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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