The compilation by me of a medley of this description may appear rather
singular. Indeed, I myself think it so, and had got nearly half-way
through it before I could reasonably account for the thing;—more
especially as it was by no means commenced for mercenary purposes. The
fact is, I had long since engaged my mind and time on a work of real
public interest; and so far as that work was circulated, my literary
ambition was _more_ than gratified by the approbation it received. But
it has so happened, that my publishers, one after another, have been
wanting in the qualification of stability; and hence, my “Historic
Memoirs of Ireland” have been lying fast asleep, in their own sheets, on
the shelves of three successive booksellers or their assignees; and so
ingeniously were they scattered about, that I found it impossible for
some years to collect them. This was rather provoking, as there were
circumstances connected with the work, which (be its merits what they
may) would, in my opinion, have ensured it an extensive circulation.
However, I have at length finished the Memoirs in question, which I
verily believe are now about to be published in reality,[1] and will
probably excite sundry differences of opinion and shades of praise or
condemnation (both of the book and the author) among His Majesty’s liege
subjects.
-----
Footnote 1:
See the Prospectus, published with the present work.
-----
For the purpose of completing that work, I had lately re-assumed my
habit of writing; and being tired of so serious and responsible a
concern as “Memoirs of Ireland and the Union,” I began to consider what
species of employment might lightly wear away the long and tedious
winter evenings of a demi-invalid; and recollecting that I could neither
live for ever nor was _sure_ of being the “last man,” I conceived the
idea of looking over and burning a horse-load or two of letters, papers,
and fragments of all descriptions, which I had been carrying about in
old trunks (not choosing to leave them at any body’s mercy), and to
which I had been perpetually adding.
The execution of this _inflammatory_ project I immediately set about
with vast assiduity and corresponding success; and doubtless, with very
great advantage to the literary reputation of an immense number of my
former correspondents as well as my own. After having made considerable
progress, I found that some of the fragments amused myself, and I
therefore began to consider whether they might not also amuse other
people. I was advised to make selections from my store, particularly as
I had, for near half a century, kept—not a diary—but a sort of rambling
chronicle, wherein I made notes of matters which, from time to time,
struck my fancy. Some of these memoranda were illegible; others just
sufficient to set my memory working; some were sad, and some were
cheerful; some very old, others recent. In fine, I began to _select_:
but I soon found that any thing like a _regular_ series was out of the
question; so I took a heap indiscriminately, picked out the subjects
that amused me most, wrote a list of their several headings, which were
very numerous; and, as his Majesty pricks for sheriffs, so did I for
subjects, and thereby gathered as many as I conceived would make two or
three volumes. My next process was to make up _court-dresses_ for my
Sketches and Fragments, such as might facilitate their introduction into
respectable company, without observing strict _chronological sequence_,
to which I am aware light readers have a rooted aversion.
This laudable occupation served to amuse me and to fill up the blanks of
a winter’s evening; and being finished, the residue of the papers
re-deposited, and the trunks locked again, I requested the publisher of
my “Historic Memoirs” also to set my “Personal Sketches” afloat. This he
undertook to do: and they are now sent out to the public—the _world_, as
it is called; and the reader (_gentle_ reader is too hackneyed a term,
and far too confident an anticipation of good temper) will of course
draw from them whatever deductions he pleases, without asking my
permission. All I have to say is, that the several matters contained
herein are neither fictions nor essays, but relate to real matters of
fact, and personages composed of flesh and blood. I have aimed at no
display of either fancy or imagination; nor have I set down long
dialogues or soliloquies which could not possibly be recorded except
when heroes and heroines carried short-hand writers in their pockets,
which must have been peculiarly inconvenient. In speaking of _fanciful_
matters, I may as well except my own opinions on certain subjects here
and there interspersed, which I freely leave to the mercy of any one who
is disposed to esteem them visionary.
However, be it understood, that I by no means intend this disclaimer as
an assault on—but on the contrary as a distinguished compliment
to—writers and works of pure imagination—of improbability and
impossibility!—inasmuch as such works prove an unlimited range of
intellect and talent, on the part of the authors, for inventing _matters
of fact_ that never could have occurred, and _conversations_ that never
could have taken place;[2] a talent which, when duly cultivated and
practised for the use of friends and private families, seldom fails to
bring an author’s name into most _extensive circulation_; and if
perchance he should get himself into any scrape by it, nothing is so
likely as the exercise of the same talent of _invention_ to get him out
of it again.
-----
Footnote 2:
I have seen in a new novel a minute recital of a very affecting
_soliloquy_ pronounced with appropriate gesticulation by a fine young
man while he was “pacing about” a large room in a castle; the thunder
meanwhile roaring, and the rain pattering at the casements. In this
castle there was at the time no other living person; and the soliloquy
was so spoken as his dying words immediately before he shot himself.
As there was nobody else in the castle during the catastrophe, his
affecting words were never divulged till this novel made its
appearance—leaving the ingenious reader to infer the many invisible
spies and tell-tales that survey our most secret movements.
-----
On the other hand, I must own (even against myself) that the writing of
mere common-place truths requires no talent whatsoever! it is quite a
_humdrum_, straight-forward, dull custom, which any person may attain.
Besides, matter of fact is not at all in vogue just now: the disrepute
under which truth in general at present labours, in all departments and
branches of literature, has put it quite out of fashion even among the
_savans_:—so that chemistry and mathematics are almost the only
subjects, on the certainty of which the “nobility, gentry, and public at
large,” appear to place any very considerable reliance.
Having thus, I hope, proved my candour at my own cost, the deduction is
self-evident—namely, that the unfortunate authenticity of these sketches
must debar them from any competition with the tales and tattle of
unsophisticated invention: when, for instance, _scandal_ is _true_, it
is (as some ladies have assured me) considered by the whole sex as
scarcely worth listening to, and actually requiring at least very
considerable exaggeration to render it at all amusing! I therefore
greatly fear I may not, in this instance, experience so much of their
favour as I am always anxious to obtain: my only consolation is, that
when their desire to indulge an amiable appetite for scandal is very
ardent, they may find ample materials in every bookseller’s shop and
_haut-ton_ society to gratify the passion.
I feel now necessitated to recur to another point, and I do it at the
risk of being accused of egotism. I hope, however, I can advance a good
reason for my proceeding; namely, that, on reading over some of the
articles whereof this _mélange_ is composed, I freely admit, that if I
were not _very_ intimately acquainted with myself, I might be led at
least into a puzzle as to the writer’s genuine sentiments on many points
of theology and politics. Now, I wish, seriously speaking, to avoid, on
these subjects, all ambiguity; and therefore, as responsible for the
opinions put forth in the following Sketches, I beg to state, that I
consider myself strictly orthodox both in politics and theology: that is
to say, I profess to be a sound Protestant, without bigotry; and an
hereditary royalist, without ultraism. Liberty I love—Democracy I hate:
Fanaticism I denounce! These principles I have ever held and avowed, and
they are confirmed by time and observation. I own that I have been what
is generally called a _courtier_, and I have been also what is generally
called a _patriot_; but I never was either _unqualifiedly_. I always
thought, and I think still, that they never should, and never need be
(upon fair principles) opposed to each other. I can also see no reason
why there may not be patriot kings as well as patriot subjects—a patriot
_minister_, indeed, may be more problematical.
In my public life, I have met with but one transaction that even
_threatened_ to make my _patriotism_ overbalance my _loyalty_: I allude
to the purchase and sale of the Irish Parliament, _called_ a Union,
which I ever regarded as one of the most flagrant public acts of
corruption on the records of history, and certainly the most mischievous
to this empire. I believe very few men sleep the sounder for having
supported the measure; though some, it is true, _went to sleep_ a good
deal sooner than they expected when they carried it into execution.
* * * * *
I must also observe that, as to the _detail_ of politics, I feel now
very considerable apathy. My day for actual service is past; and I shall
only further allude, as a simple casuist, to the slang terms in which it
has become the fashion to dress up the most important subjects of
British statistics—subjects on which certain of these Sketches appear to
have a remote bearing, and on which my ideas might possibly be
misunderstood.
I wish it therefore to be considered as my humble opinion, that what, in
political slang, is termed _Radical Reform_, is, in reality, _proximate
revolution_:—_Universal Suffrage, inextinguishable uproar_:—and _Annual
Parliaments, periodical bloodshed_.[3] My doubts as a casuist, with
these impressions on my mind, must naturally be, how the orderly folks
of Great Britain would relish such _pastimes_?—I do not extend the query
to the natives of my own country, because, since His Majesty was there,
nobody has taken much notice of them: besides, the _poor_ people in
Ireland having very little to eat and no amusement at all, the aforesaid
entertainments might _divert_ them, or at least their _hunger_, and of
course be extremely acceptable to a great body of the population.
-----
Footnote 3:
I apprehend that there were more persons killed at the late elections
in Ireland than there were members elected at the contested places;
and I have no doubt that annual parliaments would give more employment
to the coroners in Ireland than any species of riot that has yet been
invented for that pugnacious population. In truth, what I have
mentioned in another work as being the proofs of _pleasure_ in
Ireland, were also generally the termination of contested elections:
the gradation was always the same: viz. “an illumination, a bonfire, a
_riot_,” and “_other_ demonstrations of _joy_!”—N.B. Where candles to
illuminate with were not to be had, _burning a house_ was not
unfrequently substituted!
-----
As I also perceive some articles in these Sketches touching upon matters
relative to Popes, Cardinals, Catholics, &c.; lest I may be misconstrued
or misrepresented on that head, I beg to observe, that I meddle not at
all in the controversy of Catholic Emancipation. The _Doctors_ employed
_differ_ so essentially in opinion, that, as it frequently falls out on
many other consultations, they may lose their patient while debating on
the prescription:—in truth, I don’t see how the Doctors _can_ ever
agree, as the prescribers must necessarily take the _assay_; and one
half of them verily believe that they should be poisoned thereby!—“Among
ye be it, blind harpers!”
I apprehend I have now touched on most of the topics which occurred to
me as requiring a word of explanation. I repeat that this book is only
to be considered as a desultory _mélange_—the whim of a winter’s
evening—a mere chance-selection. I shall therefore make no sort of
apology for inaccuracies as to unity of time, for defective connexion,
or the like. It amused my leisure hours; and if it fortunately amuses
those of other people, I shall receive a great deal of satisfaction.