Jonah Barrington - Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 1 (of 3)

As to the politics of my family, we had (no doubt) some very substantial reasons for being both Cromwellians and Williamites; the one confirmed our grants, and the other preserved them for us; my family, indeed, had certainly not only those, but other very especial reasons to be pleased with King William; and though he gave them nothing, they kept what they had, which might have been lost but for his usurpation.

During the short reign of James the Second in Ireland, those who were not for him were considered to be against him, and of course were subjected to the severities and confiscations usual in all civil wars. Amongst the rest, my great-grandfather, Colonel John Barrington, being a Protestant, and having no predilection for King James, was ousted from his mansion and estates at Cullenaghmore by one O’Fagan, a Jacobite wig-maker and violent partizan, from Ballynakill. He was, notwithstanding, rather respectfully treated, and was allowed forty pounds a year by his said wig-maker, so long as he behaved himself.

However, he only behaved well for a couple of months; at the end of which time, with a party of his faithful tenants, he surprised the wig-maker, drove him out of possession in his turn, and repossessed himself of his mansion and estates.

The wig-maker, having escaped to Dublin, laid his complaint before the authorities; and a party of soldiers were ordered to make short work of it, if the colonel did not submit on the first summons.

The party demanded entrance, but were refused; and a little firing from the windows of the mansion took place. Not being, however, tenable, it was successfully stormed – the old gamekeeper, John Neville, killed, and my great-grandfather taken prisoner, conveyed to the drum-head at Raheenduff, tried as a rebel by a certain Cornet M‘Mahon, and in due form ordered to be hanged in an hour.

At the appointed time, execution was punctually proceeded on; and so far as tying up the colonel to the cross-bar of his own gate, the sentence was actually put in force. But at the moment the first haul was given to elevate him, Ned Doran, a tenant of the estate, who was a trooper in King James’s army, rode up to the gate – himself and horse in a state of complete exhaustion. He saw with horror his landlord strung up, and exclaimed, —

“Holloa! holloa! blood and ouns, boys! cut down the colonel! cut down the colonel! or ye’ll be all hanged yeerselves, ye villains of the world, ye! I am straight from the Boyne Water, through thick and thin: Ough, by the hokys! we’re all cut up and kilt to the devil and back agin – Jemmy’s scampered, bad luck to him, without a ‘good bye to yees!’ – or, ‘kiss my r – p!’ – or the least civility in life!”

My grandfather’s hangmen lost no time in getting off, leaving the colonel slung fast by the neck to the gate-posts. But Doran soon cut him down, and fell on his knees to beg pardon of his landlord, the holy Virgin, and King William from the Boyne Water.

The colonel obtained the trooper’s pardon, and he was ever after a faithful adherent. He was the grandfather of Lieutenant-colonel Doran, of the Irish brigade, afterward, (if I recollect right,) of the 47th regiment – the officer who cut a German colonel’s head clean off in the mess-room at Lisbon, after dinner, with one stroke of his sabre. 3 3 Sir Neil O’Donnel, who was present , first told me the anecdote. They fought with sabres: the whole company were intoxicated, and nobody minded them much till the German’s head came spinning like a top on the mess-table, upsetting their bottles and glasses. He could not remember what they quarrelled about. Colonel Doran himself assured me that he had very little recollection of the particulars. The room was very gloomy: – what he best remembered was, a tolerably effective gash which he got on his left ear, and which nearly eased him of that appendage: – it was very conspicuous. He dined with me repeatedly at Paris about six years since, and was the most disfigured warrior that could possibly be imagined. When he left Cullenagh for the continent, in 1784, he was as fine, clever-looking a young farmer as could be seen; but he had been blown up once or twice in storming batteries, which, with a few sabre-gashes across his features, and the obvious aid of numerous pipes of wine, or something not weaker, had so spoiled his beauty, that he had become of late absolutely frightful.

This occurrence of my great-grandfather fixed the political creed of my family. On the 1st of July, the orange lily was sure to garnish every window in the mansion: the hereditary patereroes scarcely ceased cracking all the evening, to glorify the victory of the Boyne Water, till one of them burst, and killed the gardener’s wife, who was tying an orange ribbon round the mouth of it, which she had stopped for fear of accidents .

The tenantry, though to a man Papists, and at that time nearly in a state of slavery, joined heart and hand in these rejoicings, and forgot the victory of their enemy while commemorating the rescue of their landlord. A hundred times have I heard the story repeated by the “ Cotchers ,” 4 4 A corruption of “ Cottager ;” the lowest grade of the Irish peasants, but the most cheerful, humorous, and affectionate. The word is spelt differently and ad libitum . Though the poorest, they were formerly the most happy set of vassals in Europe. as they sat crouching on their hams, like Indians, around the big turf fire. Their only lament was for the death of old John Neville, the game-keeper. His name I should well remember; for it was his grandson’s wife, Debby Clarke, who nursed me.

This class of stories and incidents was well calculated to make indelible impression on the mind of a child, and has never left mine. – The old people of Ireland (like the Asiatics) took the greatest delight in repeating their legendary tales to the children, by which constant, unvarying repetition, their old stories became hereditary, and I dare say neither gained nor lost a single sentence in the recital, for a couple of hundred years. The massacres of Queen Elizabeth and Cromwell were quite familiar to them; and by an ancient custom of every body throwing a stone on the spot where any celebrated murder had been committed, upon a certain day every year, or whenever a funeral passed by, it is wonderful what mounds were raised in numerous places, which no person, but such as were familiar with the customs of the poor creatures, would ever be able to account for.

I have often thought that people, insulated and shut out from society and external intercourse, ignorant of letters and all kinds of legends save their own local traditions, are as likely to be faithful historians as the plagiarists and compilers of the present day.

I have heard the same stories of old times told in different parts of the country by adverse factions and cotchers, with scarcely a syllable of difference as to time or circumstance. They denote their periods, not by “the year of our Lord,” or reigns, or months; but by seasons and festivals, and celebrated events or eras, – such as “the Midsummer after the great frost ” – “the All-hallow eve before the Boyne Water ” – “the Candlemas that Squire Conolly had all the hounds at Bally Killeavan” – “the time the English Bishop 5 5 Arthur, Bishop of Waterford, was hung at Dublin for an unnatural crime – a circumstance which the prejudiced Irish greatly rejoiced at, and long considered as forming an epocha. was hanged,” &c. &c.

My great-aunt, Elizabeth – Besieged in her castle of Moret – My uncle seized and hanged before the walls – Attempted abduction of Elizabeth, whose forces surprise the castle of Reuben – Severe battle.