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             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.

                             [Illustration]

                                 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