Chapter XII: Part 12

In fine, his good humour and good manners had their full operation on the incarcerated Trinitarian. As the sunbeams put out a fire, so did a sense of his own folly flash so strong upon the doctor’s reason, that it extinguished the blaze of his anger; and the governor having left them, in a short time an _éclaircissement_ took place between these two fellow-lodgers in a room fourteen feet by twelve! I afterward learned that they jogged on very well together till the expiration of their sentences, and I never heard of any libel published by either the doctor or Theophilus from that day forth.

PULPIT, BAR, AND PARLIAMENTARY ELOQUENCE.

Biographical and characteristic sketch of Dean Kirwan—His extraordinary
eloquence—The peculiar powers of Sheridan, Curran, and Grattan
contrasted—Observations on pulpit, bar, and parliamentary oratory.

A comparative scale of the talents of the celebrated men of my day I have frequently attempted, but never with success. Though I knew most of them both in private and public, my mind could never settle itself to any permanent opinion on so complicated a subject. Nevertheless, I quite agree with the maxim of Pope—that “The noblest study of mankind is man!” and the analysis of human character has ever formed one of my greatest amusements, though all endeavours to reduce my observations to a system have proved decidedly idle. Hence, I have at times grown out of humour with the science altogether, and made up my mind that there never was a more unprofitable occupation than that of determining a public character whilst the individual still lived. It is only after the grave has closed on men—when they can change no more, and their mortal acts are for ever terminated—that their respective natures become truly developed. This is a reflection that must surely force itself upon the mind and heart of every observant man.

The depressions of adversity generally leave the ostensible character pretty much as it originally appeared, save that it occasionally throws out hidden errors, abjectness or fortitude, and that talent or ingenuity is sometimes elicited in a greater proportion than the sufferer was previously imagined to possess. But I have always seen high prosperity the true and almost infallible touchstone: and since I have had leisure to observe the world, its effects upon my fellow-countrymen have proved more remarkable than upon the people of any other country—and indeed, in many instances, to an extent thoroughly ridiculous.

Eloquence, (a first-rate quality in my scale of talent,) is that for which the Irish _were_ eminently celebrated. But the exercise of this gift depends on so many accidental circumstances, and is withal so much regulated by fashion, that its decline is scarcely surprising. So few possess it from nature, and its superiority when possessed is so transcendent, that it has become the interest of the only body in Ireland now accustomed to extempore public speaking, (the bar,) to undervalue and throw it into the back-ground, which they have effectually succeeded in. A dull fellow can cry “come to the point!” as well as the most eloquent declaimer.

Pulpit eloquence is, in my opinion, by far the most important of any: the interest in which it is enlisted is, or ought to be, tremendously absorbing; and in consequence, it is deserving of the highest and most persevering cultivation. Yet, what is the fact?—Unless we resort to the temples of sectarianism, and run a risk of being annoyed by vulgarity and fanaticism, we have little or no chance of meeting with a preacher who seems _in earnest_. Polemical controversy may be carried on between priests with but little zeal and very meagre devotion; and bishops may think it quite sufficient to leave the social duties and cardinal virtues to work their way by force of their own intrinsic merits; yet these are the points whereon a really eloquent and zealous minister might rouse the attention of his hearers to effectual purpose, and succeed in detaching them from methodistical cant and rant, which, at present, (merely in consequence of apparent heartiness and a semblance of inspiration,) naturally draw away both old and young—both sensible and illiterate—from the tribe of cold metaphysical expositors who _illuminate_ the Christian tenets in our parochial congregations.

Nothing can better exemplify the latter observations than a circumstance connected with the little island of Guernsey. There are seven Protestant churches in that island, where the usual service is gone through in the usual manner, but in the French language. A parcel of Methodists, however, professed themselves discontented with the Litany, established a different form of worship, and set up a meeting-house of their own, upon a more “free and easy” foundation, calling every thing by its proper name, and giving out that they could save _two_ souls for every _one_ a common Protestant parson could manage: in due time they inveigled a set of fanatic persons of both sexes to form a _singing choir_, which employed itself in chanting from morning till night; every girl who wanted to put her voice in tune being brought by her mamma to sing psalms with the _new lights_! This vocal bait took admirably; and, in a short time, the congregations of “the _seven_ churches” might have been well accommodated in _one_. On the other hand, although the meeting-house was enlarged, its portals even were thronged on every occasion, multitudes both inside and out all squalling away to the very stretch of their voices.

The dean and clergy, perceiving clearly that singing had beaten praying out of the field, made a due representation to the bishop of Winchester, and requested the instructions of that right reverend dignitary, how to bring back the wayward flock to their natural folds and shepherds, from which they had been lured by the false warbling of fanatics. The bishop replied, that as the desertion appeared to be in consequence of the charms of melody, the remedy was plain—namely, to get _better singers_ than the Methodists, and to sing better tunes; in which case the Protestant churches would, no doubt, soon recover every one of their parishioners.

Not having, for many years, heard a sermon in Ireland, I am not aware of the precise state of its pulpit oratory at present. But of this I am quite sure—that neither politics nor controversy are the true attributes of Christian worship; and that, whenever they are made the topic of spiritual discourses, the whole congregation would be justified in dozing even from _text_ to _benediction_.

I have heard many parsons _attempt_ eloquence, but very few of them, in my idea, succeeded. The present Archbishop of Dublin worked hard for the prize, and a good number of the fellows of Dublin College tried their declamatory organs to little purpose: in truth, the preaching of one minister rendered me extremely fastidious respecting eloquence from the pulpit.

That individual was Dean Kirwan (now no more), who pronounced the most sublime, eloquent, and impressive orations I ever heard from the members of any profession, at any era. It is true, he spoke for _effect_, and therefore directed his flow of eloquence according to its apparent influence. I have listened to this man actually with astonishment! He was a gentleman by birth, had been educated as a Roman Catholic priest, and officiated some time in Ireland in that capacity; but afterwards conformed to the Protestant church, and was received _ad eundem_. His extraordinary powers soon brought him into notice; and he was promoted by Lord Westmoreland to a living; afterwards became a dean; and would, most probably, have been a bishop;—but he had an intractable turn of mind, entirely repugnant to the usual means of acquiring high preferment. It was much to be lamented that the independence of principle and action which he certainly possessed was not accompanied by any reputation for philanthropic qualities. His justly high opinion of himself seemed (unjustly) to overwhelm every other consideration.

Dr. Kirwan’s figure, and particularly his countenance, were not prepossessing; there was an air of discontent in his looks, and a sharpness in his features, which, in the aggregate, amounted to something not distant from repulsion. His manner of preaching was of the French school: he was vehement for awhile, and then, becoming (or affecting to become) exhausted, he held his handkerchief to his face: a dead silence ensued—he had skill to perceive the precise moment to recommence—another blaze of declamation burst upon the congregation, and another fit of exhaustion was succeeded by another pause. The men began to wonder at his eloquence, the women grew nervous at his denunciations. His tact rivalled his talent: and, at the conclusion of one of his finest sentences, a “_celestial exhaustion_” (as I heard a _lady_ call it) often abruptly terminated his discourse. If the subject was charity, every purse was laid largely under contribution. In the church of St. Peter’s, where he preached an annual charity sermon, the usual collection, which had been under 200_l._, was raised by the dean to 1,100_l._! I knew a gentleman myself, who threw both his purse and watch into the plate, through an impulse that nothing but such eloquence could have excited.

Yet the oratory of this celebrated preacher would have answered in no other profession than his own, and served to complete my idea of the true distinction between pulpit, bar, and parliamentary eloquence. Kirwan in the pulpit, Curran at the bar, and Sheridan in the senate,—were the three most effective orators I ever recollect, in their respective departments.

Kirwan’s talents seemed to me to be limited entirely to effective elocution. I had much intercourse with him at the house of Mr. Hely, of Tooke’s-court. While residing in Dublin, I met him in private society at a variety of places; and my overwrought expectations were a good deal disappointed. His style of address had nothing engaging; nothing either dignified or graceful. In his conversation there was neither sameness nor variety—ignorance nor information; and yet, somehow or other, he avoided insipidity. His _amour propre_ was the most prominent of his superficial qualities; and a bold, manly, intractable independence of mind and feeling, the most obvious of his deeper ones. I believe he was a good man, if he could not be termed a very amiable one; and learned, although niggardly in communicating his information.

I have remarked thus at large upon Dean Kirwan, because he was, altogether, the greatest orator I ever heard, and because I never met any man whose true character I felt myself more at a loss accurately to pronounce upon. It has been said that his sermons were adroitly extracted from passages in the celebrated discourses of Saurin, the Huguenot, who preached at the Hague (grandfather or great-grandfather to the late attorney-general of Ireland).[75] It may be so; and in that case all I can say is, that Kirwan was a most judicious selector, and that I doubt if the eloquent writer made a hundredth part of the impression of his eloquent plagiarist.

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Footnote 75:

Voltaire in his “Age of Louis the XIV,” says, “James Saurin was born
at Nismes, 1677:—he was the best preacher of the reformed church; but
he dealt too much in what was called the _refugee style_. He was
created minister to the _noblesse_ at the Hague; was a learned man—but
addicted to pleasures: he died 1730.”

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I should myself be the plagiarist of a hundred writers, if I attempted to descant upon the parliamentary eloquence of Sheridan. It only seems necessary to refer to his speech on Mr. Hastings’s trial;[76] at least that is sufficient to decide me as to his immense superiority over all his rivals in splendid declamation. Most great men have their distinct points of superiority, and I am sure that Sheridan could not have _preached_, nor Kirwan have _pleaded_. Curran could have done both—Grattan neither:—but, in language calculated to _rouse a nation_, Grattan, whilst young, far exceeded any of them;—and in mere flow of words, Yelverton was above all.

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Footnote 76:

I had an opportunity of knowing that Mr. Sheridan was offered 1000_l._
for that speech by a bookseller, the _day after_ it was spoken,
provided he would write it out correctly from the notes taken, before
the interest had subsided; and yet, although he certainly had occasion
for money at the time, and assented to the proposal, he did not take
the trouble of writing a line of it! The publisher was of course
displeased, and insisted on his performing his promise: upon which
Sheridan laughingly replied in the vein of Falstaff:—“No, Hal!—were I
at the strappado, I would do nothing _by compulsion_!” He did it at
length—but too late! and, as I heard, was (reasonably enough!) not
paid.

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I have often met Sheridan, but never knew him intimately. He was too much my senior and superior. While he was in high repute, I was at laborious duties: while he was eclipsing every body in fame in one country, I was labouring hard to gain money in another. He professed whiggism: I did not understand it, and have met very few patriots who appear to have acted even on their _own_ definition thereof—if any _certain_ definition there is.

QUEEN CAROLINE.

Reception of the late Queen Caroline (then Princess of Wales) at the
drawing-room held after the “delicate investigation”—Her depression,
and subsequent levity—Queen Charlotte and the Princess compared and
contrasted—Reflections on the incidents of that day and evening—The
Thames on a Vauxhall night.

I have often mused on the unfortunate history and fate of the late Queen Caroline. It is not for me here to discuss her case, or give any opinion on the conduct of the ruling powers in the business. I shall only observe, that though it was not possible to foresee such events as subsequently took place, I had, from the time of my being presented to that princess by Lord Stowell, felt an unaccountable presentiment that her destiny would not be a happy one.

Upon the close of the “delicate investigation,” a drawing-room of the most brilliant description was held at St. James’s, to witness the Princess’s reception by her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. I doubt if a more numerous and sparkling assemblage had ever been collected in that ancient palace;—curiosity had no small share in drawing it together.

The sun was that day in one of his most glaring humours; he shone with unusual ardour into the windows of the antique ball-room—seeming as if he wished at the same moment to gild and melt down that mass of beauty and of diamonds which was exposed to all his fervour. The crowd was immense, the heat insufferable; and the effects resulting therefrom liberally displayed themselves, though in different-tinted streams (from the limpid to the _crimson_), upon the fine features of the natural and aided beauties.

I was necessitated to attend in my official dress: the frizzled peruke, loaded with powder and pomatum (covering at least half the body of the sufferer), was wedged in amongst the gaudy nobles. The dress of every person who was so _fortunate_ as to come in contact with the wigs, like the cameleon, instantly imbibed the colour of the thing it came in collision with; and after a short intimacy, many a full-dress black received a large portion of my silvery hue, and many a splendid _manteau_ participated in the materials which render powder adhesive.

Of all the distressed beings in that heated assembly, I was most amused by Sir Vicary Gibbs, then attorney-general.—Hard-featured and impatient—his wig awry—his solids yielding out all their essence—he appeared as if he had just arisen (though not like Venus) from the sea. Every muscle of his angular features seemed busily employed in forming hieroglyphic imprecations! Though amused, I never pitied any person more—except myself. Wedged far too tight to permit even a heaving sigh at my own imprisonment, I could only be consoled by a perspective view of the gracious Charlotte, who stood stoutly before the throne like the stump of a baronial castle to which age gives greater dignity. I had, however, in due rotation, the honour of being presented, and of kissing the back of her Majesty’s hand.

I am, of course, profoundly ignorant of her Majesty’s manner in her family, but certainly her public receptions appeared to me the most gracious in the world: there could not be a more engaging, kind, and condescending address than that of the Queen of England. It is surprising how different a queen appears in a drawing-room and in a newspaper.

At length, the number of presentations had diminished the pressure, and a general stir in the crowd announced something uncommon about to take place. It was the approach of the Princess of Wales.

Whoever considered the painfully delicate situation in which this lady was then placed, could not help feeling a sympathy for her apparent sufferings. Her father, the Duke of Brunswick, had not long before expired of his wounds received at Jena; and after her own late trials it was, I thought, most inauspicious that deep mourning should be her attire on her reception—as if announcing at once the ill-fate of herself and of her parent: her dress was decked with a multiplicity of black bugles. She entered the drawing-room leaning on the arm of the Duke of Cumberland, and seemed to require the support. To her it must, in truth, have been a most awful moment. The subject of the investigation, the loss of her natural protector, and the doubts she must have felt as to the precise nature of her reception by the Queen, altogether made a deep impression on everyone present. She tottered to the throne: the spectacle grew interesting in the highest degree. I was not close; but a low buzz ran round the room that she had been received most kindly, and a few moments sufficed to show that this was her own impression.

After she had passed the ordeal, a circle was formed for her beyond the throne. I wished for an introduction, and Lord Stowell (then Sir William Scott) did me that honour. I had felt in common with every body for the depression of spirits with which the Princess had approached her Majesty. I, for my part, considered her in consequence full of sensibility at her own situation: but so far as her subsequent manner showed, I was totally mistaken. The trial was at an end, the Queen had been kind, and a paroxysm of spirits seemed to succeed and mark a strange contrast to the manner of her entry. I thought it was too _sudden_ and too _decisive_: she spoke much, and loud, and rather bold: it seemed to me as if all recollection of what had passed was rapidly vanishing. So far it pleased me, to see returning happiness; but still the _kind_ of thing made no favourable impression on my mind. Her circle was crowded; the presentations numerous: but on the whole, she lost ground in my estimation.

This incident proved to me the palpable distinction between _feeling_ and _sensibility_—words which people misconstrue and mingle without discrimination. I then compared the two ladies. The bearing of Queen Charlotte certainly was not that of a heroine in romance: but she was the best-bred and most graceful lady of her age and figure I ever saw: so kind and conciliating, that one could scarcely believe her capable of any thing but benevolence. She appeared plain, old, and of dark complexion; but seemed unaffected, and commanded that respect which private virtues will ever obtain for public character. I liked her vastly better than her daughter-in-law.—I mention only as a superficial, not an intellectual feeling, that I never could reconcile myself to extra-natural complexions.

I returned from the drawing-room with a hundred new thoughts excited by circumstances which had never occurred to me on any former occasion, and by the time I arrived at the Adelphi, had grown from a courtier into a philosopher! Even there, however, my lucubrations were doomed to interruption. From my chamber at the Caledonian, the beauty of the animated Thames quite diverted my mind from the suffocating splendour, under the pressure of which I had passed three hours. The broad unruffled tide, reflecting the rich azure of the firmament, awakened in my mind ideas of sublimity which would have raised it toward heaven, had not _dinner_ and a new train of observation recalled me to worldly considerations, which I fancied I had for one evening completely laid aside. Another scene of equal brilliance in its own way soon rivetted my attention. It was a Vauxhall evening—and thousands of painted and gilded skiffs darted along under my windows, crowded with flashy girls and tawdry cits, enveloped in all their holiday glories, and appearing to vie in gaudiness with the scullers of which they were the cargo. Here elegance and vulgarity, rank and meanness, vice and beauty, disease and health, mingling and moving over the waters, led me to the mortifying reflection, that this apparently gay and happy company probably comprised a portion of the most miserable and base materials of the British population.

I soon became fatigued by the brilliant sameness of the scene; and a sort of spurious philosophy again led me back to the Queen’s drawing-room, and set me reflecting on numerous subjects, in which I had not the remotest interest! but as solitary reasoning is one of the very greatest incentives to drowsiness, that sensation soon overcame all others; the sensorial powers gradually yielded to its influence; and, in a short time, the Queen and the Princess of Wales—the drawing-room and the gilded boats—the happy-looking girls and assiduous gallants—all huddled together in most irreverent confusion, sheered off (as a seaman would say), and left a sound and refreshing slumber in place of all that was great and gay—dazzling and splendid—in the first metropolis of the European hemisphere.

LORD YELVERTON AND THE BAR.

Characteristic and personal sketches of three Irish barristers: Mr.
William Fletcher (afterward chief justice of the Court of Common
Pleas), Mr. James Egan (afterward judge of Dublin county), and Mr.
Bartholomew Hoare, king’s counsel—Lord Yelverton’s dinner party—The
author’s parody—Mr. Egan right by _mistake_!

Mr. William Fletcher, since chief justice of the Common Pleas; Mr. James Egan, afterward judge of Kilmainham; and Mr. Bartholomew Hoare, one of the king’s counsel, were certainly the three most _intractable_ men of their profession, though of characters very dissimilar.

Mr. Fletcher, a very clever man and excellent lawyer, had a surly temper combined with a kind heart and an honest free-spirited principle, which never forsook him either in private life or as a public functionary. He was hard-featured, and although morose in court, disposed to jocularity in society: his appetites seemed to incline toward _gourmandise_, and in fact, toward voluptuousness, generally speaking. As a judge, he was upright, uninfluenced, and humane.

Mr. Egan, a huge, coarse-looking, red-faced, boisterous fellow, to as tender a heart as ever was enclosed in so rough an outside,[77] added a number of other good qualities which it would be too much to expect should exist without some alloy. His manners were naturally gross; and it was curious to see him, in full-dress, with bag and sword, endeavour to affect good breeding. He had immense business at the bar at the time Lord Yelverton presided in the Court of Exchequer; and he executed that business zealously and successfully, with, however, as occasion served, a sprinkling of what we term “balderdash.” In fact, he both gave and received hits and cuts with infinite spirit, and in more ways than one; for he had fought a good number of duels (one with swords), and had the good fortune to escape with an unpierced skin. Natural death was his final enemy, and swept him off long before nature ought to have had any hand in it. He died judge of Dublin county. His heart was in its right place; he was an utter stranger to double dealing—and never liked money except for what _enjoyments_ it could purchase.

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Footnote 77:

They called him the _Venison Pasty_: a coarse, black, hard crust, with
excellent feeding inside of it.

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Bartholomew Hoare was inferior to both. He wrote better, but spoke most disagreeably;—his harangues being sententious and diffuse, though not destitute of point. He was ill-tempered, arrogant, and rude, with a harsh expression of countenance; but withal, what was termed “an able man.” In point of intellect, indeed, he perhaps exceeded Egan, but in heart I must rank him inferior. Egan was popular with the most talented men of his profession: Hoare could never attain professional popularity in any shape, though he numbered some great men among his friends.

These are merely fugitive sketches of three members of the Irish bar who (I knew not why) were generally named together, but whose respective careers terminated very differently. Bartholomew Hoare died in great distress.

The chief baron, Lord Yelverton, got one day after dinner, at his house at Fairview, into an argument with Egan, which in truth he always courted, and _led_ him on in so droll a way as never failed to enhance the merriment of the company. Hoare never heard an argument in his life between any two persons, or upon any subject, wherein he did not long to obtrude; and Fletcher, if he thought he had conceived a good hit, was never easy till he was delivered of it. On the evening in question, the trio had united in contesting with their host all manner of subjects, which he had himself designedly started, to excite them. His lordship was in high glee, and played them off in a style of the most superior wit and cleverness, assisted (for he was a first-rate scholar) by much classic quotation: by successive assaults he upset the three, who were as less than one in the hands of Yelverton, when he chose to exert himself. The evening certainly turned out among the pleasantest I ever passed in society.

Lord Yelverton’s wit and humour had a weight and solidity in it, which emitted a fervid as well as a blazing light. I opened not my lips:—had I mingled in their disputation, I should not only have got my full portion of the _tattooing_ (as they termed it), but also have lost, in becoming an actor, the gratification of witnessing the scene. At length Lord Yelverton wrote under the table with a pencil the following words, and sent the scrap by a servant to me:—“Barrington, these fellows will never stop!—pray _write something about them_, and send it to me.”—I left the room, and having written the following parody in a hand to resemble printing, sent it in to his lordship sealed as a letter:—

_Three_ pleaders, in one _vulgar_ era born,
Mount-Melic, Cork, and Blarney, did adorn:
In solemn _surliness_ the first surpass’d,
The next in _balderdash_—in both the last:
The force of Nature could no further go;
To make a _third_, she join’d the former _two_!

Lord Yelverton, not expecting the lampoon to come in form of a letter, was greatly diverted; it was read over and over again, amidst roars of laughter. Every body entertained his own conjecture respecting the writer, and each barrister appropriated to himself one of the three characteristics. I was not at all suspected that night, since I had in nowise interfered, and my brief absence had not been noticed: but next day in court, it somehow came out. Nobody but Hoare was vexed, and him I silenced by threatening that I would write another epigram on him _solus_ if he provoked me. He vowed at first he would make an _example_ of me; and by cutting satire he was well able to do so: but I got him into good humour before we parted.

Egan, however, professed annoyance at me from some cause or other in the course of that same day. He was never remarkable for the correctness of his English. In speaking to some motion that was pending, he used the word _obdurate_ frequently. I happened to laugh; Egan turned round, and then addressing himself to the chief baron, “I suppose, my lord,” said he ironically, “the gentleman laughs at my happening to pronounce the word _obdurate_ wrong.”

“No, my lord,” replied I, “I only laughed because he _happened_ to pronounce it _right_!”

I never heard him utter the word _obdurate_ afterward.

MR. NORCOT’S ATTEMPT AT SUICIDE.

The hollowness of interested popularity illustrated in the example of
Mr. Norcot—The dilemma of a gamester—The last resource—The “faithful”
valet—Mr. Norcot turns Mahometan—His equivocal destiny.

Mr. Norcot was an eccentric Irish barrister, the uncertainty of whose fate has given rise to a vast number of surmises: the last authentic account described him as a Turk selling rhubarb and opium in the streets of Smyrna! When the Duke of Richmond was lord lieutenant of Ireland he was a great favourite at the Castle revels. He could drink as stoutly as the duke himself, touch the piano as well as a lady, or gamble as deeply as any of the gentlemen: he could jest even better than Sir Charles Vernon, and drove all other bachelors out of the field at the vice-regal orgies. Hence his reception was so flattering, that he discarded all reflection, and at length found his purse empty, his resources dry, his profession unproductive, his estate melted down, and his reputation _not improved_. The noble duke gave him no _place_—but at his dinner-table, while smiles and lemonade were the favours of the duchess:—the courtiers turned their faces toward him whilst he was rich, and their backs when he had grown poor: his best puns began to pass without notice, his mimicry excited no laughter, and his most high-flown compliments scarcely received a curtsey.

A fat, hearty, convivial fellow does not perceive what is termed the half-cut near so soon as your lank, sensitive, thorough-paced goer; and Norcot was not completely undeceived as to his own declining influence until, one evening, having lost much more money than he had to pay, he began to consider how to make up the deficiency. He had very little cash left any where, and was not versed in the borrowing system: so he thought he would wait a few days to see what Providence would be pleased to do for him; and as he had never thought it worth his while to rely upon her before, he did not know exactly in what way to court her assistance. Irish gentlemen so circumstanced are very apt to suppose that they may find _Providence_, or in other words _good luck_, at the bottom of two or three bottles of wine, and accordingly never omit the application thereunto. Norcot pursued the usual course, and certainly made away with that number at least next night, with the duke. But, alas! this kind of exorcism was unsuccessful in his instance, and he was necessitated to return home, at three o’clock in the morning, sobered by the very lassitude of excess, and maddened by reflection. On arriving, he threw himself into his arm-chair, his mind became confused, his reason wandered: he thought of resources—there were none!—but the extent of his poverty and debts being as yet not publicly known, he thought of borrowing: the plan, however, seemed a doubtful one; and besides, he was deterred from trying it by his pride. He next thought of prison; this inflamed his brain still farther, and drove him upon the fearful alternative of suicide! Here a door of retreat seemed open, although whither it led he knew not: but he had neither heart to bear up against misfortune, nor religion to assuage it: he had no steady friend to advise with, and no liberal one to relieve him.

He sank for a moment into an enviable state of insensibility. His servant Thomas, a broad, faithful Irishman, but who never had known the meaning of any kind of feelings (except corporeal ones), stood by surprised at the change in his master’s manner. “Thomas!” exclaimed the desponding Norcot, “Thomas, are my pistols charged?”

“Right well, plase your honour,” replied Thomas.

“The flints, Thomas?”

“I’m sure they’d strike fire enough to burn a barrel of gunpowder, if your honour wanted to blow it up!”

“Bring them hither,” said Norcot.

Thomas did not approve of this order, and answered, “Sure your honour can’t want them till day-light, any how!” But, upon Norcot’s authoritatively waving his hand, he brought the pistols, wondering what his master wanted with them.

“Thomas,” said the desperate man, “you were always faithful!”

“And _why should not I_?” said Thomas.

“Well, then, Thomas, I can live no longer!”

“Thunder and oons, master! why not?”

“’Tis enough to say, Thomas,” pursued the hapless barrister, taking up one of the pistols, “that I am _determined_ to die!”

Thomas, never having seen such a catastrophe, was quite alarmed; but all his eloquence was in vain: having wept and argued to no purpose, he ran towards the window to shout murder, but it was fast. Norcot (who was an unbeliever) shuddering meanwhile less at the idea of the crime he contemplated than at that of eternal annihilation, (which his tenets induced him to anticipate,) said, “Thomas, take one of these pistols, and put it to my head; apply the other here, to my heart;—fire both together, and put me out of my pain—for die I will!”

Thomas mused and bethought himself, and then answered, “I am willing to do the best I can for so good a master, but truly I can’t shoot, and may be I’d miss your honour! Hadn’t I better go to some gentleman of your acquaintance that I heard you say never missed any body—and who would do it cleverly?”

“None but you,” returned the unyielding desperado, “shall shoot me, Thomas!”

“I never shot any body!” cried the servant: “but (taking up the pistols) your honour says, one at your head: may I crave what part of it?”

“There,” said Norcot, pointing to his temple; “the other through my heart!”

“And which side is your honour’s heart to-night?” inquired the dilatory valet.

“Here!” replied Norcot: “now cock and fire!”

Thomas, who had been planning all this time how to get rid of the business, now seemed on the sudden to recollect himself. “But, master, dear!” said he, “when you were going to fight a duel with that Captain O’Brien, at the Cove of Cork, your honour took out Surgeon Egan with you, saying, that no gentleman should risk his life without a doctor: so, if you plase, I’ll just step over first and foremost, and fetch Surgeon Macklin here _for fear of accidents_!” Without waiting any reply, he instantly stepped out of the room as fast as he could, taking the pistols with him, and leaving Norcot in astonishment: he actually went to the doctor, told him the story, and brought him over to reason with his master, who remained in a state of perfect distraction. However, the fit somewhat subsided; and the incident’s being thus placed in a novel and ridiculous point of view had the most extraordinary effect on Norcot’s mind. He recovered the use of his reason, and calm reflection succeeded the burning frenzy. He could scarcely avoid smiling at Thomas; and, relating the adventure himself, pretended it was only a trick of his own to terrify his servant. But when he was left to himself, he considered what was best to be done, and adopted it. He made up all the means he could, and got into a place of secrecy, where he awaited the result of the “chapter of accidents,” and the efforts of his great friends to procure him some employment for subsistence:—nor was he long unprovided for. He was appointed to an office, I think at Malta, but where he soon disgraced himself in a manner which for ever excluded him from society. Being now lost past all redemption, he fled to the Morea, and from thence to Constantinople, where he renounced the cross and became a Musselman. But even there he was not fortunate: he has for some time been lost sight of, and exhibits a most edifying lesson to the dissipated and unbelieving. After commencing the world with as plausible prospects of success and respectability as most men of his day, Norcot, if dead, has died a disgraced and blasphemous renegado; thus confirming an observation of mine, throughout life, that a free-_thinker_ is ever disposed to be also a free-_actor_, and is restrained from the gratification of all his vices only by those laws which provide a punishment for their commission.

ANECDOTES OF IRISH JUDGES.

Baron Monckton—Judge Boyd—Judge Henn—Legal blunder of a judge, and
Curran’s bon-mot thereon—Baron Power—His suicide—Crosby Morgal’s
spirit of emulation—Judge William Johnson—Curious anecdote between him
and the author—Judge Kelly—His character and bon-mots—Lord
Kilwarden—His character—Murder of him and his nephew the Rev. Mr.
Wolfe—Mr. Emmet executed—Memoir of that person—Judge Robert
Johnson—Arrested in Ireland, and tried in London, for a libel written
on Lord Redesdale in Ireland and published by Cobbett—Doubts of the
legality of his lordship’s trial—He is found guilty.

Before, and for some time after, I was called to the bar, the bench was in several instances very curiously manned as to judges. The uniform custom had previously been to send over these dignitaries from England;—partly with a view to protect the property of absentees,[78] and partly from political considerations: and the individuals thus sent appeared as if generally selected because they were good for nothing else. In truth, as the judges of Ireland were not made independent of the crown until 1784, no English barrister who could earn his bread at home would accept a precarious office in a strange country, and on a paltry salary. Such Irishmen, also, as were in those days constituted puisne judges, were of the inferior class of _practising_ barristers, on account of the last-mentioned circumstance.

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Footnote 78:

The interest of money in England was only _five_ per cent; in Ireland,
_six_. Moneyed Englishmen, therefore, lent out large sums on Irish
mortgages. Lord Mansfield had vested much money in this way; and as
Irish mortgages, from the confused state of Irish entails at that
time, were generally considered rather _ticklish_ securities, the
Irish judges were sent over from England to _take care_ of that
matter, and were _removable at pleasure_, for the same reason.

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A vulgar idea, most ridiculous in its nature, formerly prevailed in Ireland, of the _infallibility_ of _judges_.—It existed long before and at an early period of my observations, and went so far even as to conceive that an ignorant barrister, whose opinion nobody probably would ask, or, if obtained, nobody would act upon—should he, by interest, subserviency, or other fortuitous circumstances, be placed on the judicial bench, immediately changed his character—all the books in his library pouring their information into his head! The great seal and the king’s patent were held to saturate his brain in half an hour with all that wisdom and learning which he had in vain been trying to get even a peep at during the former portion of his life; and the mere dicta of the metamorphosed barrister were set down, by reporters, as the infallible (but theretofore inexplicable) law of the land; and, as such, handed round to other judges under the appellation of precedents, entitled to all possible weight and authority in judicial decisions.

This old doctrine of the infallibility of dicta and precedents, (which presented, in fact, an accumulation of enigmas and contradictions,) was at one time carried to great lengths;—I believe partly from a plausible system of making legal decisions _uniform_, whether right or wrong; and perhaps partly from the inability of the adopters to make any better sort of precedent themselves. A complaisance so ridiculous has of late been much relaxed.[79]

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Footnote 79:

A judge who feels himself bound by old precedents in the teeth of his
own convictions, is much to be pitied. If he decides according to the
said _precedents_, he does wrong with his eyes open. If he decides
_against_ them, he will be considered as deciding against the _settled
law of the land_, and the _Courts of Error_ quickly set the ancient
mistake on its legs again.

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To show the gradual and great improvement of the Irish bench, and the rapid advance as regards the administration of justice in the law courts of that country, I will subjoin a few illustrative anecdotes.

Baron Monckton, of the Exchequer (an importation from England), was said to understand _black_ letter and _red_ wine better than any who had preceded him in that situation. At all events, being often _vino deditus_, he on such occasions described the segment of a circle in making his way to the seat of justice! This learned baron was longer on the bench than any other I recollect to have heard of; he resided in Butter-lane, and was held as a _precedent_.

I have in later days enjoyed the intimacy of a very clever well-informed man, and a sound lawyer, who (like the baron) rather indulged in the juice of the grape, and whom Lord Clare had made a judge for some services rendered to himself. The newspapers eulogised this gentleman very much for his singular _tender-heartedness_, saying, “So great was the humanity of Judge Boyd, that when he was passing sentence of death upon any unfortunate criminal, it was observable that his lordship seldom failed to have ‘_a drop_ in his eye!’” He was, in fact, a humane though firm-minded man, and understood his trade well. He was tall and strong, and his face exactly resembled a _scarlet pincushion_ well _studded_! He was considered to be a slave to the _tender_ passion, and was called (by no means _mal-apropos_) “_Love in a blaze_!”

I remember a barrister being raised to the Irish bench, who had been previously well known by the ingenious surname of Counsellor _Necessity_,—because “necessitas _non legem_ habet:” and certainly, to do him justice, he was not unworthy of the cognomen.

Old Judge Henn (a very excellent private character) was dreadfully puzzled on circuit, about 1789, by two pertinacious young barristers (arguing a civil bill upon some trifling subject) repeatedly haranguing the court, and each most positively laying down the “law of the case” in _direct_ opposition to his adversary’s statement thereupon. The judge listened with great attention until both were tired of stating the law and contradicting each other, when they unanimously requested his lordship to _decide_ the point.

“How, gentlemen,” said Judge Henn, “_can_ I settle it between you?—_You_, sir, positively say the law is _one way_, and _you_ (turning to the opposite party) as unequivocally affirm that it is the other way. I wish to God, Billy Harrison, (to his registrar, who sat underneath,) I knew what the law _really_ was!”

“My lord,” replied Billy Harrison most sententiously, (rising at the same moment, and casting a despairing glance toward the bench,) “if _I_ knew what the law was, I protest to God I would tell your lordship with a great deal of pleasure!”

“Then we’ll _save the point_, Billy Harrison!” exclaimed the judge.—“_What_ point, my lord?” said Billy.

A more modern justice of the Irish King’s Bench, in giving his _dictum_ on a certain will case, absolutely said, “he thought it very clear that the _testator_ intended to keep a _life interest_ in the estate to _himself_!” The bar did not laugh outright; but Curran soon rendered that consequence inevitable. “Very true, my lord,” said he, “very true! _testators_ generally do secure _life_ interests to themselves. But, in this case, I rather think your lordship takes the _will_ for the _deed_!”

The chief judges were, however, generally accomplished men, of first-rate talent as lawyers; and the chancellors, with few exceptions, had been learned, able, and dignified; qualities, which Lord Lifford was the last to unite in an eminent degree.

On the subject of judges, I cannot omit a few anecdotes of a very different description from the foregoing, totally extra-judicial, which occurred in my own time.

Baron Power was considered an excellent lawyer, and was altogether one of the most curious characters I have met in the profession.—He was a morose, fat fellow, affecting to be genteel: he was very learned, very rich, and very ostentatious. Unfortunately for himself, Baron Power held the lucrative office of usher of the Court of Chancery, which was principally remunerated by fees on monies lodged in that court. Lord Clare (then chancellor) hated and teazed him, because Power was arrogant himself, and never would succumb to the arrogance of Fitzgibbon, to whom in law he was superior. The chancellor had a certain control over the usher; at least he had a sort of license for abusing him by inuendo, as an officer of the court, and most unremittingly did he exercise that license. Baron Power had a large private fortune, and always acted in office strictly according to the custom of his predecessors; but was attacked so virulently and pertinaciously by Lord Clare, that having no redress, it made a deep impression, first on his pride, then on his mind, and at length on his intellect. Lord Clare followed up his blow, as was common with him: he made daily attacks on the baron, who chose rather to break than bend; and who, unable longer to stand this persecution, determined on a prank of all others the most agreeable to his adversary!—The baron walked quietly down early one fine morning to the south wall, which runs into the sea, about two miles from Dublin; there he very deliberately filled his coat-pockets with pebbles; and having accomplished that business, as deliberately walked into the ocean, which received him cordially, but did not retain him long, his body being thrown ashore with great contempt by the very next tide. His estates devolved upon his nephews, two of the most respectable men of their country; and the lord chancellor enjoyed the double gratification of destroying a baron, and recommending a more submissive usher in his place; and when all parties were out of mourning, got his own son, the Honourable Hubert Fitzgibbon (a very nice child at that time), into the patent. They might have blamed Lord Clare for drowning the baron; but there is no law human or divine which forbids a man from providing for his own offspring when he has the opportunity. So, as such or such an office must exist, if the business is duly performed, it is nothing to the nation _who_ executes it.

Had the matter ended thus, it might not have been so very remarkable; but the _precedent_ was too respectable and inviting not to be followed by persons who had any particular reasons for desiring strangulation; as a judge drowning himself gave the thing a sort of dignified legal _éclat_! It so happened, that a Mr. Crosby Morgal, then an attorney residing in Dublin, (of large dimensions, and with shin bones curved like the segment of a rainbow,) had, for good and sufficient reasons, long appeared rather dissatisfied with himself and other people. But as attorneys were considered much more likely to induce their neighbours to cut their throats than to execute that office upon themselves, nobody ever suspected Morgal of any intention to shorten his days in a voluntary manner.

However, it appeared that the signal success of Baron Power had excited in the attorney a great ambition to get rid of his sensibilities by a similar exploit.—In compliance with such his impression, he adopted the very same preliminaries as the baron had done; walked off by the very same road, to the very same spot; and, having had the advantage of knowing, from the coroner’s inquest, that the baron had put pebbles into his pocket with good effect, adopted likewise this _judicial precedent_, and committed himself in due form into the hands of Father Neptune, who took equal care of him as he had done of the baron; and, after having suffocated him so completely as to defy the exertions of the Humane Society, sent his body floating ashore, to the full as bloated and buoyant as Baron Power’s had been. This gentleman was father to a lady of fortune and some rank, still living, and whose first husband met a much more disagreeable _finale_, being shot _against_ his will by his brother candidate at an election. She has herself, however, been singularly fortunate throughout life.

As a sequel to this little anecdote of Crosby Morgal, it is worth observing, that, though I do not recollect any of the _attorneys_ immediately following his example, four or five of his _clients_ very shortly after started from this world of their own accord, to try, as people then said, if they could any way overtake Crosby, who had left them no conveniences for staying long behind him.[80]

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Footnote 80:

The Irish attorneys had, I believe, then pretty much the same
reputation and popularity enjoyed by their tribe throughout the United
Kingdom. They have now, in each country, wisely changed their
designation into that of _solicitors_. I recollect one anecdote, which
will, I think, apply pretty well to the major part of that celebrated
profession. Some years ago, a suitor in the Court of Exchequer
complained in person to the chief baron, that he was quite _ruinated_,
and could go on no further! “Then,” said Lord Yelverton, “you had
better leave the matter to be decided by reference.”—“To be sure I
will, my lord,” said the plaintiff: “I’ve been now at law _thirteen_
years, and can’t get on at all! I’m willing, please your lordship, to
leave it all either to one _honest man_ or two _attorneys_, whichever
your lordship pleases.”—“You had better _toss up_, head or harp, for
that,” said Lord Yelverton, laughing. Two attorneys were however
appointed, and, in less than a _year_, reported that “they could not
agree:” both parties then declared, they would leave the matter to a
very honest farmer, a neighbour of theirs. They did so, and, in about
a _week_, came hand-in-hand to the court, thanked his lordship, and
told him their neighbour had settled the whole affair square and
straight to their entire satisfaction! Lord Yelverton used to tell the
anecdote with great glee.

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Mr. William Johnson (the present Judge Johnson) was one of my brother barristers whose smiles were not always agreeable to me when we went circuits together. I liked his frowns extremely, because _they_ were _very sincere_, extremely picturesque, and never niggardly. But as to smiles, my own had the trouble of mounting up from my heart; he, more wise, had an assortment ready prepared for the use of his _policy_: in this particular, therefore, we were not matched.

When my friend William was angry, I was sure he was in earnest, and that it would not be over too soon: I therefore considered it as a proper, steady sort of concern. But his paroxysms of good-humour were occasionally awkward; and I have frequently begged of him to cheer up our society by getting into a little passion; nay, I have sometimes taken the liberty of putting him into a slight one myself, to make him more _agreeable_.

Be it remembered, however, that this was before Mr. William Johnson became a _judge_; I cannot say what effect an inoculation by Lord Norbury’s merry temperament may have had upon his constitution. But I have frequently told him, when I saw him drooping into _placidity_ (he is not singular on that point), that either physic or wrangling was indispensable, to keep the bile from stagnation; and I hope my old chum has not suffered himself to sink into a morbid state of mental tranquillity.

I always promised to give William Johnson a page or two in my “Historic Memoirs of Ireland:” some of his friends suggested that he would be more appropriately introduced into my “Fragments.” As we are now both rather stricken in years, I will adopt their suggestion without abandoning my own purpose, and, with the best wishes for his celebrity, bequeath him in _each_ work to posterity, to make what use they please of, as they certainly will of both of us, when we cannot help ourselves.

Though divers curious and memorable anecdotes occur to me of my said friend, Judge William Johnson, I do not conceive that any of them can be very interesting _out of court_, particularly after he becomes defunct, which nature has certainly set down as a “motion of course.” One or two, however, which connect themselves with my egotistical feelings shall not be omitted. At the same time, I assure him, that I by no means approve of our late brother Daly’s method of reasoning, who, on speaking rather indecorously of Mr. William Johnson, in his absence, at the bar-mess on circuit, was tartly and very properly asked by the present Mr. Justice Jebb, “Why he would say such things of Mr. Johnson behind his _back_?”—“Because,” replied Mr. Daly, “I would not _hurt his feelings_ by saying them to his _face_!”