Personal sketches of his own times, Vol. 1 (of 3) — Inside the Classic
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Personal sketches of his own times, Vol. 1 (of 3) — Inside the Classic can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 117,495 words, 8 hr 31 min estimated reading time, and 38 detected text sections.
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place of meeting, which was to be in the old castle of Reuben, near Athy. Eleven or twelve of the squires privately attended at the appointed hour, and it was determined, that whoever should be the lucky winner was to receive the aid and assistance of the others in bearing away the prize, and gaining her hand. To this effect, a league offensive and defensive was entered into between them—one part of which went to destroy Elizabeth’s warders root and branch; and to forward their object, it was desirable, if possible, to procure some inmate of the castle, who, by fair or foul means, might be induced to inform them of the best mode of entry: this caused the attempt to carry off old Jug Ogie.
However, they were not long in want of a spy; for Elizabeth, hearing of their plan from the gossoon[10] of Reuben (a nephew of Jug’s), determined to take advantage of it. “My lady,” said Jug Ogie, “pretend to turn me adrift in a dark night, and give out that my gossoon here was found robbing you—they’ll soon get wind of it, and I’ll be the very person the squires want—and then you’ll hear all.”
A gossoon was then, and till very lately, an indispensable part of a country gentleman’s establishment;—a dirty, bare-legged boy, who could canter six miles an hour on all sorts of errands and messages—carry turf—draw water—light the fires—turn the spit, when the dog was absent, &c. tell lies, and eat _any thing_. One of these gossoons took a _run_ (as they call it) of ten miles and back for some person, and only required a large dram of whiskey for his payment.
The matter was agreed on, and old Jug Ogie and the gossoon were turned out, as thieves, to the great surprise of the warders and the country. But Jug was found and hired, as she expected; and soon comfortably seated in the kitchen at Castle Reuben, with the gossoon, whom she took in as kitchen-boy. She gave her tongue its full fling,—told a hundred stories about her “_devil_ of a mistress,”—and undertook to inform the squires of the best way to get to her apartment.
Elizabeth was now sure to learn every thing so soon as determined on. The faction had arranged all matters for the capture:—the night of its execution approached: the old cook prepared a good supper for the _quality_:—the squires arrived, and the gossoon had to run only three miles to give the lady the intelligence. Twelve cavaliers attended, each accompanied by one of the ablest of his faction—for they were all afraid of each other, whenever the wine should rise upwards; and they did not take more for fear of discovery.
The lots, being formed of straws of different lengths, were held by M‘Mahon, the host, who was disinterested; and the person of Elizabeth, her fortune, and Moret castle, fell to the lot of M‘Carthy O’Moore, one of the Cremorgan squires, and, according to tradition, as able-bodied, stout a man as any in the whole country. The rest all swore to assist him till death; and one in the morning was the time appointed for the surprise of Elizabeth and her castle—while in the mean time they began to enjoy the good supper of old Jug Ogie.
Castle Reuben had been one of the strongest places in the county, situated on the river Barrow, in the midst of a swamp, which rendered it nearly inaccessible. It had belonged to a natural son of one of the Geraldines, who had his throat cut by Andy M‘Mahon, a game-keeper of his own; and nobody choosing to interfere with the _sportsman_, he, with his five sons, (all rapparees well-armed and wicked) remained peaceably in possession of the castle, and now accommodated the squires during their plot against Elizabeth.
That heroic dame, on her part, was not inactive; she informed her warders of the scheme to force a new master on her and them; and many a round oath she swore (with corresponding gesticulations, the description of which would not be over agreeable to modern readers,) that she never would grant her favours to mortal man, but preserve her castle and her chastity to the last extremity.
The warders took fire at the attempt of the squires. They always detested the _defensive_ system; and probably to that hatred may be attributed a few of the robberies, burglaries, and burnings, which in those times were considered in that neighbourhood as little more than occasional pastimes.
“Arrah! lady,” said Keeran Karry, “how many rogues ’ill there be at Reuben, as you larn, to-night?—arrah!”
Sir Jonah Barrington opens his memoir with a confession: he began writing it almost accidentally, while his more serious Historic Memoirs of Ireland languished with bankrupt publishers. This origin explains the book's informal, anecdotal character. Barrington addresses his friend Chief Justice Bushe in a dedication that calls the work a 'trifle' and a 'pastime of a winter's evening,' establishing a tone of modest, gentlemanly reminiscence. The reader should expect not a systematic history but a series of personal sketches, each shaped by Barrington's position as a judge in the Irish High Court of Admiralty.
A Self-Aware Compiler
Barrington's introduction reveals a writer conscious of his method. He describes his work as 'a medley' and admits he was 'half-way through it before I could reasonably account for the thing.' This self-deprecation is strategic: it signals that the sketches are not meant to be a formal history but a collection of memories, arranged by association rather than chronology. The reader should note how Barrington frames his authority: he is an insider, a judge who moved among the powerful, yet he presents his observations as casual and unpretentious. This voice—wry, confiding, occasionally ironic—pervades the volume and shapes how we receive his portraits.
The Turk in Dublin: A Case Study
The extended account of Doctor Achmet Borumborad, a Turkish physician who established public baths in Dublin, illustrates Barrington's method. He describes the Doctor's 'immense turban' and 'stately' appearance, noting how the public first feared him, then embraced him after learning he would treat the poor. Barrington observes that the ladies found him 'a very nice Turk,' while husbands initially jealous soon became his friends. The narrative traces Borumborad's rise: he won over Parliament, secured grants, and built a successful bathhouse. But Barrington hints at a reversal with 'But, alas! fortune is treacherous,' leaving the story unfinished in the excerpt. This pattern—building a character through vivid details, then pivoting to a downfall—recurs throughout the sketches.
Voice and Verifiable Detail
Barrington's prose is marked by specific, verifiable observations. He notes that Borumborad's baths were 'planned after Turkish models' and that a cold bath 'communicate[d] with the river' and was 'entirely renewed every tide.' Such concrete details ground the anecdotes in material reality. The author also reveals his sources: he was present at the events or heard them from contemporaries. When he describes the Doctor's 'good-humour and engaging manners,' he adds that these qualities 'gained him many friends even among the husbands themselves.' This specificity—naming streets, buildings, parliamentary sessions—gives the sketches a documentary quality, even when the tone is playful.
Reading the Unfinished Portrait
The excerpts break off just as Borumborad's fortunes turn, with 'an unlucky though most ludicrous incident' that 'threw the poor fellow completely a-back.' This abrupt halt is instructive: Barrington's sketches often follow a rise-and-fall arc, but the full resolution may be deferred. Readers should attend to how Barrington structures each portrait—what details he selects, what he omits, and where he leaves the story hanging. The incomplete account of Borumborad suggests that Barrington values the anecdote's momentum over its conclusion. This approach rewards a patient reader who enjoys the texture of 18th-century Irish life—its politics, fashions, and eccentric personalities—more than a tidy narrative.
Barrington's Personal Sketches is best read as a series of discrete episodes, each offering a window into the author's world. The reader need not remember every name or date; instead, focus on the recurring motifs—the rise and fall of characters, the interplay of public perception and private reality, and Barrington's own wry commentary. The volume's value lies not in its completeness but in its immediacy: a judge's-eye view of a society in transition, captured in moments of humor, scandal, and everyday life.
There’s something about Barrington’s Sketches that stays with me—not the grand trials, but the quiet strangeness of people, like that Turkish doctor wandering Dublin. It reminded me of reading about Gladstone’s life, how the intimate details outlast the public ones. The same warmth lingers there, strangely close: My Memory of Gladstone — Inside the Classic. Both feel like conversations overheard, soft and true.
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