Chapter X: Part 10

I never saw Lord Redesdale more puzzled than at one of Plunkett’s best _jeux d’esprits_. A cause was argued in Chancery, wherein the plaintiff prayed that the defendant should be restrained from suing him on certain bills of exchange, as they were nothing but _kites_.—“Kites!” exclaimed Lord Redesdale:—“Kites, Mr. Plunkett! Kites never could amount to the value of those securities! I don’t understand this statement at all, Mr. Plunkett.”

“It is not to be expected that you should, my lord,” answered Plunkett: “in England and in Ireland, kites are quite different things. In England, the _wind_ raises the _kites_; but in Ireland, the _kites_ raise the _wind_!”

“I do not feel any way better informed yet, Mr. Plunkett,” said the matter-of-fact chancellor.

“Well, my lord, I’ll explain the thing without mentioning those birds of prey:”—and therewith he elucidated the difficulty.

Lord Redesdale never could pronounce the name of Mr. Colclough (a suitor in the Chancery court). It was extremely amusing to hear how he laboured to get it off his tongue, but quite in vain! Callcloff was his nearest effort. I often wished I could recommend him to try his _dog-teeth_.—His lordship was considered by the Irish bar a _very good_ lawyer. They punned on his _title_, as he had singularly assumed one so _apropos_ to his habits: they pronounced it _Reads-a-deal_. But his lordship’s extraordinary passion for talking, added _Talks-a-deal_ to his appellation. He was told of both _sobriquets_, but did not _understand punning_; and perhaps he was right.

On the discussion of the Catholic bill, in 1792, Lord Westmoreland, then lord lieutenant of Ireland, certainly did not approve of the precipitate measures wished for by his secretary, Major Hobart (afterwards Earl of Buckinghamshire). I had the honour of distinctly knowing the sentiments of both, and clearly saw the shades of difference which existed between them, but which, of course, I had not the presumption to notice. I felt convinced that both were my friends, and was desirous, if possible, to run counter to neither.

I never had disputed the political right of the Catholics _theoretically_: but I had been bred up amongst Williamites, and had imbibed (without very well understanding their bearing) strong Protestant principles; and hence I deemed it wisest neither to speak nor vote upon the subject at that period; and, in fact, I _never_ did.

The Irish Catholics had conceived a wonderfully high opinion of Mr. Edmund Burke’s assistance and abilities.—Because he was a clever man himself, they conceived his son must needs be so too; and a deputation was sent over to induce young Mr. Burke to come to Ireland, for the purpose of superintending the progress of their bills of emancipation in the Irish Parliament; and, to bear his expenses, a sum of 2000_l._ was voted. Mr. Keogh, of Dublin, a very sensible man, who had retired from trade, was extremely active upon this occasion.

The bills were introduced, and resisted: a petition had been prepared by Burke; but being considered neither well-timed nor well-worded, certain even of the warmest Catholic supporters declined to present it.

Young Burke, either totally ignorant of parliamentary rules, or supposing that in a disturbed country like Ireland they would be dispensed with (especially in favour of a son of the great Burke), determined he would present the petition himself;—not at the bar, but in the body of the House! Accordingly, he descended from the gallery, walked into the body of the House with a long roll of parchment under his arm, and had arrived near the Treasury-bench, when a general cry of “Privilege!—A stranger in the House!” arose from all quarters, and checked the progress of the intruder: but when the Speaker, in his loud and dignified tone, called out “Serjeant-at-arms, do your duty!” it seemed to echo like thunder in Burke’s ears; he felt the awkwardness of his situation, and ran towards the bar. Here he was met by the serjeant-at-arms with a drawn sword,—retracing his steps, he was stopped by the clerk; and the serjeant gaining on him, with a feeling of trepidation he commenced actual _flight_! The door-keepers at the corridor now joined in pursuit; but at length, after an excellent chase, (the members all keeping their seats,) he forced through the enemy behind the Speaker’s chair, and escaped! no doubt, to his great satisfaction. Strong measures were immediately proposed: messengers despatched in all quarters to arrest him: very few knew who he was; when Lord Norbury, (with that vivacious promptness which he always possessed,) on its being observed that no such transaction had ever occurred before, exclaimed, “Yes—I found the same incident some few days back in the _cross-readings_ of the columns of a newspaper:—‘Yesterday a petition was presented to the House of Commons——it fortunately _missed fire_, and the villain ran off!’”

It was impossible to withstand this sally, which put the House in a moment into good humour. Burke returned to England unsuccessful, and the matter dropped.

It being observed by some member that the serjeant-at-arms should have stopped the man at the back-door, Sir Boyle Roche very justly asked the honourable gentleman—“How could the serjeant-at-arms stop him in the rear, whilst he was catching him in the front?”

I read some time back in the English newspapers an anecdote of Lord Norbury’s having appeared on the bench in a _masquerade dress_! As I was myself present at that occurrence, it is only just to his lordship to state the _facts_, whence it will appear that it was totally a mistake—so much so, indeed, that his lordship did not seem to be conscious of his habiliments even whilst every person in court was staring with astonishment.

Some time previously, Lady Castlereagh had given a very splendid masquerade, at which I saw the chief justice in the dress, and character of _Hawthorn_, in “Love in a Village;” and well did he enact that part. The dress was a green tabinet, with mother-of-pearl buttons, striped yellow-and-black waistcoat, and buff breeches; and was altogether cool and light.

On going the next circuit, (the weather being excessively sultry, and his lordship having a great press of sentences to pass on rebels, &c. at Carlow,) he put on, under his robes, the lightest vestments in his lordship’s wardrobe. Now, be it remembered, that the use of the said masquerade-dress was a _dead secret_ except to the robes that covered it; and neither the passing nor future generations would ever have heard a word of the green jacket, if the said robes had kept themselves close, as the chief justice had carefully provided before the sounding of the trumpet.

The warmth of the day, however, and the variety of appropriate addresses necessary to be framed for so many convicted criminals, might be expected to take away a certain quantity of any man’s precaution; and, as a chief justice is _but a man_, Lord Norbury fell into the snare! and, feeling the heat insufferable, (which the twisting his wig sideways did not relieve,) he involuntarily first turned up the sleeves of his robe, then loosened the zone round his waist: the robe being now free from all restraint, thought it had a right to steal away from the green jacket; and thus the unconscious chief justice, the representative of the King, “stood confessed” to the auditory in the court-house as representative of a very different character from that of his Majesty! But it was an accident that might, without culpability, have happened even to an archbishop! I myself once saw a bishop play the _fiddle_, at one of the concerts of the first Lady Westmoreland, in Dublin Castle; and it was not even _pretended_ that he did it by _accident_.

It is only justice to Lord Norbury to add, that I have repeatedly seen him do things involuntarily, which it would have been totally impossible for him to have done, if conscious, at the time, of his own actions. Though acute in general, he occasionally thought of so many things at once, that he lost all recollection whether of place or circumstance.[62]

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Footnote 62:

His lordship purchased from the legatee of the parliamentary trustee
of my family estate, a small portion of it in the Queens’ county, for,
I believe, 40,000_l._ I have taken steps to render all those sales
subjects of equity inquiry—the trustee having bought it up himself,
after some transfers—I unfortunately assented to the Act of Parliament
which left 8000_l._ a year at the mercy of trustees—_Dieu et mon
droit!_

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HENRY GRATTAN.

Mr. Grattan in his sedan-chair—The “point of honour”—Mr. Egan’s gift of
second-sight—The guillotine and executioner—Colonel Burr,
vice-president of the United States, and Mr. Randolph—Mr. Grattan in
masquerade—Death of that illustrious patriot, and strictures on his
interment in Westminster Abbey—Letter from the author to his son,
Henry Grattan, Esq.

Many anecdotes occur to me of my late respected friend, Mr. Grattan. There are but few, however, which can throw fresh light upon a character so long and so generally known, and which exhibited unvarying excellence.

I never met any man who possessed the genuine elements of courage in a higher degree than Mr. Grattan,—in whom dwelt a spirit of mild, yet impetuous bravery, which totally banished all apprehensions of danger.

I have already given some account of my contest for Dublin city, and of the circumstances connecting my illustrious friend therewith. On the evening of the first day of polling, whilst I sat at dinner, a servant announced that a gentleman in a sedan-chair was at the door and wished to speak to me. I immediately went out, and finding it was Grattan, begged him to enter the house; upon which he desired his chair to be taken into the hall. His manner was so agitated and mysterious, that I felt quite alarmed, and feared something untoward had happened to him. We went into a parlour, where, without any introductory observation, he exclaimed—“Barrington, I must have a shot at that r——l!”

“Heavens!” said I, “what r——l?”

“There is but one such!” cried he:—“Giffard!”

“My dear Grattan,” I replied, “you cannot be serious:—there is no ground for a challenge on your part: if he survives _your words_, no bullet could have effect upon him.”

“Ah, that won’t do, Barrington!” exclaimed Grattan: “he objected to my voting for you, because, he said, I was a ‘_discarded_ corporator.’”

“That was not intended as _personal_,” said I; “and even had he gained his point, would it not be an _honour_ for you to be removed from such a corporation?”

“Barrington,” rejoined he, “it’s of no use!—I must have a shot at the man: I can’t sleep unless you go to him for me.”

This I peremptorily refused; arguing and reasoning with him again and again: he still continuing obstinate, I begged him to go and ask the advice of Mr. George Ponsonby.

“Oh no,” replied he, “Ponsonby is a _wise_ man;—wiser than either of us: in fact, he is sometimes too wise and too peaceable. You must go to Giffard:—perhaps it may not be _wise_, but I know you prefer your friend’s honour to his safety.—Come, now, get your hat, Barrington!”

Upward of an hour elapsed before I could even half convince him that he was wrong; but at length I hit on the only argument that could make any impression on him, and extracted a promise that he would let the affair drop:—“Grattan,” said I, “recollect matters, and have consideration for _me_.” He started:—“Yes,” continued I, “you know it was solely on my account that you exposed yourself to any insult; and do you think I could remain an idle _spectator_, in a conflict whereof I was the _cause_?—If you do not promise me that you will go ‘no further in this business,’ I shall instantly make the thing personal with Giffard _myself_.”

For a moment he was silent, then smiling—“Coriolanus,” said he, “replied to his parent—‘_Mother!_ you have conquered!’—I _will_ go no further.”

“I humbly thank you,” said I, “for making an old woman of me!”—He then went away, as I conceived, tolerably satisfied.—He had come thus privately (for the curtains were drawn round his chair) to avoid suspicion being excited of his intentions, and the authorities consequently interfering to prevent the combat. My surprise may be imagined, when, at six o’clock the next morning, I was roused by the same announcement of a _gentleman_ in a _chair_! I knew it must be Grattan, and directed him to be brought in.

I had now the same game to play over again. He said he had not slept a wink all night, from thinking about “that Giffard;” and that he “_must_ have a shot at him.” Another course now suggested itself to me, and I told him I had, on consideration, determined, whether right or wrong, that, if he persevered, I would wait upon the sheriff and get him bound over to keep the peace. He was not pleased at this, but had no option: he strode about the room, taking long steps and frequently raising himself up, as was his custom whenever agitated.—I was peremptory; and ultimately he agreed not to revive the subject during the election.

Mr. Egan (one of the roughest-looking persons possible), being at one time a supporter of government, made virulent philippics, in the Irish House of Commons, against the French Revolution. His figure was coarse and bloated, and his dress not over-elegant withal; in fact, he had by no means the look of a member of Parliament.

One evening he fell foul of a speech of Grattan’s; and among other absurdities, said in his paroxysm, that the right honourable gentleman’s speech had a tendency to introduce the _guillotine_ into the very body of the House: indeed, he almost thought he could already _perceive_ it before him!—(“Hear him! hear him!” echoed from Sir Boyle Roche.) Grattan good-humouredly replied, that the honourable member must have a vastly sharper sight than he had. He certainly could see no such thing: “but though,” added Grattan, looking with his glass toward Egan, “I may not see the guillotine, yet methinks I can perceive the _executioner_!”

“Order! order!” shouted Sir Boyle Roche: “_Dis_order! _dis_order!” cried Curran:—a general laugh prevented any further observation.

Colonel Burr, who had been vice-president of America, and probably would have been the next president, but for his unfortunate duel with General Hamilton, came over to England, and was made known to me by Mr. Randolph, of Virginia, a gentleman with whom I was very intimate. He requested I would introduce him to Mr. Grattan, whom he was excessively anxious to see. Colonel Burr was not a man of prepossessing appearance—rough-featured, and neither dressy nor polished—but a well-informed, sensible man; and though not a particularly agreeable, yet an instructive companion.[63]

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Footnote 63:

I see in the “American Review” of the former edition of this work, a
remark that I was _mistaken_ in my picture of Colonel Burr.—They must
know better than me; I only state what my _impression_ was on
superficial knowledge.

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People in general form extravagant anticipations regarding eminent persons. The idea of a _great orator_ and _Irish chief_ carried with it, naturally enough, corresponding notions of physical powers, elegance, vigour, and dignity. Such was Colonel Burr’s mistake, I believe, about Mr. Grattan, and I took care not to undeceive him.

We went to my friend’s house, who was to leave London next day. I announced that Colonel Burr (from America), Mr. Randolph, and myself, wished to pay our respects; and the servant informed us that his master would receive us in a short time, but was at the moment much occupied on business of consequence. Burr’s expectations were of course on the alert! Randolph also was anxious to be presented to the great Grattan; and both impatient for the entrance of this Demosthenes. At length the door opened, and in hopped a small bent figure,—meagre, yellow, and ordinary; one slipper and one shoe; his breeches’ knees loose; his cravat hanging down; his shirt and coat-sleeves tucked up high, and an old hat upon his head.

This apparition saluted the strangers very courteously:—asked (without any introduction) how long they had been in England, and immediately proceeded to make inquiries about the late General Washington and the revolutionary war. My companions looked at each other:—their replies were costive, and they seemed quite impatient to see _Mr. Grattan_! I could scarcely contain myself; but determined to let my eccentric, unconscious countryman take his course: he appeared quite delighted to see his visitors, and was the most inquisitive person in the world. Randolph was far the tallest, and most dignified-looking man of the two, gray-haired and well-dressed: Grattan, therefore, took _him_ for the late vice-president, and addressed him accordingly. Randolph at length begged to know if they could shortly have the honour of seeing Mr. Grattan!—Upon which, our host (not doubting but they knew him) conceived it must be his _son_ James for whom they inquired, and said, he believed he had that moment wandered out somewhere to amuse himself!

This completely disconcerted the Americans: they looked at each other, then at me, and were about to make their bow and their exit, when I thought it high time to explain; and, taking Colonel Burr and Mr. Randolph respectively by the hand, introduced them to the Right Honourable Henry Grattan.

I never saw people stare so, or more embarrassed! Grattan himself now perceiving the cause, heartily joined in my merriment:—he pulled down his shirt-sleeves, pulled up his stockings, and, in his own irresistible way, apologised for the _outré_ figure he cut, assuring them he had totally overlooked his toilet, in anxiety not to keep them waiting; that he was returning to Ireland next morning, and had been busily packing up his books and papers in a closet full of dust and cobwebs! This circumstance rendered the interview more interesting: the subject of colonial independence recommenced, and Grattan shone. The Americans were charmed with their reception; and, after a protracted visit, retired highly gratified: whilst Grattan returned again to his books and cobwebs, regretting very heartily that his immediate departure prevented him from having the pleasure of their further society.

Nobody lamented more than myself the loss of this distinguished man and true patriot, who, as every one knows, breathed his last in the British metropolis, after a long and painful illness; and the public papers soon after announced, to my astonishment and chagrin, the fact of preparations being on foot for his interment in Westminster Abbey! I say, to my astonishment and chagrin; because it was sufficiently plain that this affected mark of respect was only meant to restrain the honest enthusiasm which might have attended his funeral obsequies in his own country.

The subtle minister then ruling the councils of Britain, knew full well that vanity is the falsest guide of human judgment, and therefore held out that Westminster Abbey (the indiscriminate dormitory of generals and spies—of ministers, admirals, and poets,) was the most honourable resting-place for the remains of an Irish patriot. This lure was successful; and, accordingly, he who had made British ministers tremble in the cabinet—whose forbearance they had propitiated by a tender of the king’s best palace in Ireland[64]—and whose fame they had, nevertheless, endeavoured to destroy, and whose principles they had calumniated,—was escorted to the grave by the most decided of his enemies, and (as if in mockery of his country and himself) inhumed among the inveterate foes of Ireland and of Grattan! It is mean to say that Lord Castlereagh had latterly _changed his opinion_, and become _civil_ to his illustrious opponent:—so much the worse! he thereby confessed that, in 1797, and the two following years, he had laboured to destroy an _innocent_ man and to disgrace an Irish patriot, who, during a great portion of that period, lay on the bed of sickness.

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Footnote 64:

See my “Historic Memoirs of Ireland,” (vol. ii.) where this curious
incident is fully detailed. The offer was unexampled; the refusal (in
my opinion) injudicious.

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The Duke of Leinster, doubtless with the best possible motives, but with a view of the subject differing from my own, suggested that Ireland should do honour to her patriot son, by erecting a cenotaph to his memory. This, I must confess, appears to me (I speak of it merely as matter of opinion) to be nothing more than cold-blooded mockery—a compliment diminutive and empty. Toward _such_ a monument I would not subscribe one farthing:—but if the revered ashes of my friend could be restored to his country, there is no Irishman who (in proportion to his means) would go beyond myself in contributing to raise a monumental column which should outvie the pillars dedicated in Dublin to the glorious butcheries of _Trafalgar and Waterloo_: while _these_ are proudly commemorated, no national pile records the more truly glorious triumphs of 1782—nor the formation of that irresistible army of volunteers which (in a right cause) defied all the power of England! But my voice shall not be silent: and deeply do I regret the untoward fate by which this just tribute to national and individual virtues has devolved upon the feeble powers of an almost superannuated writer.

Ireland gave me birth and bread; and though I am disgusted with its present state, I love the country still. I have endeavoured to give (in a more important work) some sketches of its modern history at the most prosperous epochas, with gloomy anecdotes of its fall as an independent kingdom; and if God grants me a little longer space, I shall publish my honest ideas of the ruin to which the British Empire will not long remain blind, if she continue to pursue the same system (which seven hundred years have proved to be a destructive one) in that misgoverned country.

Extract of a letter from Sir Jonah Barrington to the present Henry Grattan, Esq., M.P.:—

“My dear Grattan,

“I regret your not receiving my letter, in reply to
yours, written immediately after the lamented departure of my
honoured friend. In that letter I proposed forthwith to publish
the sequel of my character of Mr. Grattan, accompanied with his
portrait and some additional observations. I had composed the
sequel, much to my own satisfaction, as the continuation of his
character promised in the number of my historical work where I
say ‘his career is not yet finished.’

“Your last letter did not reach me for five months, and having
received no reply to mine, I threw the manuscript into the fire,
keeping no copy; it was scarcely consumed, however, before I
repented the having done so.

“But now permit an old and sensitive friend to expostulate a
little with you, in the simple garb of queries:—

“Why, and for what good reason,—with what policy, or on what
feeling, are the bones of the most illustrious of Irishmen
suffered to moulder in the same ground with his country’s
enemies?

“Why suffer him to be escorted to the grave by the mock
pageantry of those whose political vices and corruptions
ravished from Ireland every thing which his talent and integrity
had obtained for her?

“Why send his countrymen on a foreign pilgrimage, to worship the
shrine of their canonised benefactor? Were not the cathedrals of
Ireland worthy to be honoured by his urn,—or the youths of Erin
to be animated by knowing that they possessed his ashes? Can it
be gratifying to the feelings of his countrymen to pay the
sexton of a British abbey a mercenary shilling for permission
even to see the grave-stone of your parent?[65]

“You were deceived by the blandishments of our mortal enemy: he
knew that political idolatry has great power, and excites great
influence in nations. The shrine of a patriot has often proved
to be the standard of liberty; and it was therefore good policy
in a British statesman to suppress our excitements:—the
mausoleum of Rousseau is raised in France—the _tradition_ of
Grattan only will remain to his compatriots.

“He lived the life—he died the death—but he does not sleep in
the tomb of an Irish patriot! England has taken away our
constitution, and even the relics of its founder are retained
through the duplicity of his enemy.

“You have now my sentiments on the matter, and by frankly
expressing them, I have done my duty to you, to myself, and to
my country.

“Your ever affectionate and sincere friend,

“JONAH BARRINGTON.”

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Footnote 65:

I was myself once refused even admittance into Westminster
Abbey, wherein his ashes rest!—the sexton affirming that the
_proper hour_ was past!

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HIGH LIFE IN NEWGATE.

Lord Aldborough quizzes the Lord Chancellor—Voted a libeller by the
House of Peers—His spirited conduct—Sentenced to imprisonment in
Newgate by the Court of King’s Bench—Memoirs of Mr. Knaresborough—His
extraordinary trial—Sentenced to death, but transported—Escapes from
Botany Bay, returns to England, and is committed to Newgate, where he
seduces Lady Aldborough’s attendant—Prizes in the lottery—Miss Barton
dies in misery.

Lord Aldborough was an arrogant and ostentatious man; but these failings were nearly redeemed by his firmness and gallantry in his memorable collision with Lord Chancellor Clare.

Lord Aldborough, who had built a most tasteful and handsome house immediately at the northern extremity of Dublin, had an equity suit with Mr. Beresford, a nephew of Lord Clare, as to certain lots of ground close to his lordship’s new and magnificent mansion, which, among other conveniences, had a chapel on one wing and a theatre on the other, stretching away from the centre in a chaste style of ornamental architecture.

The cause was in Chancery, and was not protracted very long. Lord Aldborough was defeated, with full costs: his pride, his purse, and his mansion, must all suffer; and meddling with either of these was sufficient to rouse his lordship’s spleen. He appealed, therefore, to the House of Peers, where, in due season, the cause came on for hearing, and where the chancellor himself presided. The lay lords did not much care to interfere in the matter; and, without loss of time, Lord Clare of the House of Peers confirmed the decree of Lord Clare of the Court of Chancery, with full costs against the appellant.

Lord Aldborough had now no redress but to write _at_ the lord chancellor; and without delay he fell to composing a book against Lord Clare and the system of appellant jurisdiction, stating that it was totally an abuse of justice to be obliged to appeal to a prejudiced man against his own prejudices,—and particularly so in the present instance, Lord Clare being notorious as an unforgiving chancellor to those who vexed him: few lords attending to hear the cause, and such as did not being much wiser for the hearing:—it being the province of counsel to puzzle not to inform noblemen, he had no chance.

Lord Aldborough, in his book, humorously enough stated an occurrence that had happened to himself when travelling in Holland. His lordship was going to Amsterdam on one of the canals in a trekschuit—the captain or skipper of which, being a great rogue, extorted from his lordship for his passage much more than he had a lawful right to claim. My lord expostulated with the skipper in vain: the fellow grew rude; his lordship persisted; the skipper got more abusive. At length Lord Aldborough told him he would, on landing, immediately go to the proper tribunals and get redress from the judge. The skipper cursed him as an impudent _milord_, and desired him to do his worst, snapping his tarry _finger-posts_ in his lordship’s face. Lord Aldborough paid the demand, and, on landing, went to the legal officer to know when the court of justice would sit. He was answered, at nine next morning. Having no doubt of ample redress, he did not choose to put the skipper on his guard by mentioning his intentions. Next morning he went to court, and began to tell his story to the judge, who sat with his broad-brimmed hat on, in great state, to hear causes of that nature. His lordship fancied he had seen the man before; nor was he long in doubt! for ere he had half finished, the judge, in a voice like thunder, (but which his lordship immediately recognised, for it was that of the identical skipper!) decided against him _with full costs_, and ordered him out of court. His lordship, however, said he would _appeal_, and away he went to an advocate for that purpose. He did accordingly appeal, and the next day his appeal cause came regularly on. But all his lordship’s stoicism forsook him, when he again perceived that the very same skipper and judge was to decide _the appeal_ who had decided _the cause_; so that the learned skipper first cheated, and then sent him about his business, with three sets of _costs_ to console him.

The noble writer having in his book made a very improper and derogatory application of this Dutch precedent to Lord Chancellor Clare and the Irish appellant jurisdiction, was considered by his brother peers as having committed a gross breach of their privileges, and was thereupon ordered to attend in his place, and defend himself (if any defence he had) from the charge made against him by the lord chancellor and the peers of Ireland. Of course the House of Lords was thronged to excess to hear his lordship’s vindication. I went an hour before it met, to secure a place behind the throne, where the commoners were allowed to crowd up as well as they could.

The chancellor, holding the vicious book in his hand, asked Lord Aldborough if he admitted that it was of his writing and publication? To which his lordship replied,—that he could admit nothing as written or published by him, till every word of it should be first truly read to their lordships aloud in the House. Lord Clare, wishing to curtail some parts, began to read it himself; but being rather short, and not quite near enough to the light, his opponent took a pair of enormous candlesticks from the table, walked deliberately up to the throne, and requested the chancellor’s permission to hold the candles for him whilst he was reading the book! This novel sort of effrontery put the chancellor completely off his guard: he was outdone, and permitted Lord Aldborough to hold the lights, whilst he read aloud the libel comparing himself to a Dutch skipper: nor did the obsequious author omit to set him right here and there when he omitted a word or proper emphasis. It was ludicrous beyond example, and gratifying to the secret ill-wishers of Lord Clare, who bore no small proportion to the aggregate numbers of the House. The libel being duly read through, Lord Aldborough at once spiritedly and adroitly said that he avowed every word of it to their lordships;—but that it was not intended as any _libel_ either against the House or the jurisdiction, but as a constitutional and just rebuke to their lordships for not performing their bounden duty in attending the hearing of the appeal: he being quite certain that if any sensible men had been present, the lord chancellor would only have had two lords and two bishops (of his own creation) on his side of the question.

This was considered as an aggravation of the contempt, though some thought it was not very far from matter-of-fact.—The result was, that after a bold speech, delivered with great earnestness, his lordship was voted guilty of a high breach of privilege toward the Irish House of Peers, and a libel on the lord chancellor, as chairman of the House.

His lordship was afterward ordered to Newgate for six months by the Court of King’s Bench (on an information filed against him by the attorney-general for a libel on Lord Clare); which sentence, he told them, he considered, under the circumstances, as a high compliment and honour. In fact, he never was so pleased as when speaking of the incident, and declaring that he expected to have his book recorded on the Journals of the Lords:—the chancellor himself (by _applying_ his anecdote of the Dutch skipper) having construed it into a regular episode on his own proceedings and those of the peerage.

Lord Aldborough underwent his full sentence in Newgate; and his residence there gave rise to a fresh incident in the memoirs of a very remarkable person, who, at that time, was an inmate of the same walls (originally likewise through the _favour_ of Chancellor Clare), and lodged on the same staircase; and as I had been professionally interested in this man’s affairs, I subjoin the following statement as curious, and in every circumstance, to my personal knowledge, matter-of-fact.

James Fitzpatrick Knaresborough was a young man of tolerable private fortune in the county of Kilkenny. Unlike the common run of young men at that day, he was sober, money-making, and even avaricious, though moderately hospitable; his principal _virtue_ consisting in making no _exhibition_ of his _vices_. He was of good figure; and, without having the presence of a gentleman, was what is called a handsome young fellow.

Mr. Knaresborough had been accused of a capital crime by a Miss Barton, (natural daughter of William Barton, Esq., a magistrate of the county of Kilkenny,) who stated that she had gone away with him for the purpose, and in the strict confidence, of being married the same day at Leighlin Bridge.—Her father was a gentleman, a magistrate, and of consideration in the county, and a warrant was granted against Knaresborough for the felony; but he contrived to get liberated on bail—the amount being doubled. The grand-jury, however, on the young woman’s testimony, found true bills against him for the capital offence, and he came to Carlow to take his trial at the assizes. He immediately called on me with a brief,—said it was a mere _bagatelle_, and totally unfounded,—and that his acquittal would be a matter of course. I had been retained against him; but introduced him to the present Judge Moore, to whom he handed his brief. He made so light of the business, that he told me to get up a famous speech against him, as no doubt I was instructed to do: that indeed I could not say too much; as the whole would appear, on _her own confession_, to be a conspiracy! nay, so confident was he of procuring his acquittal, that he asked Mr. Moore and myself to dine with him on our road to Kilkenny, which we promised.

On reading my brief, I found that, truly, the case was not over-strong against him even there, where, in all probability, circumstances would be exaggerated; and that it rested almost exclusively on the lady’s own evidence: hence, I had little doubt that, upon cross-examination, the prisoner would be acquitted.

The trial proceeded. I was then rather young at the bar, and determined, for my own sake, to make an interesting and affecting speech for my client;—and having no doubt of Knaresborough’s acquittal, I certainly overcharged my statement, and added some _facts_ solely from invention. My surprise, then, may be estimated, when I heard Miss Barton swear positively to _every syllable_ of my emblazonment! I should now have found myself most painfully circumstanced, but that I had no doubt she _must_ be altogether deprived of credit by his counsel; and, in fact, she _was_ quite shaken on her cross-examination. The prisoner’s advocate smiled at her and at us; and said, “the woman’s credit was so clearly overthrown, that there could be no doubt of Knaresborough’s innocence of the charge of _violence_; and any protracted defence on so clear a subject would be useless.”

The court seemed to acquiesce. I considered all was over, and left the place as the jury retired. In about an hour, however, I received an account that Knaresborough had been found _guilty_, and sent back to gaol under sentence of death!—I was thunderstruck, and without delay wrote to the chief secretary, in Dublin, begging him instantly to represent to the lord lieutenant the real facts, and that I, as counsel for the prosecution, knew the total _falsity_ of a great part of her evidence:—execution was in consequence respited. So soon as I could return to town, I waited on Major Hobart and the lord lieutenant, stated precisely the particulars I have here given, and my satisfaction (even from my own brief) that the girl was perjured. They referred me to Lord Chancellor Clare, whose answer I wrote down, and never shall forget: “That may be all very true, Barrington! but he is a rascal, and if he does not deserve to be hanged for _this_, he does for a _former_ affair,[66] right well!” I told him it was quite necessary for me to publish the whole matter, in my own justification. He then took from his bureau a small parcel of papers, and requested me to read them: they proved to be copies of affidavits and evidence on a former accusation, (from which Knaresborough had escaped by lenity,) for snapping a pistol at the father of a girl he had seduced.—Lord Clare, however, recommended his sentence to be changed to transportation: but this was to the convict worse than death, and he enclosed to me a petition which he had sent to government, declining the proposed commutation, and insisting on being forthwith executed, pursuant to his first sentence! Notwithstanding, he was, in fine, actually transported. He had contrived to secure in different ways 10,000_l._, and took a large sum with him to Botany Bay. I had heard no more of him for several years,—when I was astonished one day by being accosted in the streets of Dublin by this identical man, altered only by time and in the colour of his hair, which had turned quite gray. He was well dressed, had a large cockade in his hat, and did not at all court secrecy. He told me that the governor had allowed him to come away privately: that he had gone through many entertaining and some dismal adventures in Africa, and in America—whence he last came; and he added, that as government were then busy raising troops, he had sent in a memorial, proposing to raise a regiment for a distant service, solely at his own expense. “I have,” said he, “saved sufficient money for this purpose, though my brother has got possession of a great part of my fortune.” In fact, he memorialised and teased the government (who were surprised at his temerity, yet unwilling to meddle with him) until at length they had him arrested, and required to show his written authority from the governor of New South Wales for returning from transportation,—which being unable to do, he was committed to Newgate, to await the governor’s reply.

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Footnote 66:

The former affair alluded to by Lord Clare was certainly of a most
unpardonable description.

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Here his firmness and eccentricity never forsook him; he sent in repeated petitions to the ministry, requesting to be hanged, and told me he would give any gentleman 500_l._ who had sufficient interest to get him put to death without delay! An unsatisfactory answer arrived from New South Wales:—but the government could not, under the circumstances, execute him for his return;—and liberate him Lord Clare _would_ not: his confinement therefore was, of course, indefinitely continued. During its course he purchased a lottery ticket, which turned out a prize of 2000_l._; and soon after, a second brought him 500_l._ He lived well; but having no society, was determined to provide himself a companion at all events.

At this juncture the Earl of Aldborough became his next-door neighbour.—My lady (the best wife in the world) did not desert her husband; and, as all women of rank entertain what they call a “young person” to attend on them;—that is, (speaking generally) a girl handsomer than the mistress, neater in her dress, as good in her address—and more _cautious_ as to her character;—Lady Aldborough brought such a one with her to the prison as her dresser and tea-maker. But this “young person,” considering (as Swift says) that “service is no inheritance,” and that she had no money of her own, and hearing that Fitzpatrick Knaresborough possessed great plenty of that necessary article, some way or other the metallic tractors brought them acquainted on the stairs. To run away with him, she had only to trip across a lobby: so she actually broke the sabbath by taking that journey one Sunday morning, and left my lord and my lady to finish the morning service, and wonder at the attractions of Newgate, which could set a-wandering the virtue of their “_young person_,” whom all the temptations, luxuries, and lovers of London and Dublin had never been able to lead astray from the path of rectitude! My lady was surprised how “Anna” could possibly connect herself with a convict for such a _shocking_ crime;—but his lordship, who knew the world better, said _that_ was the very reason why Anna admired him. However, the whole business in all its ramifications terminated pretty fortunately. My lord had his full revenge on Lord Clare, and got great credit for his firmness and gallantry; Knaresborough was at length turned out of Newgate when the government were tired of keeping him in; while the “young person” produced sundry other young persons of her own in prison, and was amply provided for. The only set-off to this comedy of “All’s Well that Ends Well” was the melancholy fate of poor Miss Barton, who married, was soon deserted by her husband, after his beating her unmercifully, and died in misery.

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.

Sketch of his character—Personal description—Lodgings at Carlow—Mr.
Curran and Mr. Godwin—Scenes in the “Cannon” coffee-house—_Liberality_
of mine host—Miss H * * * in heroics—Precipitate retreat—Lord
Clancarty—Mr. Curran’s notion of his own prowess—The disqualifications
of a wig—Lord and Lady Carleton—Curran in 1812—An attorney turned
cobbler—Curran’s audience of the present king of France—Strictures on
his biographers.

There have been few public men whose characters have afforded a more ample field for comment than that of Mr. Curran, and there are _very_ few who have been more miserably handled by their biographers. Young men, who fancied they knew him because they were latterly in his society, in fact knew him not at all. None but the intimates of his earlier and brighter days, and, even among such, those only who had mixed with him in general as well as professional society, could possibly estimate the inconsistent qualities of that celebrated orator. There was such a mingling of greatness and littleness, of sublimity and meanness, in his thoughts and language, that cursory observers (confused amidst his versatility and brilliance) quitted Curran’s society without understanding any thing relating to him beyond his buoyant spirits and playful wit. But toward the close of his days this splendour dissipated, and dark and gloomy tints appeared too conspicuously, poor fellow! for his posthumous reputation. He felt his decline pressing quick upon him, and gradually sank into listless apathy.

In 1790 he was in the zenith of his glory; but even so early as 1796, his talents and popularity seemed to me to have commenced an obvious declension. By seceding from parliament, he evacuated the field of battle and that commanding eminence from whence he had so proudly repulsed all his enemies. His talents, for a while survived; but his habits of life became contracted, his energies were paralysed, his mind rambled, he began to _prose_,—and, after his appointment to the Rolls, the world seemed to be closing fast upon him.

My intimacy with Curran was long and close. I knew every turn of his mind and every point of his capacity. He was not fitted to pursue the subtleties of detail;—but his imagination was wide-ranging and infinite, his fancy boundless, his wit indefatigable. There was scarce any species of talent to which he did not possess some pretension. He was gifted by nature with the first faculties of an advocate and of a dramatist; and the lesser but ingenious accomplishment of personification (without mimicry) was equally familiar to him. In the circles of society, where he appeared every body’s superior, nobody ever seemed jealous of that superiority:—it soared too high above the pretensions of others.

Curran’s person was mean and decrepid: very slight, very shapeless—with nothing of the gentleman about it; on the contrary, displaying spindle limbs, a shambling gait, one hand imperfect, and a face yellow, furrowed, rather flat, and thoroughly ordinary. Yet his features were the reverse of disagreeable: there was something so indescribably dramatic in his eye and the play of his eyebrow, that his visage seemed the index of his mind, and his humour the slave of his will. I never was so happy in the company of any man as in Curran’s for many years. His _errors_ he made _interesting_—his very _foibles_ were amusing.—He had no vein for poetry; yet fancying himself a bard, he fabricated pretty verses: he certainly was no musician; but conceiving himself to be one, played pleasantly on the fiddle. Nature had denied him a voice; but he thought he could sing; and in the rich mould of his capabilities, the desire here also engendered the capacity, and his Irish ballads were excessively entertaining.

It is a curious, but a just remark, that every slow, _crawling_ reptile is in the highest degree disgusting; while an insect, ten times uglier, if it be sprightly and seem bent upon enjoyment, excites no shudder. It is so with the human race: had Curran been a dull, slothful, torpid mannerist, all his talents would not have redeemed his personal defects.—But his rapid movements,—his fire,—his sparkling eye,—the fine and varied intonations of his voice,—these conspired to give energy to every word he uttered, and new life to every company he mixed with; and I have known ladies who, after an hour’s conversation, actually considered Curran a _beauty_, and preferred his society to that of the finest fellows present. There is, however, it must be admitted, a good deal in the circumstance of a man being _celebrated_, as regards the patronage of females.—Nothing flatters a woman so much as being noticed by a man of talent: she considers it as a public eulogium on his own understanding: her looking-glass had told her she was _pretty_; but she was not so certain of her _intellectual_ attractions.

Curran had a perfect _horror_ of fleas: nor was this very extraordinary, since those vermin seemed to show him peculiar hostility. If they infested a house, my friend said, that “they always flocked to his bed-chamber, when they heard he was to sleep there!” I recollect his being dreadfully annoyed in this way at Carlow; and, on making his complaint in the morning to the woman of the house, “By Heavens! madam,” cried he, “they were in such numbers, and seized upon my carcase with so much ferocity, that if they had been _unanimous_, and all pulled one way, they must have dragged me out of bed entirely!”

I never saw Curran’s opinion of himself so much disconcerted as by Mr. Godwin, whom he had brought, at the Carlow assizes, to dine with Mr. Byrne, a friend of ours, in whose cause he and I had been specially employed as counsel. Curran, undoubtedly, was not so happy as usual in his speech on this occasion—but he thought he was. Nevertheless, we succeeded; and Curran, in great spirits, was very anxious to coax a public compliment from Mr. Godwin, as an eminent literary man, teasing him (half-jokingly) for his opinion of his speech. Godwin fought shy for a considerable time; at length, Curran put the question home to him, and it could no longer be shifted. “Now what did you think of my speech to evidence, to-day, Godwin?—Eh?”

“Since you _will_ have my opinion,” said Godwin, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair with much _sang-froid_, “I really never did hear any thing so bad as your _prose_—except your _poetry_, my dear Curran!”

Curran and I were in the habit, for several years, of meeting, by appointment, in London, during the long vacation, and spending a month there together, in the enjoyment of the public amusements;—but we were neither extravagant nor dissipated. We had both some propensities in common, and a never-failing amusement was derived from drawing out and remarking upon eccentric characters. Curran played on such people as he would on an instrument, and produced whatever tone he thought proper from them. He always kept a good _fiddle_ in London, which he occasionally brought out under his coat to dining-houses where we were not known. It produced innumerable adventures; for he played and sang in the drollest manner.

We were in the habit of frequenting the Cannon coffee-house, Charing Cross, (kept by the uncle of Mr. Roberts, proprietor of the Royal Hotel, Calais,) where we had a box every day at the end of the room; and as Curran was free from professional cares, his universal language was that of wit, while my high spirits never failed to prompt my performance of _Jackall_ to the _Lion_. Two young gentlemen of the Irish bar were frequently of our party in 1796, and contributed to keep up the flow of wit, which, on Curran’s part, was well-nigh miraculous.

Gradually the ear and attention of the company were caught. Nobody knew us, and, as if carelessly, the guests flocked round our box to listen. We perceived them, and increased our flights accordingly. Involuntarily, they joined in the laugh, and the more so when they saw it gave no offence. Day after day the number of our auditors increased,—until the room, at five o’clock, was thronged to hear “the Irishmen.” One or two days we went elsewhere; and, on returning to “the Cannon,” our host begged to speak a word with me at the bar. “Sir,” said he, “I never had such a set of _pleasant_ gentlemen in my house, and I hope you have received no offence.” I replied, “Quite the contrary!”—“Why, sir,” rejoined he, “as you did not come the last few days, the company fell off. Now, sir, I hope you and the other gentleman will excuse me if I remark that you will find an excellent dish of fish, and a roast turkey or joint, (with any wine you please,) on your table, every day at five o’clock, while you stay in town; and, I must beg to add, _no charge_, gentlemen!”

I reported to Curran, and we agreed to see it out. The landlord was as good as his word:—the room was filled: we coined stories to tell each other; the lookers-on laughed almost to convulsions; and for some time we literally feasted. Having had our humour out, we desired a bill, which the landlord positively refused: however, we computed for ourselves, and sent him a 10_l._ note enclosed in a letter, desiring him to give the balance to his waiters.

I do not think I was ever so amused in my life, as at that curious occurrence. One Irish templar alone recognised us, and we made him promise secrecy as to our names: I never saw him after:—indeed, I believe he never returned.

An anecdote of a very different nature terminated one of our trips to London:—I had long known that there had existed what Curran called “a refined friendship” between him and a Miss Hughes, at Spa. She was afterward a friend of Holman, the player, and finally married Major Scott, an associate of Mr. Hastings. Curran asked me one day, if I was too squeamish to go and sup with a former friend of his, who had pressed him to come that evening to supper, and permitted him to bring a companion. He told me who it was, and I was quite pleased at the idea of knowing a person of whom I had heard so much in Ireland. She had in fact been a lady of very considerable estate there.

We were received with the greatest cordiality and politeness by Miss Hughes:—another young lady and two children were in the room. Curran was most humorous and enlivening, and every thing foreboded a cheerful _petit soupé_, when the lady told Curran she wished to speak a word to him in the next room. They accordingly withdrew. I was in conversation with the governess and children, when I heard a noise like the report of a small pistol, and Curran immediately rushed into the apartment—Miss Hughes marching _majestically_ after him. He took no notice of me, but snatching up his hat, darted down stairs and into the street with the utmost expedition. I really conceived that she had fired at him; and feeling dubious as to my own probable fate, (without a word passing,) pounced upon my _chapeau_, and made after my friend in no small haste. I could not, however, open the street-door, and therefore gave myself up for a murdered man, particularly on the bell ringing violently: but the revulsion of my feelings was quite heavenly when I heard Miss Hughes’s voice over the banisters calling to her maid to “open the street-door for the gentleman.” I lost no time in making good my retreat; but did not see Curran again till next morning.