily convinced that he cannot be a true Christian if he does not. The majority of society, who seldom take the trouble of looking deeper than the surface in matters of theology, except when they are text-puzzled on Sundays, are mostly on his side; profound philosophers, theoretical moralists, and all delicate ladies, are on mine. However, there being no mathematical demonstration on either, well authenticated supernaturals are the sole mode of deciding the question in this part of the firmament. On this enigmatical subject my good friends the clergy are rather awkwardly circumstanced. They may be very excellent casuists, so far as their knowledge _extends_; yet, being only simple mortals themselves, they can know no more about the matter than the most ignorant of their parishioners. Though my Lords Spiritual, the Bishops of England, are by far the most temporal, sleek, and comfortable covey of prelates on the surface of this globe—whatever they may do in their political capacities, it would be profane to suppose they could have private audiences either in the upper or lower department of the other world, _until_ their _post obitums_ fall in, and give them the _entrée_. The fattest prelate of the land, therefore, can know no more of supernaturals than the hungriest curate of his diocese; the happy translation, however, must take place, (and nobody can tell how soon,) and no doubt its approach must be hailed by these parties with great pleasure, as the only tranquil catastrophe they can be absolutely certain of during this ticklish epoch.

I have already mentioned that my reasoning on this subject in detail appears in the first volume of this work; where, though I profess no enthusiastic adoration of Dr. Johnson’s morality, I certainly am proud to have the advantage of his coincidence on the subject of supernaturals. I therefore refer my respectable antagonist, Mr. T——, (whom, by-the-by, I never had the honour of speaking to or seeing,) to that volume.

I have also received, amongst many other favours upon the same subject, a letter under the signature of R. H., Brompton; but, though on thick gilt paper, of a very different complexion, and in very different language from that of my last-named correspondent. Mr. R. H. accuses me of publishing _absolute falsehoods_, and putting _dangerous_ doctrines into the heads of _silly people_, which he illustrates by the example of his _own wife and daughter_, who, “naturally nervous,” ever since reading my argument in favour of ghosts, &c., fall into “twitters” if they hear any noise in the house after nightfall, which they cannot instantly account for. His life is a torment to him! Even a kitten, which was locked up accidentally in a cupboard, and began to rattle the tea-things after the candles were put out, threw Mrs. H. into strong hysterics, and nearly cost Miss H. her reason, besides the expense of drugs and attendance. This Mr. H., of Brompton, describes himself “a _rational_ gentleman,” (_credat Judæus Apelles!_) I suppose in contradistinction to me; but, whether gentle or simple, he has in his commentary on my anecdote been so far impartial, that he has shown no greater respect for his own composition than he has for mine. To do him justice, he has not attempted reasoning: therein he was perfectly right; reason does not seem to be his forte, or in unison with either his temper or intellect, and the _retort courteous_ with which he has favoured me is vastly better adapted to both the manners and capacity of that gentlemanly personage. To increase his troubles, I have referred him to a decided ghost story ycleped the “Tapestry Chamber,” from the celebrated pen of Sir Walter Scott, directing my letter “dead office, Brompton.” That story was vouched by Miss Seward, the most learned and religious of the _bas-bleus_. It has been swallowed by the public at large with a greedy avidity, as a genuine undoubted apparition; nor has a single reviewer, commentator, periodical, or other species of critic, ever ventured to call it a _bounce_, or to express the slightest doubt of its absolute authenticity. Whilst Sir Jonah Barrington’s “Bansheen of Lord Rossmore,” vouched by three living persons, has experienced all manner of ugly epithets, the “Tapestry Chamber,” so vouched, remains in full blow, with scarcely an unbeliever. It is observable also that Sir Walter’s apparition, coming a year after my “Bansheen,” and the public strictures thereupon, proves and exemplifies his coincidence in my belief; and (Miss Seward having been for some time a ghost herself) I trust Sir Walter, not being defunct, will, on his return from his travels, do me the justice of confirming my tenet by his own, and the authority of Miss Seward. In the mean time, as for Mr. R. H. of Brompton, whom I _strongly suspect_ to be an M.P. and a saint—_requiescat in pace!_ unless I can trace the writing, and, if I can, he may be assured the public shall have a garnished edition of it.

The Irish mower cutting his _own_ head off has also afforded a multiplicity of amusing comments, both from my friends and the periodicals; the former call it _ingenious_, the latter a _bounce_. However, I refer my sceptics to the second edition of the former portion of these Sketches, where that incident is repeated and enlarged upon. That anecdote, not being in any degree _supernatural_, is susceptible of testimony; and it is rather fortunate for me that the very same respectable gentleman, Mr. T., who is so inflexible an anti-Bansheen, was also an avowed disbeliever of my self-decapitation anecdote, until his friend, Lord Mountnorris, _vouched_ to him decidedly the _truth_ of Dennis’s cutting his own _head_ off, though his lordship would not give him the same corroboration as to the _ear_ of his comrade: however, as to that, _exceptio probat regulam_, and I am contented.

So numerous have been the comments I have read in print, and received in MS., as to different articles of those Sketches, that a rejoinder to one half of them would be more than food for a tolerable quarto, and of course my notices must be very limited.

The letter which I received, marked _private_, by post from London, under the signature Z. Y., though long in my possession, I had no clue to answer, or any _à-propos_ opportunity of noticing; and I regret that the limits of a Preface do not even now admit me to go much further than to advert to the subject of it. That subject, could I here dilate on it, would afford myself a very agreeable field for general as well as individual comment; and indeed, not being devoid of a popular interest, it deserves a distinct, and not limited consideration: such (I intend) it shall receive hereafter on a different occasion. At present I only wish the persons therein alluded to, and particularly the one who, Z. Y. insinuates, “has felt _no pleasure_ at my observations,” to be assured that I should consider myself much to blame, had I intended to draw any _invidious comparisons_, or lean either by irony, ridicule, or satire, on either of two persons so justly and highly estimated by the public, for whom I feel the sentiments of private friendship, and whom I have known before they could either know or forget themselves.

One observation, however, I may venture, and (though singular) I have very generally found it a true one, namely, that the best writers are the most thin-skinned, and become jealous of comment, _pari passu_ with the march of their celebrity. Even when their literary reputation has been popularly established beyond the power of “reviewing” injury, they feel more ticklish at criticism than scribblers in the fifth degree of comparison; and, as if they were afflicted with the disease called “noli me tangere,” they consider even the approach of a quill as injurious to their tranquillity. Such species of impression on either a party or a partizan has no doubt procured me the honour of the letter I have alluded to;—it is palpably the work of no ordinary penman. I regret that I must persist in my opinion both as to the lady and gentleman, and cannot relinquish my consistency as to the principle of distinction between genius and talent, though with modification, and perhaps according to _my_ more minute _view_ of these modern rarities.

I never found these gifts of intellect completely amalgamated in any one modern writer either in prose or poetry. Heavens and earth—flights of fancy, and matters of fact, _savans_ and rainbows, angels, and ladies of quality, &c. &c. &c. afford very different touchstones whereby to assay the extent of human intellect.

The personages that Z. Y. has alluded to may rest assured that not a friend of theirs, either old or new, has a greater pride in their compatriotship than the composer of this terrestrial bagatelle; the one works in prose, and dresses in poetry, the other makes Irish petticoats with foreign flounces to them. Both are good artists—yet I confess myself so very worldly and unrefined a being that I should, under the circumstances of Ireland, prefer one sound, unexaggerated, unagitating true matter-of-_fact_ essay on the real condition of my countrymen. The most lovely subjects of madrigal and sonnet, after a curt exhibition of their charms, wax old and ugly, and in some time enjoy little more than a florid epitaph. Time with his extinguisher soon puts out all flames of an amatory description, and reduces both the poet and his muse—the first (if he lives) to a state of dotage, the other to the enjoyment of some “newer lover.” But the love of a country blooms for ever: it defies the power of time and the lapse of ages; and I should like to see the produce of some proud and emulative talent or genius, to decide which is best adapted to descant upon that subject. Two attempts on that matter I have seen; the one has lost reputation by danger—diving too deep; the other gained none by being too superficial. Of all themes, _absenteeism_, if handled strongly, would give great credit, if its writer would take a fair, clear, and comprehensive view of that existing cause of national misfortune.

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CONTENTS

OF

THE THIRD VOLUME.

PERPLEXITIES OF A BARONET.

The Author apologises for ending, instead of commencing, his former volumes, with an inquiry into his pedigree—How to improve a family name—The cognomen of Alderman Sir W. Stammer—Vowel _versus_ Consonant—The lady of “masculine understanding”—The Alderman’s conditions on altering his surname—Unsuspected presidency of _King James_ at the Dublin municipal meetings—Ulster king-at-arms—George the Fourth’s visit to Dublin—Various heraldic bearings 1

DANGERS OF REFLECTION.

Personal description of Counsellor Conaghty—Singular contrast of physical roughness and mental suavity—A legal costume—The Counsellor’s marriage—The bride described—Her plan for inducing her husband to sacrifice to the Graces—The fatal mirror—The Counsellor views himself in a new light—His consternation and false persuasion—The devil unjustly accused—Conaghty’s illness and death 22

FORMER STATE OF MEDICINE IN IRELAND.

Remarks on Sir Charles Morgan’s account of the Former State of Medicine in Italy—The author’s studies in the Anatomical Theatre of Dublin University—Dr. Burdet—Former importance of farriers and colloughs—Jug Coyle, and her powers of soliloquy—Larry Butler, the family farrier, described—Luminous and veritable account of the ancient colloughs—The _faculty_ of the present day—Huynhymns and Yahoos—Hydrophobia in Ireland, and its method of cure 30

KILLING WITH KINDNESS.

Illustration of the Irish horror of hydrophobia—Thomas Palmer, of Rushhall, Esquire, magistrate and land-agent, &c.—A substantial bill of fare—Dan Dempsey, of the Pike, is bitten by a mad dog—Application to the magistrate for legal permission to _relieve_ him of his sufferings—Mode of relief proposed—Swearing scholars—Permission obtained—Dan regularly smothered, by way both of _cure_ and _preventive_—Fate of Mr. Palmer himself—Allen Kelly, of Portarlington—“New Way to Pay Old Debts” 42

SKINNING A BLACK CHILD.

Lieutenant Palmer and his black servant—The Lieutenant’s sister marries Mr. George Washington, a “blood relation” of the American president—This lady presents her husband with a son and heir—Awkward circumstance connected with the birth of the infant—Curious and learned dissertation respecting “fancy-marks,” &c.—A _casus omissus_—Speculations and consultations—Doctor Bathron, surgeon and grocer—His suggestion respecting little Washington—Doctor Knaggs called in—Operation begun—Its ill success—“Black and all Black”—The operator’s dismay and despair—Final catastrophe of Master Washington 51

THE FARRIER AND WHIPPER-IN.

Tom White, the whipper-in of Blandsfort—An unlucky leap—Its consequences—Tom given over by the _Faculty_—Handed to the farrier—Larry Butler’s preparations—New way to _stand fast_—The actual cautery—Ingredients of a “charge”—Tom cured _intirely_ 67

THE RIVAL PRACTITIONERS.

Dr. Fletcher, Dr. Mulhall, and the Author’s father—Interesting particulars of a medical consultation—Family recollections—Counsellor, afterward Judge Fletcher—First meeting between him and the Author—Catching a Tartar—Sam Doxy of the Derrys—Breaks his neck in riding to a Turnpike-Board dinner—Pronounced dead by Mr. Knaggs, the apothecary—That eminent practitioner’s judgment disputed by Lieut. Jerry Palmer—The apothecary proceeds to show that the patient _must_, or at least _ought_ to be, dead—An incision, and its consequences—Lieut. Palmer’s successful mode of treatment—Recovery of the corpse 76

TRANSFUSION OF BLOOD.

The Irish on the continent—Slow travelling of remittances—Inconveniences thereof—Sir John Burke, of Glinsk—Reasonable points of curiosity—Prompt satisfaction—_Messieurs les Créanciers_—Sir John’s health declines—Given over by the faculty generally—Dr. T——’s perseverance—Its success—A game at cross purposes—Custodiums in Ireland—New mode of liquidating a debt—Galway gore—Receipt for ennobling the _bourgeois_ of Paris—Sir John Burke’s marriage and visit to Rome—His return—Lady Burke—Glinsk Castle 91

SWEARING NO VICE.

English slang contrasted with Irish imprecation—The chase of St. Chrysostom, and his rescue—Meet garnish for a Hibernian anecdote—Futile attempts at imitation by English dramatists, &c.—Remarks of a puritan on the author and his book—A caution, and a shrewd way of observing it—Michael Heney, steward of the author’s father—His notions concerning swearing—Curious dialogue between him and the author—New mode of teaching children filial respect 112

A BARRISTER BESIEGED.

Dinner-party at the Rev. Mr. Thomas’s—The author among the guests, in company with John Philpot Curran—General punctuality of the latter at dinner-time—His mysterious non-appearance—Speculations and reports—Diver, from Newfoundland—His simultaneous absence—The house searched—Discovery of a ghost, and its metamorphosis into Curran—A curious blockade—Its relief, and accompanying circumstances—Comments of the author 121

GEORGE ROBERT FITZGERALD.

George Robert Fitzgerald and Mr. Richard Martin, M.P. for Galway—The “Prime Sergeant,” Lord Altamont’s wolf-dog—Shot by Fitzgerald—The circumstance resented by Mr. Martin—The latter insulted by his antagonist in the Dublin Theatre—Mission of Mr. Lyster to George Robert, and its disastrous consequences—A legal inquiry and strange decision—Meeting between the principals—Fitzgerald receives two shots without injury—Explanation of that enigma 133

RECRUITING AT CASTLEBAR.

Further particulars respecting George Robert Fitzgerald—His band of myrmidons—Proposal made to the Author—He accedes to it, and commences the “recruiting service”—Hospitality at an Irish inn—Practical joking—The Author’s success in enlisting George Robert’s outlaws—Sergeant Hearn and Corporal O’Mealy—Fair day at Castlebar—A speech, succeeded by “beating orders”—Mutiny among the new levies—The utility of hanks of yarn—An inglorious retreat, and renunciation, by the Author, of the honours of a military life 148

A NIGHT JOURNEY.

Mr. Fitzgerald’s agent and attorney—Capriciousness of courage—Jack tar, his intrepidity—New lights—Sailors and saints—Description of Mr. T—— —His temerity in court and timorousness out of it—Regularly retained by Fitzgerald—Starts with him on a journey to Turlow—Travelling companions—The eloquent _snore_—Mr. T——’s apprehensions—A daylight discovery—Double escape of the solicitor—His return to Dublin—Mr. Brecknock, his successor—Fate of that individual—The “murderer murdered” 165

MARTIAL LAW.

Law in Ireland half a century ago—Its delay remedied, but not its uncertainty—Principal and Interest—Eustace Stowell and Richard Martin—Valuable _precedents_—A bloodless duel—High sheriffs and their _Subs_—Irish method of serving a writ—Cases of warranty—Messrs. Reddy Long and Charley White—The latter guarantees an unsound horse to the Author—Zeal of a _second_—Mr. Reddy Long’s valuable legacy to Sir Jonah Barrington 181

BULLETIN EXTRAORDINARY.

The Author and Counsellor Moore laid by the heels at Rock House—Dismal apprehensions—A recipe and recovery—The _races_ of Castlebar—The Author forms a party to visit the spot—Members of the party described—Sergeant Butler and the doctor—Differences of _opinion_—The sergeant’s bulletin of the famous battle of Castlebar 196

BREAKFASTS AT BALLINROBE.

Election for County Mayo—Author and Counsellor Moore at Ballinrobe—Mr. Dan Martin’s “little paved parlour”—Preparations for a festive breakfast—A formidable incursion—Counsellor Moore laid prostrate—Advance of the foe—The two barristers take up an elevated position—Disappearance of the various eatables—General alarm—Dislodgment of the enemy—Mr. Dan Martin’s comments upon the “affair”—_Secrets_ worth Knowing—All’s Well that Ends Well 210

NEW MODE OF SERVING A PROCESS.

The Author at Rock House—Galway election—_Searching_ for voters—Mr. Ned Bodkin—Interesting conversation between him and the Author—Process-serving at Connemara—Burke, the bailiff—His hard treatment—Irish method of discussing a chancery bill—Ned Bodkin’s “Lament”—False oaths, and their disastrous consequences—Country magistrates in Ireland 223

DONNYBROOK FAIR.

Donnybrook contrasted with St. Bartholomew’s—Characteristics of the company resorting to each fair—Site upon which the former is held—Description and materials of a Donnybrook tent—Various humours of the scene—The horse fair—Visit of the Author and Counsellor Byrne in 1790—Barter and exchange—The “gentle Coadjutor”—The “master cobbler”—A head in chancery—Disastrous mishap of Counsellor Byrne—Sympathy therewith of the Author and his steed—The cobbler and his companion—An extrication—Unexpected intruders—Counsellor Byrne and his doctor—A glance at the country fairs of Ireland—Sir Hercules Langreish and Mr. Dundas—Dysart fair—The fighting factions—Various receipts for picking a quarrel—Recent _civilization_ of the lower classes of Emeralders 230

THE WALKING GALLOWS.

Brief reflections on the Irish Revolution of 1798—Mutual atrocities of the Royalists and Rebels—Irish humour buoyant to the last—O’Connor, the schoolmaster of County Kildare—“’Tis well it’s _no worse_”—The Barristers’ corps—Its commander, Lieutenant H—— —His zeal for loyalty, and its probable origin—Indemnities unjustly obtained for cruelty against the insurgents—Lieutenant H——’s mode of executing a rebel—His _sobriquet_, and its well-earned application 260

CONVERSION AND INVERSION.

Rebel pranks—Caprice of the insurgents—Puns and piking—Archdeacon Elgy—His capture by the rebels—Captain Murphy’s harangue and argument—Proposal made to the Archdeacon—An “Orange parson” converted into a “green priest”—Father Cahill and Father Pat Elgy—Another exploit of Captain Murphy—Parson Owen of Wexford—His concealment in a grocer’s cockloft—Discovered by the _wattle boys_—Dragged to a window and hung therefrom, by his heels, over a number of pikes—His delirium, and escape through Captain Murphy’s humanity—Parson Owen’s superinduced squint, and consequent nuptials—His lady left a widow—Instance of the fatal effects of unpleasant and unexpected news 272

REBEL PORTRAITS.

Tendency of the imagination to _embody_ character—Its frequent errors—Exemplified in the personal traits of several of the rebel chiefs of Ireland—The Bretons of La Vendée—Intrepidity of their leaders—The battle of Ross—Gallantry of a boy twelve years old—Beauchamp Bagenal Harvey—Description of his person and character—His habit of joking—Dangerous puns—His bewilderment as rebel generalissimo—His capture, and behaviour at execution—Portrait, physical and mental, of Captain Keogh—Remarkable suicide of his brother, and his own execution—Mr. Grogan, of Johnstown Castle, described—His case, sentence, and execution—Unmerited fate of Sir Edward Crosby, Bart. 288

REMINISCENCES OF WIT.

Wit distinguished from ribaldry—Chief Baron Yelverton and Mr. Curran—Chief Justice Clonmell—Lord Norbury’s comprehensive powers—Sir Hercules Langreish, and his digressions in claret-drinking—Gervoise Parker Bushe, Chief Baron Burgh, &c.—Peculiar traits of Irish convivial society in the author’s day—Jeremiah Keller—Lord Clare’s funeral—A scanty fee—The Pope and Pretender—Counsellor Norcott’s talent of mimickry—Ballinlaw ferry—Cæsar Colclough, of Duffry Hall, and Julius Cæsar 303

COUNSELLOR LYSIGHT.

Edward Lysight, Esq., barrister-at-law—His peculiar talents—A song of his contrasted with one of Moore’s on the same subject—_Ounagh_ and _Mary_—Pastoral poetry—“The Devil in the Lantern”—A love story—“We’re a’ _noddin_”—Sketch of Mr. Solomon Salmon and his daughter—Mr. Lysight’s nuptials with the latter—Sociality at Somers’ Town—A morning call—“All is not gold that glitters”—Death of the counsellor and his lady 316

FATALITIES OF MARRIAGE.

Speculations of the Author on free-agency and predestination—A novel theory—The matrimonial ladder—Advice to young lovers—A ball in Dublin—Unexpected arrival of Lord G—His doom expressed—Marries the Author’s niece—Remarks on his lordship’s character 329

A WEDDING IN OLDEN DAYS.

Changes in the nuptial ceremony in Ireland—Description of the _ancient_ formula—Throwing the stocking—A lucky hit—Reverse of the picture—Modern marriages—Coming of age—Nuptials of the author’s eldest brother—Personal description of the bride and bridegroom—Various preparations—Dresses of the different members of the wedding-party—The coach of ceremony—The travelling chaise—A turnpike dispute—Convenient temporary metamorphosis of the author and two of his brothers—Circumstances preceding the marriage in question—A desperate lover—Disasters and blunders—A “scene”—Major Tennyson Edwards—Marries a sister of the author—His fortunate escape from a ludicrous catastrophe 337

THE LAST OF THE GERALDINES.

Principles of domestic government discussed—How to rule a husband—Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle—Brings her son to see his father hanged by the Cahills—Enjoins him to revenge the outrage—Peculiar methods of impressing the injunction on the boy’s memory—He grows to manhood—Mysterious disappearance of four of the Cahills—Mr. Jemmy Corcoran—Way of identifying a skeleton—Father Doran, and his _spiritual_ theory—Squire Stephen Fitzgerald the son, and Squire Stephen Fitzgerald the grandson, of Elizabeth—Education, marriage, and personal description of the latter—The several members of his family described—Tom, the heir-apparent—A short life and a merry one—Jack, his successor—Moret Castle in its modern state—Miss Dolly Fitzgerald, and her sister Fanny—their respective merits—Matrimonial speculations—Curious family discussion as to the attractions of _hung_ meat, &c. 366

HANGING AN ATTORNEY BY ACCIDENT.

The attorneys’ corps of yeomanry, and their strange appellation—Eccentric loyalty in Dublin—The Fogies—Sir John Ferns, and his anti-rebel resolve—Aide-de-Camp Potterton and the other members of Sir John’s chivalrous party—Tragi-comic incidents attending their martial progress—Admixture of discretion with bravery—Discovery of a suspicious lurker, and zealous anxiety for his immediate execution—Process of suspension—Attorney Walker’s accidental participation in the captive’s lot—Respective demeanor of the two sufferers—Appearance of the enemy in sight—The attorney relieved from his situation—Conclusion of the day’s adventures 395

FLOGGING THE WINE-COOPERS.

Account of the flagellation undergone by the two coopers—Their application to the author for redress—Tit for tat, or giving _back_ the compliment—Major Connor, and his disinclination for attorneys—His brother, Arthur Connor 418

THE ENNISCORTHY BOAR.

Incidents attending the first assault of Wexford by the rebels, in 1798—Excesses mutually committed by them and the royalists—Father Roche—Captain Hay, and his gallant rescue of two ladies—Mr. O’Connell in by-gone days—Painful but ludicrous scenes after the conflict at Wexford—Swinish indignity offered to a clergyman—A pig of rapid growth—Extraordinary destination of the animal—Its arrival and special exhibition in London—Remarks on London curiosities—Remarkable success of the Enniscorthy boar—Unhappy disclosure of the animal’s previous enormities—Reaction on the public mind—His Majesty’s comments on the affair—Death of the swinish offender, in anticipation of a projected rescue by the London Irish 422

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PERSONAL SKETCHES.

PERPLEXITIES OF A BARONET.

The Author apologises for ending, instead of commencing, his former
volumes, with an inquiry into his pedigree—How to improve a family
name—The cognomen of Alderman Sir W. Stammer—Vowel _versus_
Consonant—The lady of “masculine understanding”—The Alderman’s
conditions on altering his surname—Unsuspected presidency of _King
James_ at the Dublin municipal meetings—Ulster king-at-arms—George the
Fourth’s visit to Dublin—Various heraldic bearings.

The concluding the second volume of my Biographical Sketches with the recital of a laborious search after my progenitors, doubtless savours somewhat of our national perversions. But those who know the way in which things are done in Ireland, will only call it a “doughan dourish,” or “parting drop”—which was usually administered when a man was not very sure which end of him was uppermost.

The English, in general, though not very exquisite philologists, and denominated “Bulls” in every known part of the world, have yet a great aversion to be considered “_blunderers_;” an _honour_ which their own misprisions of speech fall short of, owing to the absence of point in their humour (as they call it).

When an English dramatist wants a _good blunder_, he must send to Ireland for it. A few _English_ blunders would damn the best play; and I have known some pieces actually saved by a profusion of Irish ones. As to my misplacing my pedigree, I can only say, that though an English writer, speaking of his origin, would say he was born and bred at London, &c. &c.—an Irishman always places his acquirements before his birth, and says he was bred and born at Drogheda, &c. My mistake is not quite so bad as this; and I shall endeavour to recompense my readers for having made it, by transporting them to the city of Dublin, where, so long as a thing has _fun in it_, we set all cold-blooded critico-cynicals at defiance, and where we never have a lack of families and of good pedigrees—at least for home consumption.

The sketch which I thus introduce has certainly nothing whatever in it connected with myself. However, it is so far in point, that it proves how very differently gentlemen may furbish up families;—one by traversing foreign parts to discover the old cavaliers, arms, and quarterings of his race;—another by garnishing a new coach with new quarters, shields, and bearings, such as no family, ancient or modern, had ever seen or heard of till they appeared emblazoning the pannels of an alderman’s landau.

In the year of our Lord 1809, after his late Majesty King George the Third had expended forty-nine years of his life in ruling the state, it pleased his royal fancy to order a universal jubilee, and to elevate his Lord Mayors into Imperial Baronets. At this propitious era, William Stammer, Esquire, Alderman of Dublin, and likewise of Skinners’ Alley, wine-merchant, do. consumer, dealer and chapman, freemason, orangeman, and friendly brother, happened, by Divine Providence and the good-will of the Common Council, to be seated on the civic throne as “the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor of the King’s good city of Dublin.” He ruled with convivial sway the ancient, loyal, joyous, moist, and vociferous municipal corps of the said celebrated city, and its twenty-four federated corporations:—consequently he was, in point of dignity, the second _Lord Mayor_ in all _Christendom_, though unfortunately born a few centuries too late to be one of its seven _champions_. However, being thus enthroned at that happy festival time, he became greater than any of these, and found himself, suddenly, as if by magic, (though it was only by patent,) metamorphosed into _Sir_ William Stammer, Baronet of the United Kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

Sir William Stammer, Bart., being (as he himself often informed me, and which I believe to be true,) an excellent, good-hearted kind of person, and having by nature an even, smooth-trotting temper, with plenty of peace and quietness in it, bore his rank with laudable moderation: but as he was the first genuine corporator the Union had honoured by this _imperial_ dignity, he felt a sort of loyal fervor, which urged him to make some particular acknowledgment to his gracious Majesty for so unprecedented a mark of distinction. But in what way a sober British king should be complimented by an Irish wine-merchant was a matter which required much ingenuity and profound consideration. At length, it was suggested and strongly urged by several of his civic friends, (especially those of the feminine gender,) that his Lordship had it actually within his power to pay as loyal and handsome a compliment as ever was paid to any king of England by an Irish gentleman with a twang to his surname; _videlicet_, by sacrificing the old Irish pronunciation thereof, ameliorating the sound, and changing it in such sort, that it might be adapted to the court language, and uttered without any difficulty or grimace by the prettiest mouths of the highest classes of British society; it was, in fact, strenuously argued that, instead of the old hacknied family name commonly pronounced Stam-mer, the word _Steem-er_ (being better vowelled and Anglicised) would sound far more genteel and modern, and ring more gratefully in the ear of royalty. It was also urged, how Mrs. Clarke’s friend, the Rev. Dr. O’Meara, unfortunately lost the honour of preaching before royalty by his pertinacity in retaining the abominable _O_, and that had he dropped that hideous prefixture, and been announced plainly as the Rev. Doctor Meera, his doctrines might probably have atoned for his Milesianality, and a stall in some cathedral, or at least a rural deanery, might have rewarded his powers of declamation.

“Having begun so well, who knows what famous end you may arrive at, Sir William?” said Sir Jemmy Riddle, the then high sheriff (a very good man too), who was be-knighted on the same occasion. “When we all go to St. James’s,” continued Sir Jemmy, “to thank our Sovereign and kiss his hand in _his own metrolopus_, sure the name of our Lord Mayor, Sir W. Steemer, will sound every taste as harmonious if not _harmoniouser_, than that of the great Sir Claudius Hunter, or our own Claudius Beresford, or any Claudius in Europe!—and sure, changing _am_ for _ee_, to please his Majesty, is neither a sin nor a shame in any family, were they as old as _Mathuslin_:—besides, old White, the schoolmaster, the greatest scholar, by odds, that ever was in Dublin, told me that one vowel was worth two consonants any day in the year; and that the alteration would make a great difference in the sweetness of the odes he was writing on your promotion.”

Sir William, however, being fond of the old proper name which had stuck to him through thick and thin, in all weathers, and which he and his blood relations had been so long accustomed to spell, did not at all relish the proposed innovation. Besides, he considered that any thing like the assumption of a new name might bring him too much on a level with some _modern_ corporators, who not having any particular cognomen of their own at the time of their nativity, or at least not being able to discover it, but being well christened for fear of accidents, very judiciously took only provisional denominations for their apprenticeship indentures, and postponed the adoption of any immutable surname until they had considered what might probably be most attractive to customers in their several trades.

The grand measure was nevertheless so strongly pressed—the ladies so coaxed the alderman to take the _pretty_ name, and they were so well supported by Sir Charles Vernon, then master of the ceremonies, (and of course the best judge in Ireland of what was good for Sir William at the Castle of Dublin,) that his resolution gradually softened, wavered, and gave way. He became convinced against his will, and at last, with a deep sigh and a couple of imprecations, ungratefully yielded up his old, broad, national _Stammer_, to adopt an Anglicised mincemeat version thereof; and in a few nights, Sir William _Steemer’s_ landau was announced as stopping the way at the breaking up of the Duchess of Richmond’s drawing-room.

’Tis true, some very cogent and plausible reasons were suggested to Sir William, pending the negotiation, by a lady of excellent judgment, and what was termed in Dublin “masculine understanding.” This lady had great weight with his lordship. “You know, my Lord Mayor,” said she, sententiously, “you are now nine or ten pegs (at the lowest computation) higher than you were as a common alderman, and a pronunciation that might sound quite in unison with ‘sheriff’s peer,’ would be mere discord in the politer mouths of your new equals.”

“Ah! what would Jekey Poole say to all this, if he were alive?” _thought_ Sir William, but was silent.

“Consider, also,”—pursued the lady,—“consider that Stammer is a very common kind of word; nay, it is a mere verb of Dutch extraction (as that great man Doctor Johnson says), which signifies stuttering; and to articulate which, there is a graceless double chopping of the under jaw—as if a person was taking a bite out of something:—try now, try, Stammer—Stammer!”

“Egad, it’s—it’s very true,” said Sir William: “I—I never remarked that before.”

“But,” resumed the lady with the masculine understanding, “the word Steemer, on the contrary, has a soft, bland, liquid sound, perfectly adapted to genteel table-talk. To pronounce Steemer, you will perceive, Sir William, there is a slight tendency to a lisp: the tip of the tongue presses gently against the upper gums, and a nice extension of the lips approaching toward a smile, gives an agreeable sensation, as well as a polite complacency of countenance to the addresser.—Now, try!”

Sir William lisped and capitulated—on express condition; first, that the old County Clare tone of Stammer, in its natural length and breadth, should be preserved when the name was used by or to the Corporation of Dublin.

“Granted,” said the lady with the masculine understanding.

“Secondly, amongst the aldermen of Skinners’ Alley.”

“Granted.”

“Thirdly, in the Court of Conscience.”

“Granted.”

“Fourthly, in my own counting-house.”

“Granted—according to the rank of the visitor.”

“Fifthly, as to all my _country_ acquaintance.”

“Granted, with the exception of such as hold any offices, or get into good company.”

The articles were arranged, and the treaty took effect that very evening.

Sir William no doubt acquired one distinction hereby, which he never foresaw. Several other aldermen of Dublin city have been since converted into baronets of the United Kingdom, but not one of them has been able to alter a single syllable in his name, or to make it sound even a semitone more _genteel_ than when it belonged to a commonplace alderman. There was no lack of jesting, however, on those occasions. A city punster, I think it was a gentleman called, by the Common Council, Gobbio, waggishly said, “That the Corporation of Dublin must be a set of incorrigible Tories, inasmuch as they never have a feast without _King-James_[1] being placed at the head of their table.”

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Footnote 1:

Two Dublin aldermen lately made baronets; one by his Majesty on his
landing in Ireland (Alderman King); and the other by the Marquess of
Wellesley on _his_ debarkation (Alderman James), being the first
public functionary he met. The Marquess would fain have _knighted_
him; but being taken by surprise, he conferred the same honour which
Aldermen Stammer and King had previously received.

There are now four baronets amongst that hard-going corporation.

-----

It is said that this joke was first cracked at the Castle of Dublin by a gentleman of the long robe, and that Mr. Gobbio gave one of the footmen (who attended and _took notes_) half a guinea for it. Though a digression, I cannot avoid observing that I hear, from good authority, there are yet some few wits surviving in Dublin; and it is whispered that the butlers and footmen in genteel families (_vails_ having been mostly abolished since the Union) pick up, by way of substitute, much ready money by taking notes of the “_good things_” they hear said by the lawyers at their masters’ dinner parties, and selling them to aldermen, candidates for the sheriffry, and city humourists, wherewith to embellish their conversation and occasionally their speeches. Puns are said to sell the best, they being more handy to a corporator, who has no great vocabulary of his own: puns are of easy comprehension; one word brings on another, and answers for two meanings, like killing two birds with one stone, and they seem much more natural to the memory of a common councilman than wit or any thing classical—which Alderman Jekey Poole used to swear was only the d—’d _garbage_ (gibberish) of schoolmasters.

Had the Jubilee concern ended here, all would have been smooth and square:—but as events in families seldom come alone, Providence had decreed a still more severe trial for Sir William _Steemer_—because one of a more important character, and requiring a more prompt as well as expensive decision.

Soon after the luxurious celebration of the Jubilee throughout the three united kingdoms (except among such of the Irish as happened to have nothing in their houses to eat or drink, let their loyalty be ever so greedy), I chanced to call at the Mansion House on official business; and Sir William, always hospitable and good-natured, insisted on my staying to taste (in a family way) some “_glorious turtle_” he had just got over from the London Tavern, and a bottle of what he called “old Lafitte with the red nightcap,” which, he said, he had been long preserving wherewith to _suckle_ his Excellency the Duke of Richmond.

I accepted his invitation: we had most excellent cheer, and were busily employed in praising the vintage of 1790, when a sealed packet, like a government dispatch, was brought in by the baronet’s old porter. We all thought it was something of consequence, when Sir William, impatiently breaking the seal, out started a very beautiful painting on parchment or vellum, gilded and garnished with ultramarine, carmine, lapis caliminaris, and all the most costly colours.