Chapter XI: Part 11

I had the greatest curiosity to know the cause of his sudden flight; upon which he told me, but without any symptom of wit or humour, that she was the most violent-tempered woman existing; that on their going into the _boudoir_ together, she informed him that she was then considerably distressed for a sum of money for two or three months; and that as she had never been under any pecuniary obligation to him, she would now ask one—namely, the loan of the sum she wanted, on her own note. Curran, who was particularly close, dreading the amount, anticipated her demand by hoping she did not suppose he could be so mean as to require her note for any little advance he might have it in his power to make; and was happy in handing her _half_ the sum at his command in London—taking as he spoke a £10 note out of his pocket-book. “By Heavens! Barrington,” said Curran, “her look petrified me: she gazed for a moment at the note—tore it to atoms, muttering the word ‘rascal!’ and when I was preparing to make an apology, hit me plump on the side of the head, with a fist at least as strong as any porter’s! I thought my brains were knocked out!—did you not hear the crack?” inquired he. “To be sure I did,” said I; “but I thought it was a _shot_!” “Did she say any thing,” continued he, “after I was gone away?”—“She _only_ said,” replied I, “that you were the greatest _rascal_ existing, (hereat Curran trembled hugely,) and that she would next day find you out wherever you were, and expose you all over London as a villain and a seducer!”

Curran turned pale as ashes:—he trembled; his lips quavered, and after staggering about, he made some excuse for leaving the room. Toward dinner-time, I found I had carried my joke too far; I received a note stating that he was necessitated to start for Ireland directly on particular business, and would be off in the mail!

I never told him the truth, particularly since the lady was soon after married, as I have related, and had a noble establishment in London, and as I learned that Curran had found means to make his peace with the offended fair, at whose house and hospitable table he became a frequent guest.

Mrs. Waring afterward broke her neck by a fall down stairs; and some people averred that a flask or two of champaign had been playing tricks upon her. She was most agreeable in her address and manner (her amazonian paroxysms always excepted). The extraordinary length of her feet (which were like a pair of brackets) should have saved her from tumbling any where; while, if I could judge by report, it was miraculous how Curran’s pegs preserved his perpendicular on occasion of what he termed the diabolical _clout_ she bestowed upon him.

Lord Clancarty and Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald were two Irish barristers in whom I never could perceive the _raw material_ for _ambassadors_—yet none ever dropped their “Nisi Prius” with better effect. The former, a friendly, honourable man, seemed but ill calculated to shine among the immortal _carvers_, who, at Vienna, cut up nations like dumplings, and served round people and kingdoms to the members of their company with as little ceremony as if they had been dealing only with paste and raspberries.

Lord Clancarty’s family were for a long period highly respected land-proprietors in County Galway, and at the great cattle fair of Ballinasloe; but never were remarkable for any profusion of talent. His lordship’s father, usually called Billy Trench of Ballinasloe, was a nice dapper little man, wore tight clean leather-breeches, and was very like the late Lord Clanwilliam, of amorous memory. He was extremely popular among all classes.

The present peer was called to the Irish bar.—Most men are found to have some predominant quality when it is properly drawn forth; but, in sending Mr. Trench to the bar, his friends found (after a due noviciate) that they were endeavouring to extract the wrong commodity, and that his law would never furnish sufficient stuffing to keep emptiness _out of_ his pocket. During the rebellion, however, I discovered that he was a most excellent _serjeant of dragoons_, in which capacity his lordship did me the honour of being my subaltern in the barristers’ cavalry; and I have the satisfaction of reflecting, that a considerable portion of our rank and file were, in a very short time after the Union, metamorphosed into ambassadors, secretaries, judges, noblemen, bishops, and ministers!—What a loss must the empire therefore have sustained, if we had been all piked by the rebels! a result not very improbable, as I am apprehensive we should have proved rather helpless fellows in a general engagement with 20 or 30,000 of those desperate gentry! in which case, the whole kingdom of Ireland would have been left with scarcely sufficient professors of the art of litigation to keep that science (as well as the church and state) in preservation till new lawyers could be broken into harness.

Curran took no part in those fierce military associations, and he was quite right. He was perfectly unadapted either to command or to obey; and as he must have done the one or the other, he managed much better by keeping out of the broil altogether;—as he himself said to me—“If I were mounted on ever so good a charger, it is probable I should not stick ten minutes on his back in any kind of battle: and if my sword was ever so sharp, I should not be able to cut a rebel’s head off, unless he promised to ‘_stand easy_’ and in a good position for me.”

Curran had ordered a new bar wig, and not liking the cut of it, he jestingly said to the peruke-maker, “Mr. Gahan, this wig will not answer me at all!”

“How so, sir?” said Gahan: “it seems to fit, and covers your ears extremely well.”

“Ay,” replied Curran, “but it is the very worst _speaking_ wig I ever had. I can scarce utter one word of _common law_ in it; and as for _equity_, it is totally out of the question.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Gahan, the wig-maker, with a serious face, “I hope it may be no loss to me. I dare say it will answer Counsellor Trench.”

But Counsellor Trench would not take the wig. He said, though it did not impede his _speech_, he could not _hear_ a word in it. At length, it was sent by Gahan to Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald, who, having at that time no pressing occasion for either a speaking or hearing wig (in a professional way), and the wig fitting his head, he purchased it from Mr. Gahan, who sold it a bargain, on account of its bad character;—though Curran afterwards said, “he admitted that the wig had been grossly calumniated; for the very same head which Mr. Vesey Fitzgerald then put it on was afterward fixed up at the front of the Irish exchequer, where every one of the king’s debtors and farmers were obliged to pay the wig-wearer some very handsome and _substantial_ compliment!—the said wearer not being necessitated either to _hear_ or _speak_ one word upon the occasion.”

Chief Justice Carleton was a very languishing personage. He never ceased complaining of his bad state of health, and frequently introduced Lady Carleton into his “Book of Lamentations:” thence it was remarked by Curran to be very extraordinary, that the chief justice should appear as plaintiff (_plaintive_) in every cause that happened to come before him!

One _Nisi Prius_ day, Lord Carleton came into court, looking unusually gloomy. He apologised to the bar for being necessitated to adjourn the court and dismiss the jury for that day; “though,” proceeded his lordship, “I am aware that an important issue stands for trial: but, the fact is, I have met with a domestic misfortune, which has altogether deranged my nerves!—Poor Lady Carleton (in a low tone to the bar) has most unfortunately _miscarried_, and——”

“Oh, then, my Lord!” exclaimed Curran, “there was no necessity for your lordship to make any apology; it now appears that your lordship has _no issue_ to try.”

The chief justice faintly smiled, and thanked the bar for their _consideration_.

In 1812, Curran dined at my house in Brookstreet, London. He was very dejected: I did my utmost to rouse him—in vain. He leaned his face on his hand, and was long silent. He looked yellow and wrinkled; the dramatic fire had left his eye, the spirit of his wit had fled, his person was shrunken, his features were all relaxed and drooping, and his whole demeanour appeared miserably distressing.

After a long pause, a dubious tear standing in his dark eye, he on a sudden exclaimed, with a sort of desperate composure, “Barrington, I am perishing! day by day I’m perishing! I feel it: you knew me when I _lived_—and you witness my _annihilation_.” He was again silent.

I felt deeply for him. I saw that he spoke truth: his lamp was fast approaching its last glimmer: reasoning with him would have been vain, and I therefore tried another course—_bagatelle_. I jested with him, and reminded him of old anecdotes. He listened—gradually his attention was caught, and at length I excited a smile; a laugh soon followed, a few glasses of wine brought him to his natural temperament, and Curran was himself for a great part of the evening. I saw, however, that he would soon relapse, and so it turned out: he began to talk to me about his _family_, and that very wildly. He had conceived some strange prejudices on that head, which I disputed with him, until I was wearied. It was a subject he seemed actually insane on: his ideas were quite _extraordinary_, and appeared to me steeled against all reason. He said he felt his last day approaching; his thoughts had taken their _final station_, and were unchangeable.

We supped together, and he sat cheerful enough till I turned him into a coach, at one o’clock in the morning.

Mr. Curran had a younger brother, who was an attorney—very like him, but taller and better-looking. This man had a good deal of his brother’s humour, a little wit, and much satire; but his slang was infinite, and his conduct very dissolute. He was, in fact, what may be termed the best blackguard of his profession (and that was saying a great deal for him). My friend had justly excluded him from his house, but occasionally relieved his finances, until these calls became so importunate, that, at length, further compliance was refused.

“Sir,” said the attorney to me one day, “if you will speak to my brother, I am sure he’ll give me something handsome before the week is out!” I assured him he was mistaken, whereupon he burst into a loud laugh!

There was a small space of dead wall, at that time, directly facing Curran’s house, in Ely Place; against which the attorney procured a written permission to build a little wooden box. He accordingly got a carpenter (one of his comrades) to erect a cobbler’s stall there for him; and having assumed the dress of a Jobson, he wrote over his stall, “Curran, Cobbler:—Shoes toe-pieced, soled, or heeled, on the shortest notice:—when the stall is shut, inquire _over the way_.”

Curran, on returning from court, perceived this worthy hard at work, with a parcel of chairmen lounging round him. The attorney just nodded to his brother, cried, “How do you do, Jack?” and went on with his employment.

Curran immediately despatched a servant for the spendthrift, to whom having given some money, the show-board was taken down, the stall removed, and the attorney vowed that he would never set up again as a cobbler.

I never knew Curran express more unpleasant feelings than at a circumstance which really was too trivial to excite any such; but this was his humour: he generally thought more of trifles than of matters of importance, and worked himself up into most painful sensations upon subjects which should only have excited his laughter.

At the commencement of the peace he came to Paris, determined to get into French society, and thus be enabled to form a better idea of their habits and manners,—a species of knowledge for which he quite languished. His parasites (and he liked such) had told him that his fame had already preceded him even to the closet of Louis _le Désiré_: he accordingly procured letters of introduction from persons of high rank in England, who had foolishly lavished favours and fortunes on the gang of emigrants, in general the most ungrateful (as time has demonstrated) of the human species, although it was then universally believed that they could not _quite_ forget the series of kindnesses which had preserved them from starving or from massacre.

Among other letters, he had the honour of bearing one, couched in strong terms, from his Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex to the Count d’Artois, now King of France.

“Now I am in the right line,” said Curran, “introduced by a branch of one royal family to that of another: now I shall have full opportunity of forming my own opinion as to the sentiments of the old and new nobility of France, whereon I have been eternally though rather blindly arguing.”

I was rather sceptical, and said, “I am disposed to think that you will argue more than ever when you get home again. If you want _sentiment_, they say in England that Monsieur has very little of _Sterne_ in his composition.”

“Egad, I believe there is _two_ of you!” retorted Curran; and away he went to the Tuileries, to enter his name and see Monsieur. Having left his card and letters of introduction (as desired), he waited ten days for an audience: Monsieur was occupied.—A second entry was now made by Curran at the palace; and after ten days more, a third: but Monsieur was still _occupied_. A fresh entry and card of J. P. C. had no better success. In my life I never saw Curran so chagrined. He had devised excuses for the prince two or three times: but this last instance of neglect quite overcame him, and in a few days he determined to return to Ireland without seeing the Count d’Artois or ascertaining the sentiments of the ancient and modern French nobility. He told his story to Mr. Lewins, a friend of ours in Paris, who said it must be some omission of the Swiss.

“Certainly,” said Curran, catching at this straw, “it must, no doubt. It must be some omission of the Swiss. I’ll wait _one week_ more:” and his opinion was in a few days realised by the receipt of a note from Monsieur’s aide-de-camp, stating, that His Royal Highness would be glad to receive Mr. Curran at eight o’clock the following morning at the Tuileries.

About nine o’clock he returned to the hotel, and all I could get from him, in his wrath, was “D——n!” In fact, he looked absolutely miserable. “Only think!” said he, at length; “he told me he always dined with his _brother_, and kept no establishment of his own; then bowed me out, by ——, as if I was an importunate _dancing-master_!”

“Wait till _the next revolution_, Curran,” said I, “and _then_ we’ll be even with him!”

At this moment Mr. Lewins came in, and, with a most cheerful countenance, said, “Well, Curran, I carried your point!”

“What point?” said Curran.

“I knew it would _take_,” pursued Lewins, smirking: “I told Monsieur’s aide-de-camp that you felt quite hurt and unhappy on account of Monsieur’s having taken no notice of your letters or yourself, though you had paid him _four_ visits at long intervals, and that—”

“What do you say?” shouted Curran.

Upon Lewins repeating his words with infinite glee, my disappointed friend burst out into a regular frenzy, slapped his face repeatedly, and ran about, exclaiming, “I’m disgraced! I’m humbled in the eyes of that man! I’m _miserable_!”

I apprehend he experienced but little more civility from any of the restored gentry of the French emigrants, to several of whom he had brought letters, and I am sure had he received any notable invitation from them, I must have heard of it. I fancy that a glass of _eau sucré_ was the very extent of the practical hospitality he experienced from _Messieurs les émigrés_, who, if I might judge by their jaws and cravats of the quantity and quality of their food, and of their credit with washerwomen, were by no means in so flourishing a state as when they lived on our benevolence.

There is much of the life of this celebrated man[67] omitted by those who have attempted to write it. Even his son (a barrister, whom I have never seen) could have known but little of him, as he was not born at the time his father’s glories were at their zenith. Before he became the biographer of his celebrated parent, Mr. Curran would have done well to inquire who had been that parent’s decided friends, and who his invidious enemies; who supported him when his fame was tottering, and who assailed him when he was incapable of resistance: if he had used this laudable discretion before he commenced his _character_, he would probably have learned how to _eulogise_, and how to _censure_, with more justice and discrimination.

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Footnote 67:

Curran died, I believe, at Brompton, and was buried in Paddington
church-yard; but I am ignorant whether or not a stone marks the spot.

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No gentlemen of our day knew Mr. Curran more intimately than myself, although our natural propensities were in many points quite uncongenial. His vanity too frequently misled his judgment, and he thought himself surrounded by a crowd of friends, when he was encompassed by a set of vulgar flatterers: he looked quite carelessly at the distinctions of society, and in consequence ours was not generally of the same class, and our intercourse more frequently at my house than at his. But he could adapt himself to all ranks, and was equally at home at Merrion Square or at the Priory.

The celebrity of Curran’s life, and the obscurity of his death—the height of his eminence, and the depth of his depression—the extent of his talents, and the humiliation of his imbecility—exhibited the greatest and most singular contrast I ever knew among the host of public characters with whom I so long associated.

At the bar I never saw an orator so capable of producing those irresistible transitions of effect which form the true criterion of forensic eloquence. But latterly, no man became more capable, in private society, of exciting drowsiness by prosing, or disgust by grossness: such are the inconsistent materials of humanity.[68]

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Footnote 68:

It is very singular that Mr. Duguery, one of the most accomplished
men, the most eloquent barristers, and best lawyers I ever knew, (a
cousin-german of Lord Donoughmore,) fell latterly, though at an early
age, into a state of total imbecility—became utterly regardless of
himself, of society, and of the world;—and lived long enough to render
his death a mercy!

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I should not allude here to a painful subject as respects the late Mr. Curran, had it not been so commonly spoken of, and so prominent an agent in his ulterior misfortunes: I mean that unlucky suit of his against the Rev. Mr. Sandes. I endeavoured as much as possible to dissuade him from commencing that action, having reason to feel convinced that it must terminate in his discomfiture; but he was obdurate, and had bitter cause to lament his obduracy. I did my utmost also to dissuade him from his unfortunate difference with Mr. Ponsonby. I told him (as I firmly believed) that he was _wrong_, or at all events _imprudent_, and that his reputation could bear no more trifling with: but he did not credit me, and that blow felled him to the earth!

THE LAW OF LIBEL.

Observations on the law of libel, particularly in Ireland—“Hoy’s
Mercury”—Messrs. Van Trump and Epaphroditus Dodridge—Former leniency
regarding cases of libel contrasted with recent severity—Lord Clonmel
and the Irish bar—Mr. Magee, of the “Dublin Evening Post”—Festivities
on “Fiat Hill”—Theophilus Swift and his two sons—His duel with the
Duke of Richmond—The “Monster!”—Swift libels the Fellows of Dublin
University—His curious trial—Contrast between the English and Irish
bars—Mr. James Fitzgerald—Swift is found guilty, and sentenced to
Newgate—Dr. Burrows, one of the Fellows, afterward libels Mr. Swift,
and is convicted—Both confined in the same apartment at Newgate.

In the early part of my life, the Irish press, though supposed to be under due restraint, was in fact quite uncontrolled. From the time of Dean Swift, and Draper’s Letters, its freedom had increased at intervals not only as to public but private subjects. This was attributable to several curious causes, which combined to render the law of libel, although stronger in theory, vastly feebler in practice than at the present day; and whoever takes the trouble of looking into the Irish newspapers about the commencement of the American revolution, and to 1782, will find therein some of the boldest writing and ablest _libels_ in the English language. Junius was the pivot on which the liberty of the press at one moment vibrated: liberty was triumphant; but if that precedent were to prevail to the same extent, it achieved too much.

The law of libel in England, however railed at, appears to me upon the freest footing that private or public security can possibly admit. The press is not encumbered by any _previous_ restraints. Any man may write, print, and publish whatever he pleases; and none but his own peers and equals, in two distinct capacities, can declare his culpability, or enable the law to punish him as a criminal for a breach of it (this excepts the practice of informations, often necessary). I cannot conceive what greater liberty or protection the press can require, or ought to enjoy. If a man voluntarily commits an offence against the law of libel with his eyes open, it is only fair that he should abide by the statute that punishes him for doing so. Despotic governments employ a previous censorship, in order to cloak their crimes and establish their tyranny. England, on the other hand, appoints independent judges and sworn jurors to defend her liberties; and hence is confirmed to the press a wholesome latitude of full and fair discussion on every public man and measure.

The law of libel in Ireland was formerly very loose and badly understood, and the courts there had no particular propensity for multiplying legal difficulties on ticklish subjects.

The judges were then dependant; a circumstance which might have partially accounted for such causes being less frequent than in later times: but another reason, more extensively operating, was, that in those days men who were libelled generally took the law into their own hands, and eased the King’s Bench of great trouble by the substitution of a small-sword for an information, or a case of pistols for a judgment;—and these same articles certainly formed a greater check upon the propagation of libels than the twelve judges and thirty-six jurors, altogether, at the present day; and gave rise to a code of laws very different from those we call municipal. A third consideration is, that scolding-matches and disputes among soldiers were then never made matters of legal inquiry. Military officers are now, by statute,[69] held unfit to remain such _if_ they _fight_ one another, whilst formerly they were thought unfit to remain in the army if they did _not_: formerly, they were bound to fight in person; now, they can fight by proxy, and in Ireland may hire champions to contest the matter for them every day in the week, (Sunday excepted,) and so decide their quarrels without the least danger or one drop of bloodshed. A few able lawyers, armed with paper and parchment, will fight for them all day long, and, if necessary, all night likewise; and that, probably, for only as much recompense as may be sufficient to provide a handsome entertainment to some of the spectators and pioneer attorneys, who are generally bottle-holders on these occasions.

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Footnote 69:

See the Mutiny Act.

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Another curious anomaly is become obvious. If _lawyers_ now refuse to pistol each other, they may be scouted out of society as cowards, though duelling is _against_ the _law_! but if military officers take a shot at each other, they may be dismissed from the army, though fighting is the essence and object of their profession: so that a civilian, by the new lights of society, changes places with the soldier;—the soldier is bound to be peaceable, and the civilian is forced to be pugnacious—_cedent arma togæ_. It is curious to conjecture what our next metamorphosis may be!

The first publication which gave rise (so far as I can remember) to decided measures for restraining the Irish press, was a newspaper called “Hoy’s Mercury,” published above fifty years ago by Mr. Peter Hoy, a printer, in Parliament-street, whom I saw some time since in his shop, on Ormond Quay, in good health, and who voted for me on the Dublin election of 1803.

In this newspaper Mr. Hoy brought forward two fictitious characters—one called Van Trump, the other Epaphroditus Dodridge. These he represented as standing together in one of the most public promenades of the Irish capital; and the one, on describing the appearance, features, and dress of each passer-by, and asking his companion—who that was?—received, in reply, a full account of the individual, to such a degree of accuracy as to leave no doubt respecting identity—particularly in a place so contracted as (comparatively speaking) Dublin then was. In this way as much libellous matter was disseminated as would now send a publisher to gaol for half his life; and the affair was so warmly and generally taken up, that the lawyers were set to work, Peter Hoy sadly terrified, and Van Trump and Epaphroditus Dodridge banished from that worthy person’s newspaper.

But the most remarkable observation is, that so soon as the Irish judges were, in 1782, made by statute independent of the crown, the law of libel became more strictly construed, and libellers more severely punished. This can only be accounted for by supposing that, while dependent, the judges felt that any peculiar rigour might be attributed, in certain instances, less to their justice than to their policy; and, being thus sensitive (especially in regard to crown cases), they were cautious of pushing the enactments to their full scope. After the provision which rendered them independent of the ruling powers, this delicacy became needless:—but, nevertheless, a candid judge will always bear in mind, that austerity is no necessary attribute of justice, which is always more efficient in its operation when tempered with mercy. The unsalutary harshness of our penal code has become notorious. True, it is not acted up to; and this is only another modification of the evil, since it tempts almost every culprit to anticipate his own escape. On the continent it is different. There, the punishment which the law provides is _certainly_ inflicted: and the consequence is, that in France there is not above _one_ capital conviction to any _twenty_ in England.

The late Lord Clonmel’s[70] heart was nearly broken by vexations connected with his public functions. He had been in the habit of holding parties to excessive bail in libel cases on his own fiat, which method of proceeding was at length regularly challenged and brought forward; and, the matter being discussed with asperity in parliament, his lordship was restrained from pursuing such courses for the future.

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Footnote 70:

His lordship’s only son (married to a daughter of the Earl of Warwick)
is now a total absentee, and exhibits another lamentable proof, that
the children even of men who rose to wealth and title by the favours
of the Irish people feel disgusted, and renounce for ever that country
to which they are indebted for their bread and their elevation!

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He had in the Court of King’s Bench, about 1789, used rough language toward Mr. Hackett, a gentleman of the bar, the members of which profession at that time considered themselves as all assailed in the person of a brother barrister. A general meeting was therefore called by the father of the bar; a severe condemnation of his lordship’s conduct voted, with only one dissentient voice; and an unprecedented resolution entered into, that “until his lordship publicly apologised, no barrister would either take a brief, appear in the King’s Bench, or sign any pleadings for that court.”

This experiment was actually tried:—the judges sat, but no counsel appeared; no cause was prepared; the attorneys all vanished, and their lordships had the court to themselves. There was no alternative; and next day Lord Clonmel published a very ample apology, by advertisement in the newspapers, and, with excellent address, made it appear as if written on the evening of the offence, and therefore voluntary.[71]

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Footnote 71:

An occurrence somewhat of the same nature took place at no very great
distance of time, at Maryborough assizes, between Mr. Daley, a judge
of the Irish Court of King’s Bench, and Mr. W. Johnson, now judge of
the Common Pleas.

Mr. Daley spoke of committing Mr. Johnson for being rude to him; but,
unfortunately, he committed himself! A meeting was called, at which I
was requested to attend; but I declined, and was afterward informed
that my refusal had (very unjustly) given offence to _both_ parties.
The fact is, that, entertaining no very high opinion of the
placability of either, I did not choose to interfere, and so unluckily
replied that “they might _fight dog_, _fight bear_,—I would give no
opinion about the matter.”

One of the few things I ever forgot is, the way in which that affair
terminated:—it made little impression on me at the time, and so my
memory rejected it.

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This nobleman had built a beautiful house (which he called Neptune) near Dublin, and walled in a deer-park to operate medicinally, by inducing him to use more riding exercise than he otherwise would take. Mr. Magee, printer of the Dublin Evening Post (who was what they call a little cracked, but very acute), one of the men whom his lordship had held to excessive bail, had never forgiven it, and purchased a plot of ground under my lord’s windows, which he called “_Fiat-hill_:” there he entertained the populace of Dublin, once a week, with various droll exhibitions and sports:—such, for instance, as asses dressed up with wigs and scarlet robes; dancing dogs, in gowns and wigs, as barristers; soaped pigs, &c. These assemblies, although productive of the greatest annoyance to his lordship, were not sufficiently riotous to be termed a public nuisance, being solely confined to Magee’s own field, which his lordship had unfortunately omitted to purchase when he built his house.

The earl, however, expected at length to be clear of his tormentor’s feats—at least for awhile; as Magee was found guilty on a charge of libel, and Lord Clonmel would have no qualms of conscience in giving _justice_ full scope by keeping him under the eye of the marshal, and consequently an absentee from “Fiat-hill,” for a good space of time.

Magee was brought up for judgment, and pleaded himself, in mitigation, that he was ignorant of the publication, not having been in Dublin when the libel appeared; which fact, he added, Lord Clonmel well knew. He had been, indeed, entertaining the citizens under the earl’s windows, and saw his lordship peeping out from the side of one of them the whole of that day; and the next morning he had overtaken his lordship riding into town. “And by the same token,” continued Magee, “your lordship was riding _cheek by jowl_ with your own brother, Matthias Scott, the tallow-chandler,[72] from Waterford, and audibly discussing the price of fat, at the very moment I passed you.”

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Footnote 72:

Lord Clonmel and Matthias Scott vied with each other which had the
largest and most hanging pair of cheeks—vulgarly called _jowls_. His
lordship’s chin was a treble one, whilst Matthias’s was but
doubled;—but then it was broader and hung deeper than his brother’s.

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There was no standing this:—a general laugh was inevitable; and his lordship, with that address for which he was so remarkable, (affecting to commune a moment with his brother judges) said,—“it was obvious, from the poor man’s manner, that he was not just then in a state to receive definitive judgment; that the paroxysm should be permitted to subside before any sentence could be properly pronounced. For the present, therefore, he should only be given into the care of the marshal, till it was ascertained how far the state of his intellect should regulate the court in pronouncing its judgment.” The marshal saw the crisis, and hurried away Magee before he had further opportunity of incensing the chief justice.

Theophilus Swift, who, though an Irishman, practised at the English bar, gave rise to one of the most curious libel cases that ever occurred in Ireland, and which involved a point of very great interest and importance.

Theophilus had two sons. In point of figure, temper, disposition, and propensities, no two brothers in the whole kingdom were so dissimilar. Dean Swift, the elder, was tall, thin, and gentlemanly, but withal an unqualified reformer and revolutionist: the second, Edmond, was broad, squat, rough, and as fanatical an ultra-royalist as the king’s dominions afforded. Both were clever men in their way.

The father was a free-thinker in every respect;—fond of his sons, although materially different from either, but agreeing with the younger in being a professed and extravagant loyalist. He was bald-headed, pale, slender, and active—with gray eyes, and a considerable squint: an excellent classic scholar, and versed likewise in modern literature and belles lettres. In short, Theophilus Swift laid claim to the title of a sincere, kind-hearted man; but was, at the same time, the most visionary of created beings. He saw every thing whimsically—many things erroneously—and nothing like another person. Eternally in motion,—either talking, writing, fighting, or whatever occupation came uppermost, he never remained idle one second while awake, and I really believe was busily employed even in his slumbers.

His sons, of course, adopted entirely different pursuits; and, though affectionate brothers, _agreed_ in nothing save a love for each other and attachment to their father. They were both writers, and good ones; both speakers, and bad ones.

Military etiquette was formerly very conspicuous on some occasions. I well recollect when a man bearing the king’s commission was considered as bound to fight any body and every body that gave him the invitation. When the Duke of York was pleased to exchange shots with Colonel Lennox (afterwards Duke of Richmond), it was considered by our friend Theophilus as a personal offence to every gentleman in England, civil or military; and he held that every man who loved the reigning family should challenge Col. Lennox, until somebody turned up who was good marksman enough to penetrate the colonel, and thus punish his presumption.

Following up his speculative notions, Mr. Swift actually challenged Colonel Lennox for having had the arrogance to fire at the king’s son. The colonel had never seen or even heard of this antagonist; but learning that he was a barrister and a gentleman, he considered that, as a military man, he was bound to fight him as long as he thought proper. The result, therefore, was a meeting;—and Colonel Lennox shot my friend Theophilus clean through the carcase; so that, as Sir Callaghan O’Brallaghan says, “he made his body shine through the sun!”—Swift, according to all precedents on such occasions, first staggered, then fell—was carried home, and given over—made his will, and bequeathed the Duke of York a gold snuff-box! However, he recovered so completely, that when the Duke of Richmond went to Ireland as lord lieutenant, I (to my surprise) saw Swift at his grace’s first levee, most anxious for the introduction. His turn came; and without ceremony he said to the Duke, by way of a pun, that “the last time he had the honour of waiting on his grace, as Colonel Lennox, he received better entertainment—for that his grace had given him a _ball_!”

“True,” said the duke, smiling; “and now that I am lord lieutenant, the least I can do is to give you a _brace_ of them!”—and in due time, he sent Swift two special invitations to the balls, to make these terms consistent with his excellency’s compliments.

Swift, as will hence be inferred, was a romantic personage. In fact, he showed the most decisive determination not to die in obscurity, by whatever means his celebrity might be acquired.

A savage, justly termed _the monster_, had, during Swift’s career at the bar, practised the most horrid and mysterious crime we have yet heard of—namely, that of stabbing women indiscriminately in the street—deliberately and without cause. He was at length taken and ordered for trial: but so odious and detestable was his crime, that not a gentleman of the bar would act as his advocate. This was enough to induce Swift to accept the office. He argued truly, that every man must be presumed innocent till by legal proof he appears to be guilty, and that there was no reason why the monster should be excepted from the general rule, or that actual guilt should be presumed on the charge against him more than any other charge against any other person: that prejudice was a _primâ facie_ injustice; and that the crime of stabbing a lady with a weapon which was only calculated to wound, could not be _greater_ than that of stabbing her to the heart, and destroying her on the instant: that if the charge had been cutting the lady’s throat, he would have had his choice of advocates. This line of reasoning was totally unanswerable. He spoke and published his defence of the monster, who, however, was found guilty, and not half punished for his atrocity.

Theophilus had a competent private fortune; but as such men as he must somehow be always dabbling in what is called in Ireland “a bit of a law-suit,” a large per-centage of his rents never failed to get into the pockets of the attorneys and counsellors; and after he had recovered from the Duke of Richmond’s perforation, and the monster had been incarcerated, he determined to change his site, settle in his native country, and place his second son in the university of Dublin.

Suffice it to say, that he soon commenced a fracas with _all_ the fellows of the university, on account of their “not doing justice somehow,” as he said, “to the cleverest lad in Ireland!” and, according to his usual habit, he determined at once to punish several of the offenders by penmanship, and regenerate the great university of Ireland by a powerful, pointed, personal, and undisguised libel against its fellows and their ladies.

Theophilus was not without some plausible grounds to work upon; but he never considered that a printed libel did not admit of any legal justification. He at once put half a dozen of the fellows _hors de société_, by proclaiming them to be perjurers, profligates, impostors, &c. &c.; and printed, published, and circulated this his _eulogium_ with all the activity and zeal which belonged to his nature, working hard to give it a greater circulation than almost any libel published in Ireland, and that is saying a great deal!—but the main tenor of his charge was a most serious imputation and a very home one.

By the statutes of the Irish university, strict celibacy is required; and Mr. Swift stated “that the fellows of that university, being also clergymen, had sworn on the Holy Evangelists, that they would strictly obey and keep sacred these statutes of the university, in manner, form, letter, and spirit, as enjoined by their charter from the virgin queen. But that, notwithstanding such their solemn oath, several of these fellows and clergymen, flying in the face of the Holy Evangelists and Queen Elizabeth—and forgetful of morality, religion, common decency, and good example, had actually taken to themselves each one woman (at least), who went by the name of _Miss Such-a-one_, but who, in fact, had, in many instances, undergone, or was supposed to have undergone, the ceremony and consummation of marriage with such and such a perjured fellow and parson of Dublin university: and that those who had not so married, had done worse! and that, thereby, they had either perjured themselves or held out so vicious a precedent to youth, that he was obliged to take away his son, for fear of his morals becoming relaxed.”

It is easy to conceive that this publication, from the pen of a very gentlemanly, well-educated barrister, who had defended the _monster_ at the bar and the _Duke of York_ in Hyde Park, and showed himself ready and willing to write or fight with any man or body of men in Ireland, naturally made no small bustle and fuss among a portion of the university-men. Those who had kept out of the scrape by neither _marrying_ nor _doing worse_, were reported not to be in any state of deep mourning on the subject, as their _piety_ was the more conspicuous; and it could not hurt the feelings of either of them to reflect that he might possibly get a step in his promotion, on account of the defection of those seniors whose hearts might be broken, or removal made necessary, by the never-ending perseverance of this tremendous barrister, who had christened his son _Dean_ Swift, that he might appear a relative of that famous churchman, the patron and idol of the Irish people.

The gentlemen of the long robe were, of course, delighted with the occurrence: they had not for a long time met with so full and fair an opportunity of expending every sentence of their wit, eloquence, law, and logic, as in taking part in this celebrated controversy. I was greatly rejoiced at finding on my table a retainer _against_ the fellows and parsons of Trinity College, whom I formerly considered as a narrow-minded and untalented body of men, getting from 1000_l._ to 1500_l._ a year each for teaching several hundred students how to remain ignorant of most of those acquirements that a well-educated gentleman ought to be master of: it is true, the students had a fair chance of becoming good Latin scholars, of gaining a little Greek and Hebrew, and of understanding several books of Euclid, with three or four chapters of Locke on the Human Understanding, and a sixpenny treatise on logic written by the Rev. Dr. Murray, a very good divine, (one of the body,) to prove clearly that sophistry is superior to reason.[73] This being my opinion of them, I felt no qualms of conscience in undertaking the defence of Theophilus Swift, Esq., though most undoubtedly a gross libeller. It is only necessary to say, that Lord Clonmel, who had been (I believe) a sizer himself in that university, and, in truth, all the judges felt indignant (and with good reason) at Theophilus Swift’s so violently assailing and disgracing, in the face of the empire, the only university in Ireland—thus attacking the clergy though he defended a monster.

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Footnote 73:

Nothing can so completely stamp the character of the university of
Dublin as their suppression of the only school of eloquence in
Ireland—“The Historical Society;”—a school from which arose some of
the most distinguished, able, and estimable characters that ever
appeared in the forum, or in the parliament of Ireland: this step was
what the blundering Irish would call—“advancing backwards.”

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An information was in due form granted against Theophilus; and as he could neither deny the fact nor plead a justification to the libel, of course we had but a bad case of it. But the worse the case the harder an Irish barrister always worked to make it appear a good one. I beg here to observe, that the Irish bar were never so decorous and mild at that time, as to give up their briefs in desperate cases, as I have seen done in England—politely to save (as asserted) public time, and conciliate their lordships: thus sending their clients out of court, because they _thought_ they were not _defensible_. On the contrary, as I have said, the _worse_ the case entrusted to an Irish barrister, the more zealously did he labour and fight for his client. If he thought it _indefensible_, why take a fee? but his motto was—While there is life there is hope. During the speeches of these resolute advocates, in obstinate cases, powder and perspiration mingled in cordial streams adown their features: their mouths, ornamented at each corner with generous froth, threw out half-a-dozen arguments, with tropes and syllogisms to match, while English gentlemen would have been cautiously pronouncing one monosyllable, and considering most discreetly what the next should be. In short, they always stuck to their cause to the very last gasp!—and it may appear fabulous to a steady, regular English expounder of the law, and conceder of cases, that I have repeatedly seen a cause which the bar, the bench, and the jury, seemed to think was irrevocably lost,—after a few hours’ rubbing and puffing, (like the exertions of the Humane Society,) brought into a state of restored animation; and, after another hour or two of cross-examination and perseverance, the judges and jury have changed their impressions, and sent home the cause quite alive in the pockets of the lawful owner and his laborious solicitor.

In making these observations, I cannot but mention a gentleman long at the very head of the bar, as prime serjeant of Ireland, Mr. James Fitzgerald.[74] I had a great friendship for him: I knew him in extensive practice, and never saw him give up one case while it had a single point to rest upon, or he a puff of breath left to defend it; nor did I ever see any barrister succeed, either wholly or partially, in so many cases out of a given number, as Mr. Fitzgerald: and I can venture to say (at least to think), that had that Right Honourable James Fitzgerald been sent ambassador to Stockholm in the place of the Right Honourable Vesey Fitzgerald, his _cher garçon_, he would have worked Bernadotte to the stumps, by treating him just as if he were a _motion_ in the court of exchequer. There was no treaty which the government of England might have ordered him to _insist_ upon, that he would not have carried, at all events to a degree, and pleaded for _costs_ into the bargain.

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Footnote 74:

This is the Mr. James Fitzgerald who gave up the highest office of his
profession rather than betray his country:—he opposed the Union
zealously, and received and _deserved_ the most flattering address
from the Irish bar.

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This is a digression: but having been accustomed, for near forty years, to express my regard for that gentleman, and as this is probably the last time I shall ever have an opportunity of doing so, I was determined in my “last speech” not to be forgetful of my old, and, I really believe, sincere friend.

And now, reader! (I have in my preface stated my objections to the epithet _gentle_) we will go back to Theophilus Swift, and the college, and the King’s Bench. The trial at length came on, and there were decidedly more parsons present than I believe ever appeared in any court of justice of the same dimensions. The court set out full gallop against us: nevertheless, we worked on—twice twelve judges could not have stopped us! I cross-examined the most learned man of the whole university, Dr. Barret, a little, greasy, shabby, croaking, round-faced vice-provost: he knew of nothing on earth, save books and guineas—seldom went out, held but little intercourse with men, and none at all with women. I worked at him unsuccessfully for more than an hour; not one decisive sentence could I get him to pronounce: at length, he grew quite tired of me, and I thought to conciliate him by telling him that his father had christened me. “Indeed!” exclaimed he: “Oh!—I did not know you were a _Christian_!” At this unexpected repartee, the laugh was so strong against me, that I found myself silenced. My colleagues worked as hard as I: but a seventy-horse power could not have moved the court. It was, however, universally admitted that there was but one little point against us out of a hundred which the other side had urged: that point too had only three letters in it: yet it upset all our arguments: that talismanic word “_law_” was more powerful than two speeches of three hours each;—and, by the unanimous concurrence of the court and jury, Theophilus Swift, Esq., was found guilty of writing, publishing, (and undoubtedly _proving_,) that certain parsons, fellows of Dublin University, had been living (conjugally) with certain persons of an entirely different sex: and, in consequence, he was sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment in his Majesty’s close, called the “gaol of Newgate,” where he took up his residence with nearly two hundred and forty felons and handy pickpockets—exclusive of burglars, murderers, and United Irishmen, who were daily added to that select society.

My poor visionary friend was in a sad state of depression: but Heaven had a banquet in store for him which more than counterbalanced all his discomfitures:—an incident that I really think even the oracle of Delphos never would have thought of predicting.

The Rev. Doctor Burrows was, of all the parsons, the most inveterate enemy and active prosecutor of my friend Theophilus: he was one of those who, in despite of Queen Elizabeth, and the rules of the Holy Trinity, had fallen in love, and indulged his concupiscence by uniting his fortunes and person with the object of it in the holy bands, without a dispensation—and by that incontinent omission got within the circle of Swift’s anti-moralists. This reverend person determined to make the public hate Theophilus, if possible, as much as he did himself; and forgetting, in his zeal, the doctrine of libel, and the precedent which he had himself just helped to establish, set about to _slay_ the _slayer_, and write a _quietus_ for Theophilus Swift (as he supposed) during the rest of his days! Thus, hugging himself in all the luxury of complete revenge on a fallen foe, Dr. Burrows produced a libel nearly as unjustifiable against the prisoner, as the prisoner had promulged against him: and having printed, published, and circulated the same, his reverence and madam conceived they had executed full justice on the enemy of marriage and the clergy. But, alas! they reckoned without their host: no sooner had I received a copy of this redoubtable pamphlet, than I hastened to my friend Theophilus, whom, from a state of despondency and unhappiness, I had the pleasure, in half an hour, of seeing at least as happy and more pleased than any king in Europe. It is unnecessary to say more than that I recommended an immediate prosecution of the Rev. Doctor Burrows, for a false, gross, and malicious libel against Theophilus Swift, Esq. Never was any prosecution better founded, or more clearly and effectually supported; and it took complete effect. The reverend prosecutor, now culprit in his turn, was sentenced to one-half of Swift’s term of imprisonment, and sent off to the same _close_ and same company as Theophilus.

The learned fellows were astounded; the university so far disgraced; and the triumphant Swift immediately published both trials, with observations, and notes critical and historical, &c.

But, alas! the mortification of the reverend fellow did not end here. On arriving at his Majesty’s gaol of Newgate, (as the governor informed me,) the doctor desired a room as high up as could be had, that he might not be disturbed whilst remaining in that mansion. The governor informed him, with pungent regret, that he had not a pigeon-hole unoccupied at the time, there being upward of two hundred and forty prisoners, chiefly pickpockets, many of whom were waiting to be transported; and that, till these were got rid of, he had no room, nay, not even a _cell_, that would answer his reverence: but there was a very neat little chamber in which were only _two_ beds—one occupied by a respectable and polite gentleman; and if the doctor could manage in this way meanwhile, his reverence might depend on a preference the moment there should be a vacancy, by the removal of the pickpockets.

Necessity has no law; and the doctor, forced to acquiesce, desired, though with a heavy heart, to be shown to the chamber. On entering, the gentleman and he exchanged bows; but in a moment both started and stared involuntarily at sight of each other. On one was to be seen the smile of triumph, on the other the grin of mortification. But Swift (naturally the _pink_ of politeness) gave no reason for an increase of the doctor’s chagrin. On the contrary, after several obeisances, (looking steadily at his own nose with one eye, and fixing the other on the parson,) my friend Theophilus commenced a rapid and learned dissertation upon the Greek and Latin classics, natural philosophy, Locke on the Human Understanding, &c. &c. running on without stop or stay, until he perceived an incipient relaxation in the muscles of his reverence’s face.